#so does time pass in the departed realm?

[agenericplaceholdername]

not more realm* time discourse!!

in all seriousness this doesn't make sense since clearly the laws of causality still exist in nether-space, there was a time where Nokt and Rox were with the FF in nether-space and then a time when they weren't, and the FF are able to communicate with the outside world (and so are Kai and Bonzle) which wouldn't make sense if time wasn't passing.

not to disagree with one of the head writers but I think that the better interpretation is that people in nether-space are trapped in some sort of biological stasis -- no need to sleep or eat, your cells won't die(?), your hair won't grow, you won't age, etc. Time doesn't pass *on one's body*.

this does raise a question: what would happen if the FF fought Kai and Bonzle while in Nether-Space? Could they injure each other? If so, would they heal?

*okay I guess nether-space isn't a realm but whatever it's like the Never-Realm stuff again

[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ REQUIESCAT IN PACE ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. the dead deserve their happy endings.

CHARACTERS. dainsleif, tartaglia, zhongli

CONTENT. gn!reader. afterlife au. angst. 1.8k wc. rewrite of requiescat in pace at my old main blog @/verxsyon. everyone dies and ascends to a higher plane of existence. fan interpretation of snezhnaya and celestia arc. allusions to war, so expect blood and death. tartaglia and reader adopted children together in the afterlife. dainsleif killed reader from the curse. reader is killed by their spouse (zhongli). petnames (my dear, darling - zhongli).

VERA. it’s been three years since this fic was posted. crazy how time flies. i remember crying when i wrote this. hopefully i’ll make you all suffer as well hahaha.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. DAINSLEIF

five hundred years ago is when dainsleif committed the gravest mistake of his life. he was the twilight sword, a royal guard sworn to protect the people and the royalties of khaenri’ah. his people placed their trust in him to stop the destruction of the nation, only to watch them turn into monsters from the curse laid upon them.

the castle he enters with the traveler and paimon holds many memories he wishes to forget. it was occupied by the eclipse dynasty, the ruler of khaenri’ah before its destruction. he was well acquainted with the heir at the time: you, and soon fell in love. he passes by your room, where he killed you to stop your transformation. realizing what he had done, he left for them to suffer.

“dainsleif,” the abyss herald sneers. dainsleif is so used to that tone of voice. him and the rest of the abyss, especially its leader, have the right to resent him. the traveler and paimon are not here to back him up as they are looking for the twin, so he must atone his own sins himself.

“do whatever you need to do,” dainsleif says, starry voids emitting from his palms. “i don’t intend to hold back.”

the curse of immortality. how sickening. for five hundred years, he has wandered aimlessly for information about his nation. regardless of the amount he has gathered, he wants to end his journey here. he trusts the traveling duo to answer the rest for him.

is death supposed to be this painful? well-deserved for a coward like him. he can sense the satisfaction from the herald destroying him inside his body with hydro. the abyss now has one less problem to deal with. dainsleif can feel himself slipping away, departing the world still a sinner. 

“sir dainsleif. their highness requests your presence.” he is at the castle, decorated with life instead of the dust and cracks when he first arrived. the guard with him possesses no signs of abyssal features. everyone here doesn’t.

behind the double doors is you admiring the plants on the balcony. he gapes at your appearance: the heir of the eclipse dynasty, beautiful and regal as ever. you thank the guard for bringing him over, and they take their leave. this can’t be real.

“my dear dainsleif.” he loses his composure, rushing over to you to pull you into his embrace. your eyes soften upon feeling his sobs on your neck. “my love? are you alright?”

he sniffs, tightening his grip. your touch, your voice, your love for him, he misses them all. “forgive me, your highness. let’s stay like this for a while.”

“i told you to drop the formalities when we’re alone. we’re lovers, aren’t we?” you chuckle, your fingers finding purchase in his blonde locks. oh, how he misses that feeling. “and what are you saying sorry for? we’re all human here. if that makes you feel better, we can stay like this as long as you like.”

dainsleif lifts his head to kiss your knuckles and then presses his lips on yours. he does not know what brought him here, but he is truly grateful. whatever this realm is called, as long as you’re by his side, he will always be forgiven.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. TARTAGLIA

tartaglia is naive about the future. the desire to protect it influences his decision to serve the tsaritsa. with the mora he earned as a harbinger, he hopes to buy his family a house and send teucer to school. when the war is over, he plans to settle with you and live in a cabin where the two of you ice fish with your children.

if only it was that easy. his family is suffering from financial hardships, and the mora he sends is their savior. as for you, you severed ties with him a long time ago because of moral differences. in fact, you lead the faction that opposes the cryo archon and the fatui as your act of revenge for your family.

the palace is in shambles. the traveler and paimon escort the tsaritsa out of the throne room to allow you and tartaglia to compromise. your mind is not easily swayed as expected, given that you spent most of your life waiting to kill. your fate has been decided, when bloodlust overtook him and made him pierce his weapon through your stomach.

“no!” he cradles your body into his arms. his grief causes his delusion to spiral out of control, bringing the palace to destruction. the traveler and paimon rush back inside the room, yelling at the harbinger to get out of there. but he chooses to stay.

“traveler, can you please do me a favor?” they look at him in shock when he places the tip of their on his chest. “put me out of my misery before i lose control. i want to see my friend again. and when you see my family, tell them i’m sorry for everything.”

swift and painless, exactly how he wants death to feel like. the boulders come crashing down upon you and him, and he blacks out. he wonders if the tsaritsa and the traveler will succeed in preventing the second cataclysm. he wonders how his family will handle the news. teucer will be affected the most, feeling betrayed by his big brother lying that he’ll come home soon.

he wonders about you. if you two ever come to a mutual understanding, will the future be any different?

“papa!” a voice of a child calls, waking him up to a scenery full of snow. he spots a cabin in the distance, where a little girl is waving at him with a proud grin. she runs up to him with a bucket in tow, tripping on lumps of ice along the way.

“papa, look! i caught some fish!” she exclaims, showing him the content of her bucket. a cacophony of high-pitched screams echo. more children spook him by hugging his legs.

“good job, baby. you found papa.” he gasps at the sight of you kissing the girl’s forehead. he can’t believe it. “okay, kids. since papa is here, let’s go home. we’re going to eat fish for dinner.”

“yay!” the kids who seem to be his children happily zoom to the cabin, making you chuckle. tartaglia doesn’t waste any time hugging you tight. he can’t lose you again.

“ajax?” it’s been a while since you called him by his birth name. you cup his cheeks with worry when you see tears streaming down his face. “are you okay?”

he nods, kissing you as if his life depends on it. “i’m okay. shall we go home? we don’t want to keep our kids waiting, do we?”

hand in hand, the two of you follow your children to the cabin. in a future where a war between all creatures of teyvat is over, ajax is finally home.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ZHONGLI

the past six thousand years have been prolific of brutality. old friends and acquaintances were subjected to erosion, being forced to neutralize them. one is unfortunate enough to perish from the archon war, leading to the creation of liyue harbor.

if there is one thing to take away from her advice, it’s about the concept of change. he is the type of person to slowly adapt into it. her death and the death of the land they both created is not easy to accept. change isn’t a bad thing, she had said. he did not take her words into heart until he met you.

you’re a mortal who lived in a village, you spent more time exploring the outskirts without letting everyone know. you couldn’t care less, having a dream to live in a lively city like liyue. a certain archon would’ve loved you, for you valued freedom. 

he finds you to be quite humorous. once you joked about eloping with the former archon somewhere teeming with fireflies and crystalflies. when he asked you to define the term, you brushed it off and changed the subject. if he knew you weren’t kidding, you wouldn’t have fallen victim to your marriage.

shame, at such a young age too. he regrets not being able to keep you safe, reminding him of his failure with his old friends and the people who are fighting in the second cataclysm by his side. at the climax of the war, he comes face to face with the gods who stirred the calamities around the world for centuries. as much as he wants to stray from violence, he can’t let them win.

“i will no longer stay silent,” he growls, summoning his pillars around incoming enemies. contracts are sacred, no matter who he established them with. breaking any of those would result in facing the wrath of the rock. breaking the one he signed with celestia would mean he would suffer under his own wrath.

gold liquid spills onto the floor, and his ears are blocked by white noise. no, he can’t die like this. not right this instant. his allies haven’t reached an advantage yet. how is it possible for the strongest deity to already fall like this?

six thousand years of changes and sacrifices. the geo element is strong and unmoving, yet it can also crumble. zhongli has to keep on fighting for the sake of his allies and those who have perished, and yours. all he needs to do is take that extra step to victory.

“zhongli?” that voice is familiar. too familiar. he gazes at his swarms of fireflies and crystalflies circling around your figure. your fingers lingers across his cheek with a somber smile. “my dear, you looked troubled in your sleep. do you want to talk about it?”

he leans on your shoulder, inhaling your scent. he’s so tired, enduring six thousand years worth of cycles of life and death among his nation. “hm, i will eventually. but please let me rest first, darling…”

“okay,” you hum, linking your hand with his. “rest well, zhongli. if you need a shoulder to cry on, i will be here. i won’t ever leave your side.”

you tilt his head to kiss him, tasting the salt of his tears on your lips. his allies may be gone and treasured in his memories, you choose to remain by his side and give him relief that he won’t be alone. not anymore.

zhongli is not the same person he was before, and believes he will never be. cradling the finger adorned with the ring crafted from the abundant rocks in liyue, it gives him hope. you are his pillar. when at his lowest, you and your army of lights will guide him back to the surface.

[ninjagobythenumbers]

Bechdel Testing Ninjago

So, a little while ago I did the Bechdel test on Ninjago because I've always seen the show as sort of an interesting case study in how women are portrayed in cartoons. Of course, I'm aware the Bechdel test originated as a joke and something passing the Bechdel test doesn't make it feminist/not. Rather, or for me at least, it's an indication of how deficient female representation can be at an aggregate scale. As a way to analyze Ninjago, I feel it works as it shows how female representation over the course of the show. If you're interested I'll now discuss my thoughts on how the analysis went season by season. DISCLAIMER: I did this for fun.

The pilot was easy. Nya's the only one, so test failed across the board. The first episode that passed the test was when Jay's parents came to visit. Yay Edna! Mystake does show up in episode 7 but, I don't count it as she has not yet been named. 12&13 had a kid's mom in a bus which I decided was enough cus hey, Mom's a name she uses.

Here's where we really get going. Patty Keys, their real estate agent continues to show up through seabound as a background character, which is pretty cool imo. Episode 5, Mystake finally gets named. Episode 6 was huge for my chart as it's the introduction of Misako. You'd think episode 7 is when her and Nya talked but that's actually when Nya and Gayle had a lil convo. From then on I spent the episodes just staring at the Nya and Misako thinking "talk to her talk to her talk to her." Fortunately, when they did speak, Nya and Misako would be discuss like science, maps, and fate of the world so I never ran into a problem with rule 3. That is, until Rebooted.

The good news is Pixal's here so it'll be years before we fail rule 1 again. The bad news is we've got a love triangle so goodbye rule 3. Nya actually talked to her student, Sally, and Pixal quite often but it was so often about Jay or Cole so I would just be scouring the episode for a single exchange where they talked about anything else. During the Tournament, Nya, Pixal, Skylor, and Misako were all in different groupings and it was rare that Tox or Camille would say something so no rule 2/3 successes until late season.

The good news is, the love triangle is over so we're back to rule 2 usually meaning rule 3. The bad news is, Pixal's in Zane's head so we're back to hoping Misako and Nya say something to eachother. Nya usually shared her scenes with Wu, Ronin, and Jay during these seasons so chances were few and far between. However, unlike the first few seasons where the default was male, we're now getting some female henchmen (Bansha and Dogshank) so that made things easier.

Thank you for being in Day of the Departed Edna Walker. Early Hands of Time was tough because Nya, Misako, and Commander Macchia were rarely in the same scenes. In the latter half of the season though, we thankfully see the return of Pixal. Maya also helped us with some wins.

What a breath of fresh air. Thanks to Harumi & Ultraviolet's introduction, Pixal's return, Mystake's upgrade to a reoccuring character, and Nya & Misako's continued support, failing even rule 3 is pretty rare during the Oni Trilogy. We run into some complications during Hunted because though we have Skylor and the aforementioned characters in Ninjago and Faith & Jet Jack in the First Realm, sometimes people don't talk to eachother. And that's ok. Overall, smooth sailing.

Ah??!? What happened. Worry not. I realized this was, in part, because the Oni Trilogy had 20 minutes worth of chances for women to speak to eachother, these were only 10 minute episodes. So, for the sake of comparable units of analysis, I considered each pair of episodes to be 1 episode. I'll show both charts until DR.

It looks a little better, but it's still not at Oni Trilogy levels. Still, I'd be curious to see what the test would look like if I dissected the earlier episodes into 10 minute chunks because it's probably not a great sign if 10 v 20 minutes makes such a big difference. Ok, proceeding. The Fire Chapter was usually pretty successful because Pixal, Aspheera, or Nya would usually end up talking at one point or another. Gayle even helped at one point. The Ice chapter usually achieved successes through Nya talking to Sorla. In one episode, I counted the Preminent's roars as conversation with Pixal. The Ice Chapter had quite a few failures largely because, as in previous seasons, all the women were split up.

Despite the fact that Nya was one of the longest lived ninja, Prime Empire has total failures at levels not seen since before season 2. This is largely because for the most part, Pixal and Nya are never in the same episode. Racer 7 helps but she was only there for a bit. I should point out that I feel like the 10 minute era is really when Pixal starts feeling like part of the team to me. She's always part of homebase meetings and always plays a key part in missions. Alas, if she's not in episodes with Nya, that's not going to show up on my chart. It's a reminder of the fact this test doesn't show substance.

Master of the Mountain is similar to the other seasons of its era. The fact the 10 minute era tended to show its plots episode by episode (ex: Ep 3 = Plot A, Ep 4 = Plot B, Ep 5 = Plot C) rather than all in one really takes a toll on the test. For the most part, Nya and Vania were our only chances for success and it was rare they'd share an episode. We also had the rare rule 3 failure with the Queen of the Munce episode. Thanks Jay. The Island only had Nya until they found Misako, so it was struggling even more.

It feels right to see all green when it's a Nya season. In the beginning of Seabound, they put Nya, Pixal, and Maya on a boat together and by jove it made things easy. Late season was a bit trickier because Nya was on her own journey. Crystalized had Skylor, Pixal and some ressurected villains saving the day. Late Crystalized is the way it is because it had so, so many different groupings. I have a chart based on groupings and this season was such a challenge.

I really felt the difference with Dragons Rising. I mean, you can see the difference, but it was even more clear when doing my data collection because it was just so easy. Rather than grabbing at scraps of dialogue like I had to do in early seasons, there was often a wealth of more meaningful conversation between female characters to choose from. As with the Oni Trilogy, a female villain with a female henchman makes things easy because they scheme together. We also had Nya and Sora on a joint quest. Funnily enough, there is a rare rule 3 failure because Sora and Kreel only talked about Kreel's friend in one episode. Episode 17 had the classic split up issue and actually would've failed entirely if not for Agent Underwood, which is actually a great example of my next point. You can really tell how male is no longer the default because not only is there the introduction of all the fantastic new female main characters, but also there's plenty of random female characters scattered throughout. I haven't seen DRS2P2 yet but I expect it'll be more of the same. I should mention I also made a chart with the reverse (two named men in an episode who talk about eachother about something besides a woman). Only three episodes fail in any capacity. (Say thank you to the Akita, Pixal, and Harumi solo episodes). If you read this whole thing, thank you. I had a lot of fun doing it. Let me know if there's any other charts I can do!

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Nerull, The One Who Sorts The Bones

It's said they found the god in the old tombs, in that forgotten quiet where long eras had worn away all the epitaphs. They drew in a breath of the still air and on their exhalation the god took flight into the world on vulture's wings. -The Silent Testimonies, book 1

A god not of death, but of the dead, Nerull presides those aspects of the mortal coil that lay beyond the Raven Queen's domain of mourning and memory. Someone must keep vigil for the departed long after their names have passed from the memories of the living, and so that duty falls to Nerull, who's chosen people are the spirits that have lingered in the world far longer than they were ever alive.

Beyond the dead, the vulture’s faithful are an eclectic lot. Itinerant gravetenders, scholars of forgotten tongues, Bonesetters who's experience with embalming helps them minister to the living.  To Serve Nerull you must first die, though this is often symbolic.

Unlike his fellow carrion-bird death god, Nerull's following does not frown on the use of necromancy, or the existance of undead. Ghost stories, whether vengeful or sorrowful are considered holy for the way their memory transcends time. The exception to this reverence of course are those trapped in suffering, and the "hungry" dead who feed on the living. Pain and want are after all the purview of life, and Nerull dispatches hunters and psychopomps to ease such spirits along their way.

Adventure Hooks:

While out on their travels the party encounters a procession of grey pilgrims, masked and shrouded, all silent save for the leader of their procession who carries a staff jingling with bells and welcomes the party to sit by his fire. He tells tale of conflicts across the realm, new and old, shared with her by her flock, and invites the party to walk along with them the next day if they wish to see something splendid. Should the party agree to such unsettling company they will walk until sunset when they come to a hillside dotted with loose stones, where one by one the pigrims will walk out and begin constructing their own cairns. The procession leader will thank them for their observance, not many are so kind to the unnamed dead, and will reward them with answers to five questions before departing on pallid wings.

After inexplicably befriending one of Nerull's agents (and possibly his daughter?) during one of their adventures, the party are liable to be put out when they don't see their favourite psychopomp for a while. Queue sightings of a foreboding spectre that's knocking one by one on the doors of the city at night, sending people into a panic. Imagine their surprise when it turns out this wraith has a message for them... their favourite omen of doom has been kidnapped by a necromancer and her boss (dad?) wants them to get her back.

The Vulture's work is never done, and this time he's decided to enlist the heroes for aid. Perhaps there's an undead spirit that needs to be quieted, perhaps there's something sinister at work in a ruin once consecrated in his name, perhaps it's just making sure they clean up after themselves after their latest stint of tombrobbing. Regardless, Nerull can offer the heroes something far beyond coin... closure with the dead, ensuring visitation with a loved one for some much needed closure.

Titles: The Vulture, The Bonesorter, Dead Ned, the weary reaper, the vagabond end.

Signs: Plants too dry to rot, the voices of the departed carried on the wind, skeletons rearranged into trees or gardens.

Symbols: A scythe or sickle entwined with flowers.

[darknight3904]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖆𝖈𝖊

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ! ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ / ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ /ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

132 AC

Dinner that night had been a disaster. From Aemond's insults to Aegon slamming Jace face-first into the table, all of it had been horrible. Truly the highlight was Heleana dancing with Jace. Rhaella had never seen her smile so freely. Except maybe when she had a new bug to show off.

Now, she sat in the library, hoping Aemond might show. She had snuck down here after bidding Edric goodnight. Despite his old legs and bad back, his ears had remained sharper than ever, and somehow always heard her when she snuck past his door.

"If you do not rest, you will become sick."

His words fell on deaf ears, Rhaella could sleep when she was dead.

The sound of the doors slowly being pushed open has her looking up from her book about Visenya the Conquerer. She expects Aemond to be there, hopefully, full of apologies for avoiding her and maybe even one about dinner.

"Rhaella. We thought you'd be here."

"Jace, Luke." She greets, surprised as they sit down on either side of her.

"What are you reading?" Luke asks

"A book about Visenya and the days after Rhaenys was killed in Drone." Rhaella says

"A page-turner." Jace says

Rhaella can't tell if he's joking.

"We have missed you, cousin. Dragonstone is boring without your visits." Lucerys says

"I am sure you keep busy. Training with Arrax and Vermax is surely no easy task. They are young beasts after all." Rhaella says

"They are smart. The hardest bits is learning the Valyrian." Jace admits

Rhaella laughs. Jace wasn't wrong. She has spent many hours practicing her own Valyrian with Aemond and she has yet to pass him. How her silver-haired cousin was so adept at it was a mystery to her.

"It will come in time," Rhaella assures the boys beside her

"You sound like our mother." Jace shook his head

"Well, as usual, she is correct," Rhaella says, thinking of her respect for Rhaenrya. The princess had always seemed so perfect in Rhaella's eyes. Truly the quintessential heir for King Viserys.

"We want you to return to Dragonstone with us." Lucerys suddenly says, the words tumble out of his mouth, like he cannot hold them back anymore.

"You said we were going to ease her into it!" Jace exclaims, shooting a deadly stare to his little brother

"I got excited!" Luke defends.

"I don't wish to go back to Dragonstone," Rhaella says

"Do you not miss us? Or is it your engagement? Our mother can end it. Lord Tyrell's son does not deserve you anyway." Jace says

"I do miss you...but I do not wish to be anywhere near Daemon." Rhaella says, "As for my engagement, I want to serve the realm and do my duty as heir to Runestone."

"But there are better matches. Our mother can secure you one that is better." Lucerys says

"It is not the match!" Rhaella exclaims "It is Daemon! He is a horrid being."

Jace and Luke fall silent at her rising tone. Obviously not expecting her outburst. Surely this is not how they planned this conversation.

"Nephews."

Aemond.

"Are you harassing our cousin? Surely she does not deserve this treatment. It is rather late is it not?" Aemond asks, quickly crossing to them.

His already large figure is even more intimidating in the mix of candles and moonlight that illuminate the library.

"Lady Rhaella. I will escort you back to your chamber. You'll need a good rest if you are to depart to Highgarden in a few days." Aemond says offering his hand to her

"Oh...right." Rhaella murmurs, shutting her book and taking Aemond's hand in hers.

"Think about it, Rhaella," Lucerys calls to her as she follows Aemond to the door.

"You will both need rest, it is best to be strong for the journey home. We will bid you farewell tomorrow, nephews." Aemond says before pulling Rhaella out the door and down the hall with him

"Must you continue to make Strong comments?" Rhaella hissed, yanking her hand from Aemond's

"I'm only making an observation," Aemond says

"They are as Targaryen as you and I." Rhaella points out

Aemond's face sours at her words. He dislikes being the wrong one in arguments.

"We have silver hair and violet eyes to match. But they have Rhaenrya in them." Rhaella says, grabbing Aemond's arm, and pulling him to a stop in the long hall.

"Eye. I have one eye. Lucerys took the other. Or have you forgotten? It'd be a shame if you did, after all, you stood by and let it happen." Aemond sneered looking down at her.

"What was I supposed to do? Let him cut my eye out? Take the blade and stab him myself?" She hissed, "Everything that occurred that night happened for a reason. You have the largest dragon alive now, is that not enough for you?"

"He flaunts about like he is proud of his actions," Aemond says, pointing down the hall to where they left Lucerys and Jacaerys, "His face at dinner...the smug bastard deserves more than an insult or two."

"What do you plan to do? Cut out his eye as payment for your own? We were children!" Rhaella snorted, appalled that Aemond still hadn't let all this go, "Your path of vengeance is one filled of hate and suffering, Aemond. I won't take part in it."

"I never asked you to," Aemond said

"No, you never did. But you want me to." Rhaella says

"I do not," Aemond repeated

"Good," Rhaella said

She took a step closer to Aemond. At this distance she could feel the top of her head brush his chin. She looked up at him and heard his breath hitch at the proximity. She swore his face even got a bit red but the poor lighting made it hard for her to tell.

"If you ever harm Lucerys as vengeance for your eye, you will never see me again." She threatened

"You wouldn't," Aemond whispered, his voice shaky

"Do you truly wish to find out?"

Next Part

Aemond "Oh shit my crush is mad at me?" Targaryen.

Also, Rhaella is a Rhaenrya fangirl, However, she doesn't get why she's with Daemon, she definitely thinks she can do better than him.

Im having mega Hugh Jackman brain rot. Like there's nothing up in my brain right now other than him 💀💀

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[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Eros: Chapter One

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son’s death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Warnings: Language, Time Travel.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Word Count: ~2.9k

Masterlist | Next

You spent a lot of time staring at the throne adjacent to the intricately carved marble one depicting the helm of Dream of the Endless. It was more feminine, carved out of the same marble as the Morpheus’, but designed with a softer touch. It was a marble forest, twisting branches and flowers that were inspired by Fiddler’s Green, your fingers always ended up tracing little grooves and bumps absentmindedly.

“Hey boss lady,” You turned your head in time to see Matthew fluttering his way up to your shoulder. His feet clutched the fabric of your sweater and shuffled his wings, looking at the two thrones. “You know you’ve been married for like, two months… right?”

“Distinctly,” You answered dryly, having very vivid memories of your wedding night. You hadn’t left the bed for three days, and then couldn’t walk right for three weeks. Morpheus had been very smug with the way you hobbled around, while you felt like crawling into a hole in embarrassment. You’d married a voracious Endless that aspired to paint every millimeter of your body with his love, and ensure that everyone knew it. “But it’s not like I was born knowing I was going to marry an Endless and become the queen of a realm.”

“True, true,” Matthew echoed with a bob of his head. “But ma’am, has anything actually changed in your life? Ignoring the fact that you live here now…”

You thought about Matthew’s words. Not much had changed in your life save your happiness. You had only ever really felt happy when visiting the Dreaming, so there wasn’t much you missed in the Waking. The people in the Dreaming themselves had always gone to you for advice now that you thought about it. They felt confident speaking to you about their problems… so you had been their queen long before you became their official one.

“No, nothings really changed… and it’s just a title,” You mused softly walking towards your throne and running your fingers along the warm marble. Warm and cool, just like you and Morpheus. You were an unusual pairing and not one that you’d think would work in the first place. “Alright, I’ve stared at the thrones for long enough, it’s time to go outside and touch some grass.”

“Ya know I think Lord Dream could touch some grass time to time,” Matthew muttered from your shoulder. “He’s been kinda uptight lately.”

“Probably cause of all the changes, you know he likes things certain ways,” You said dryly, thinking back to all the arguments you’d gotten into with him just because he was being a giant dunderhead who didn’t want to listen to you and pretended that your opinion and decision didn’t matter.

“Yeah you might be onto something,” Matthew chirped in agreement. Exiting the palace, you wandered through the gardens while letting your fingers brush along the flowers and bushes of the garden. “But at least he’s trying!” Matthew added, trying to be positive about his boss.

“He got pissy with me because I wanted to take a walk in London by myself after we had lunch with Hob,” You couldn’t help but point out. “It was London, in the middle of the day when families were having picnics!”

“And we both know humans can be assholes,” Matthew reminded you. “The boss doesn’t have a lot of good experience with mortals to go off of.”

“Pretty sure I have more experience in the human department than he does?”

“Point,” The raven agreed, taking off and swooping through the limp branches of the weeping willow in front of you. You passed beneath the little tunnel of gnarled branches carefully grown and kicked out your foot. You’d been feeling antsy lately, cooped up and in need of stretching your limbs. Maybe you’d go for a swim? Morpheus didn’t exactly like you swimming in the Ocean of Dreams, but you and the entity had a pretty good relationship and she didn’t try to drown you when you went swimming. “He’s still gonna throw a tantrum.”

“And I dare you to say that to his face,”

“I’ll pass I like having feathers… and living in general...” Matthew shuddered to think what Morpheus’ reaction would be of learning he’d said that.

“It would be funny though,” You giggled to yourself, imaging the initial confusion that would cross Morpheus’ face… then perhaps just a hint of an eye tick, then the whole: you dare… Your husband was entirely too predictable at times and you found it very amusing. You were deaf to Matthew’s disgruntled grumbles and continued walking, not realizing that your feet were carrying you towards the beaches of the Ocean of Dreams.

“Holy shit,” Matthew’s curse behind you jarred you from your thoughts. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had caused him to curse, the Ocean of Dreams was churning in unhappiness. High above violent waters were storm clouds, flickering with lightning and letting out echoed of thunder. “Uh, you ever seen this before ma’am?”

“No,” You informed the raven, trying to see if you could feel what was wrong to have the Ocean of Dreams so agitated. “Matthew return to Lucienne, speak with her about this matter. Surely she has a clue.”

“Right on it, boss lady,” Matthew called before surging into the air and flying back to the palace as fast as he could. While Matthew was doing as you asked, you quickly hurried up to the waters edge. Oh yes, something had agitated the Ocean of Dreams, she was not happy. Without hesitation, you strode into the cold water, determined to figure this out. Morpheus was away on business, you could handle this, you could handle this.

When you were waist deep, you dove deeper, fully submerging yourself. The water, while a usual chilly cold, seemed to be colder than normal. Even the currents were stronger, more aggressive. You tried to look around for the physical manifestation of the Ocean in the form of your shadow figure, but you couldn’t see her anywhere. A smattering of bubbles escaped your lips as you sighed in frustration and swam further towards the depths. In your efforts to hunt down the physical manifestation of the Ocean of Dreams, you failed to notice that the currents were getting far too strong for you to swim through.

Now, you didn’t need to breathe oxygen thank to Morpheus making you immortal… but it wasn’t exactly comfortable holding your breath, or accidentally inhaling the salty water. So when your body began getting tossed and turned like you were in a hamster ball and it was being shaken, you started panicking. Floundering, the water around you began shifting from chilly cold to warm… and then back again. Cold. Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold. Warm. Your arms cartwheeled through the salt water until the temperature stayed warm and a bright light appeared. The storm must have finally disappeared!

You kicked your way towards the surface, hoping that Lucienne would know why the Ocean of Dreams had gotten so upset and the weather so irritable. The moment your face broke the surface you knew that something was very wrong.

First, it was way to hot for you to be in the dreaming. Second, it didn’t sound like you were in the dreaming. Third? When you opened your eyes you were most definitely not in the Dreaming!

“Ah shit,”

You spent a solid five minutes panicking about the fact that you were most definitely not in the Dreaming anymore. Morpheus was going to go ballistic when he found out. Then your panic increased because you didn’t know where you were, and you were in the middle of an ocean! At least you could see land, but it was a distance away from you. Still coming to grips with what you were dealing with because hello, some magic fuckery had just occurred and you were not kosher with it, you paddled towards a weird looking boat in the distance.

As you grew closer, you could hear shouting in a language you didn’t quite understand, and the sounds of screaming. Focusing on the words, the power Morpheus imbued within you shifted the strange words until you could understand them. Greek. A child had fallen overboard. Your eyes dropped to the water and you spotted a dark haired child splashing around violently. You didn’t think twice about quickly swimming towards the child as they disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Dipping back below the oceans surface, you swam your way over to the squirming child, a girl. She was wrapped up in a beautiful white cloth that was currently hindering her ability to swim. You made to her and wrapped your arms around her thin body before looking up and kicking your way back to the surface. When your head broke the surface, you made sure you pulled the child up so her head too, was above the choppy waters.

She was clutching your forearm in a death grip, nails digging into your flesh. You were glad that she wasn’t trying to claw her way on top of you. Spitting out ocean water you’d accidentally swallowed, you began carefully side stroking your way over to the odd boat. You weren’t sure what was going to happen, given that people didn’t just appear it the middle of the ocean. As it turned out, luck was on your side and the greeks who hauled you and the little girl up onto the ship were entirely convinced that you were some lost noble… all because of of the clothes you wore.

Apparently only the rich and noble people of Greece could afford to wear purple clothing.

The boat was taking the little girl, a daughter of one of the nobles in Athens (how the hell did you end up in Ancient Greece?), home after visiting her aunt in Crete. She’d accidentally tumbled over the side and now refused to let you go for fear of a repeated event. So you were awkwardly standing around in your ‘strange clothes’ while the little girl held onto you like a baby monkey. At least when the boat docked at the harbor of the ancient city of Athens, in all its blazing glory, you were offered a cloak to cover your strange clothing.

Clearly the little girl you’d rescued came from a very rich family, because the carriage that you’d been herded into was lavish. You sat inside it while warriors on horses surrounded you, and spent a good twenty minutes trying to think of what the hell you were going to do, let alone say, because this was way out of your realm of expertise.

“What is your name?” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Well, they already thought you were some lost noble or princess… might as well play it off as some greek god blessing or something… hopefully the gods wouldn’t be too upset with you. Not that they would be able to raise hand towards an Endless’ wife…

“You may call me Elpis,” You told the little girl. “What is yours?”

“Kynna, are you the great spirit Elpis mama told me about?” Soft brown eyes gazed at you with such reverence, you wanted to say yes and make her dreams come true. But you couldn’t exactly claim to be someone you were not. You stroked your hand over her still damp hair.

“I’m afraid it is only a name sake,” You replied, lifting your gaze to see several grand buildings pass by as the carriage rattled and shook. “I was lost at sea but the gods brought me to you.”

“Well if you’re lost… you can just live with us while we find your family!” Kynna exclaimed with a wide beaming smile. “Panathenaia is starting tomorrow, they’ll be lots of parties and pretty dresses, and we get to give a new peplos to Athena!”

“I don’t think that will be up to me,” Your words didn’t hinder the excited babbles of Kynna, and while she continued to talk animatedly, you mulled over what you were going to say when you got to your destination.

You didn’t have to say much, the greek noble woman of Kynna’s family, along with the other aristocratic women from surrounding families living in the housing surrounding the communal living space and baths, were entirely convinced you were an aristocrat who had some how fallen overboard and lost most of her memory. You were fine playing amnesiac as it meant less questions. You just had to get used to a different lifestyle while you tried to figure out what the hell had happened to you.

A circle of woman around your age, Merope, Agapia, and Helike, had taken you under their wing while servants scurried about in preparation for the Panathenaia. Your modern clothes had been ditched for a silk peplum that draped around your body and showed skin in several places, and you’d been adorned with a multitude of jewelry by Kynna’s father for saving his little girl. In essence, you looked exactly like the woman everyone thought you to be: Elpis, a greek aristocrat with amnesia.

You’d spent the first couple of days hiding out in Kynna’s household, not sure of yourself and not wanting to make trouble for the family, but your trio of new friends had convinced you to come out to the communal space on the promise of seeing several handsome men and enjoyable drink and food. Eye candy and snacks, you were down for that. So you were walking with your gaggle of friends and contributing to the objectification of several fine greek men who had arrived home for the Panathenaia, when Merope had wanted to visit the sun room to see what special guests had arrived.

“Oh I heard Theos returned from Sparta looking for a wife.” Agapia gushed as she combed her fingers through her hair.

“Forgive me for not immediately fawning over this Theos… who is he?” You asked as Merope and Helike giggled.

“He’s Athen’s most prized warrior, competed in the last Olympic Games and won several events.” Agapia explained to you as your group walked beneath a trellis tunnel of roses. She went on to explain, in detail, every millimeter of the specimen known as Theos and by the time Helike was telling Agapia to stop drooling, you were very interested in seeing if this Greek was as handsome and strong as he sounded.

“Oh don’t stop now, you’ve gotten me interested,” You mused with a soft laugh while passing a group of men who eyed each and everyone one of you. Your laugh was like a gentle bell softly ringing and easily drew eyes. Helike rolled her eyes, Agapia was oblivious (far too busy drooling), and Merope fluttered her eyelashes but stayed silent.

“I am sure there shall be a man at the festival who willwin your hand, Elpis,” Agapia said while holding her hands to her chest. “Because while we all know that you’ve got heads turning, you appear to have very little interest in those we have crossed paths with so far. Mark my words, you shall find someone you desire by the end of Panathenaia.”

You rolled your eyes, you’d humor the women. They’d been so kind and generous to you despite you being a total stranger… but it wasn’t like you could admit that you were already married, and didn’t even belong in this era.

“As you say, Pia,”

“Oh, I can’t believe it!” Merope gasped quietly the moment you entered a large room with many lounging chairs and dozens of greeks laying about. You hummed in question and looked at her. “Lord Oneiros has decided to be in attendance!”

Something perked up within you at the mention of Oneiros, and your head snapped to the dark haired beauty in confusion.

“Sorry, did you say Oneiros?” You asked, your voice coming out in an odd tone. You’d heard that name before, when Morpheus had assisted Calliope upon hearing her call. She referred to him as Oneiros. Morpheus was Oneiros. How could he be here? The girls gathered around you and gestured to a corner of the room. Your eyes followed and you felt your heart freeze your chest. This wasn’t possible, was it?

How could it be that your dark and broody husband, was sitting in the corner of the room dressed in robes of black, complete with a laurel crown perched upon his midnight curls? You trembled in place, fighting against the urge to charge forwards and throw yourself at him because you really missed your husband and just wanted to go home. But as you gazed at the Dream Lord, you began picking up on his mood, his temperament. He was surrounded by a cloud of pain that you could feel in your heart, deep within his beautiful blue eyes was a raw hurt that nearly pulsated from his being. Oh. Oh fuck. Ancient Greece… Calliope the Muse… Orpheus. As if feeling your stare, sharp blue eyes shifted and met yours. No recognition could be found within their depths. He didn’t know you. But he was intrigued.  

“I wonder who the lucky women will be this year,” Agapia softly wondered, the other two agreeing with her sentiments. “They say he is a voracious lover, indulging in the delights of many before finally picking the ones he desires.”

A dark eyebrow rose ever so slightly accompanied by the smallest of smirks, and something within you cracked. He was Morpheus, but he wasn’t yours. You felt like you couldn’t breathe and quickly tore your eyes away from those of the Dream Lord.

“We should fill our bellies before the rest of the men arrive, the gods know they’ll eat it all,” You rushed out, your heart pounding in your chest painfully. Herding your friends in the opposite direction of Oneiros, you were desperate to get away from the being that you, one day, would call yours. 

Date Published: 12/30/23

Last Edit: 12/30/23

Masterlist | Next

[read-write-thrive]

soooo have we talked about how Niko doesn’t just Grow Up to be this character but is The Principal aka a non-human entity (I assume??) working for the afterlife ???? like how does one get that gig ?? is there an application process that younger her nailed and she grew up in this outside of time type thing ? did she grow up in the astral plane where we see her with Litty and Kingham ? did she get to take refuge in any of the other planes that exist in this universe (we know of hell and the lost and found department, but also the sandman canon and the more extended universe with realms like the dreaming) ?? how did time work for her???

im imagining the Lost and Found department existing outside of time from the mortal realm, so she could’ve grown up elsewhere (in whatever realms she got to trying to get home? hopefully not stuck in the artic-type place but maybe) and then when it came time for her to pass on Death goes “actually I have a job for you” since Niko has all this extra planar/different realms experience AND has these connections with the dead boy detectives (who I think Death has a soft spot for/knew needed someone to protect them) and then she’s the Principal ! which sets her outside of time (making her relatively immortal if that wasn’t already part of the job description) and allows for the time fuckery that has her as the Principal at the same time that she’s on this other plane with the sprites,,,

idk I just think we as a fandom could explore more of her having Adventures as part of her growing up in the time between younger her with the sprites and older her as the Principal, plus I think we could dive into how the Lost and Found Department works as a whole (are there other afterlife departments ? there must be, otherwise it wouldn’t be called a department, right?? is there an equivalent for adults? non-humans? beings from these other realms? I assume Death does the judging without a whole department behind her but idk maybe there’s more to it, especially if there’s more involved than the Christian esque set up we have here)

also omg Niko recognising the boys and assigning the Night Nurse to be in charge of them not only to settle the hell or not dispute (aka protect Edwin from ever having to go back to hell) but to also help them on cases 😭 she’s still looking out for her friends I will Cry oml

[omamorens]

a while back you said something akin to “inkblade college au.. (head full of thoughts)” !! would you be so kind as to open your head and share them? i am begging you on my knees…. spare inkbkade college au.. pls…

dear anon you dont have any idea of the floodgates im about to open but!!! im imagining two main routes for this college au. bear with me with this long answer!!

the ‘met-again at college’ au:

In this version of the events, the Rat Grinders probably broke off to do their own individual thing after finishing junior year and their redemption quests.

Oisin would probably distance himself away from Elmville but still pursue wizarding school elsewhere. Probably at the Bastion City University.

This time, he does it correctly with no cheating.

Though if he was being honestly, still having access to the full benefits from the school of conjuration was probably an unfair advantage.

So he always pushed himself to do harder, to excel beyond expectations. He’s a chronic over-worker and just wants to do things right for once.

Oisin never gets into another adventuring party again and instead studies to be some type of wizard scientist, developing new spells and technology probably.

Adaine, by this time, is already a world-renowned adventurer and top divination wizard of their age, in her own right.

She’s already established somewhat of a mark to history at the young age of 24? 25? probably younger, honestly.

Oisin hears about her from time to time— they do occupy the same wizarding circles and its kind of hard to avoid mention of the Elven Oracle.

But she was a famous figure now, literally beyond reach from a lowly college student like himself.

Imagine his surprise when he sees her walk into his class one day, but not as a student, no.

Adaine was a guest speaker and was about to discuss to them the very interesting topic of the Cosmology of Extraplanar Realms and Studies of Divinities

Oisin blanked out most of it.

Too starstruck from seeing Adaine again and oh… his chest was hurting again, phantom-pains from the shatterstar that never really left his mind.

Or is it?

Before he knew it, the session has ended. He thinks it ended too soon but the topic was actually discussed for two hours.

But his professor has an announcement to make? He stayed back to hear it out.

“Miss Abernant will be conducting research in the university for some time, and she has graciously granted the Wizard Department the opportunity for a student to take up an internship role for the duration of her team’s stay. Interested students may submit a form to me and the decision will be passed to Miss Abernant’s team after careful deliberation. That is all, thank you.”

Oisin has spaced out again, reeling from the thought that their paths would probably cross even more now that she’ll be at BCU indefinitely.

“Mr. Hakinvar? Oisin Hakinvar?” his professor called for him, and he addresses her, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Ms. Abernant, this is the top student of the Wizarding course, Oisin Hakinvar. I would speak highly into considering him for the role…”

Oisin has drowned out the noise again, because Adaine was staring at him, a twinge of familiarity setting in on her features. And of annoyance.

“Oh, I know of him.” she says tersely, “Top student, you say? No unfair advantages to speak of?”

Oisin’s brow twitched at that, answering the question himself, “None at all. I’ll make sure to send in my form for the internship role.”

Because he was prideful more than anything, and the subtle mocking comment made at him was baseless.

Adaine doesn’t know him, not the way that he is right now. Not after he’s pushed himself over and over to prove that he is worthy to be here.

“Very well! I’m sure Miss Abernant will be pleased to review your form.”

“Trust me, I am very good on both paper and practical application.”

Adaine shouldn’t even care for him at all, but she was curious. After Oisin and his adventuring party disappeared off Elmville, she always wondered what they were up to. Maybe more evil plots? Maybe they died somewhere off Spyre? Who knows.

Now she does, and the kindling of curiosity was highly-flammable, the worst of all motivators she could have.

And yet.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” she says to him, like a challenge. Oisin was set on meeting her to it.

This AU is definitely tagged as “Enemies-to-Lovers”, constant bickering and challenging looks, academic rivalry too because thats always nice. Maybe a bit of mystery because I do love the allure of putting them in a dark academia setting.

the ‘they got close during senior year and went to college together’ au:

This one is definitely sweeter and idyllic.

If you’ve ever heard of Sabrina Carpenter’s new song “Please, please, please” this is the general theme; its what Adaine would feel like.

Because in this AU, Adaine finally gives Oisin the chance to date her during college.

They’re always together anyway; with both being wizards pursuing academe, their schools of study interact in much more ways than anticipated.

Lots of cute dates in between classes too!!

Going to the newest cafe to try out their menu.

Amusement park dates!! Museum dates!!!

Bastion City is filled with things to do.

And even when they don’t, just studying together was already a date.

Oisin would always have some part of his body in contact with her.

Maybe his tail wrapped around her calf under the table, his free hand on her knee when they read together side by side, or just letting her lean on to him if she gets too tired to sit upright.

Adaine, on the other hand, was a little more paranoid of their relationship.

Was she just lying in wait for Oisin to fuck up? Hopefully not, but the chances are never zero. And she hates thinking of that, because at some level, she does trust and love Oisin, wholeheartedly.

But the past has always been haunting her in some way or another.

And it’s hard to relax when danger has been everything you knew your whole life.

But Oisin was soft with her, caring and understanding, frankly a little possessive and obsessive, but it was just the healthy amount that makes her want to drag him to bed every night and assure him that she is all his.

And Oisin proves to her that he is all hers.

Just imagine. Domestic Inkblade. never thought i would live to see the day that both words are in the same sentence.

Lots of late night cuddles, of assurances, of future plans togethers.

Unending conversations of “i love you” said in the most unconventional ways.

AND OF COURSE this is college. you cant expect me to think of college au without having Adaine live up to her “Party Wizard” title!!!

Adaine definitely lets loose at parties. She has her friends with her, a loving boyfriend, and her life has never been better.

But god she has the worst alcohol tolerance known to mankind.

Oisin is definitely watching over her, excusing himself from drinking too much just incase Adaine goes wild again.

And oh she does.

Thank god Oisin is there to [i will not elaborate what happens here, but god is it in my head; just guess].

And then she wakes up with a raging headache and Oisin is more than happy to care for her (making her hangover food, massaging her sore spots).

Like I said, domestic. Fluff and comfort and so much healing. LIKE SOOO MUCH. this is the answer to the “we could’ve had it all” tag because in this AU, they have it all.

Good for them… good for them!!

Will I write this? Not anytime soon but God would I kill to read it. Someone… anyone… save me inkblade college au save me…

[daenerystargarycn]

On the topic of Rhaenyra having bastards, I think it’s pretty obvious that if she was going to have to have bastards she’d need to find a man who was willing to have his kids passed off as another man’s and not be a snitch to that fact. It would also need to be someone who could be around her constantly without drawing suspicion. As her sworn shield, Harwin wasn’t a terrible choice to fulfill those exact needs. Rhaenyra was just unlucky in the looks department, something she had no control over and overall didn’t matter. There was no way to prove that her children weren’t Laenor’s, due to paternity tests not magically existing during that time. The definition of bastard is a child born to parents who are not wed to each other, with no legal father (and before someone pops up with ‘Actually!! They’d have to be proclaimed bastards to be legitimized!’ I am begging you to pick up a history book). Her children are trueborn, they were born during her marriage to Laenor and legally he is their father because he claimed them as his. One could spend their time arguing semantics over the matter, but it would be a waste of time.

Her children’s last name is Velaryon, not Waters, like it should be in canon if they were indeed bastards. They live and die as the trueborn children between Rhaenyra and Laenor. Bastardy is considered to be a legal status during that time, not a state of being. One either is a bastard at birth or is not a bastard at birth. Contrary to what a few in the fandom believe nobody besides Alicent and her direct ilk viewed them as bastards and therefore undeserving of their station. Even Septon Eustace refutes all of these claims, and he makes it very clear throughout his testimony that he HATES Rhaenyra. It was a tactical move by the immediate members of the Green faction to sully and ruin Rhaenyra’s reputation (something used time and time again during the medieval days because it was the easiest way to take down a woman vying for power), to prove that she was unworthy of the throne as opposed to the candidate they wanted crowned. It didn’t work, considering most of the houses supported Rhaenyra over Aegon despite these rumors.

Rhaenyra’s ‘bastard’ heir, Jacaerys Velaryon, was mourned deeply by members of both Team Black and Team Green and heralded by many as worthy of the Iron Throne, so please, continue spewing your biased rhetoric of the Greens being justified in starting an entire civil war, plunging the realm into chaos, over Rhaenyra having supposed bastards, when that never happened. The rumors didn’t matter. No one cared. The realm was not plunged into war because of them, it was because of Team Green’s lust and greed for power. The entirety of those rumors is a red herring. In all honesty, the only reason I believe GRRM made those boys potentially bastards is to prove to the reader that being worthy to rule does not rely on whether one is trueborn. Aegon was trueborn and unworthy to rule. Jacaerys was rumored to not be trueborn and he was worthy. It’s not GRRM’s fault that some individuals who consume his stories aren’t intelligent enough to understand that.

[ryin-silverfish]

Stray thought: something I found the "SWK is manipulated into the Havoc!" take often obscures is his fear of death. Y'know, the very reason he begins his quest for immortality in the first place, and I'm glad the LMK show at least paid some homage to.

Death is but one of the many sufferings that accompanies existence and samsara itself. So is his fear of death and the desire to avoid it. The problem is? The way desires and attachments work, getting what you want doesn't solve the deeper issues.

First, he sets out to avoid death for himself. Then he did that, and also made death null for as many of his fellow monkeys as he could find. But it isn't enough, no.

His own immortality will not grant the safety of all of his subjects, his friends, and all the good stuff he has ever gained that rightfully belong to him, mind you, and he is responsible for. So he just needs to find a way to hold onto them, forever and ever and ever.

Since he has an abundance of creativity and intellect, but not the wisdom to match, his solution is to find the "Hows" rather than asking the "Whys".

Keep stacking up the powers, the immortalities, the allies, the weapons, the victory counts——which eventually became its own rewards, the thrills, the satisfaction of getting away with yet another daring heist, the feeling of invulnerability.

But let's go on a tangent and talk about book!SWK. When he came back after getting banished, he found his monkeys bullied by the Monstrous King of Havoc, wrecked the guy, and rescued his subjects. Immediately afterwards, he emptied the armory of Aolai Kingdom to arm his monkeys and robbed the dragon kings blind to arm himself.

Yeah, seeing a bit of a connection here. He is pulling off these heists to protect against perceived threats to him and his people. Then, moving on to the First Havoc, when he came back to his monkeys, he was surprised at just how much time had passed since he departed for the Celestial Realm——10+ years in the Lower Realm!

Yet, after the First Havoc is resolved, he happily stayed in the Celestial Realm for half a year, without remembering that meanwhile, at least a century had passed for his monkeys and demon allies. In a sense, he had become detached from his subjects, despite his first instinct still being "bring my buddies all the divine wine" after he got sober and returned to them.

I don't know you, but I feel like he probably expects everything to stay the same while he was gone. He isn't yet selfish, but certainly self-absorbed, in that he doesn't seem to realize that his actions can have consequences for people other than himself.

Like, if he is in his old "Monkey King" mindset, he may have comprehended that the Celestial Realm will treat him and his monkeys as a single entity that will be collectively punished for his misdeeds. But by becoming the Great Sage, he has drifted away from his duties as a king, which sets the stage for his behaviors during the Second Havoc.

After the 72 caves of demon kings have all been captured during the first wave of attack, his reaction is basically "lol, at least they didn't get any of my monkeys". This, I think, is the point where he is showing true selfishness instead of just being self-absorbed. Like, if I were one of his non-monkey allies and I heard that, I'd be pretty pissed.

The thing with the unrestrained freedom of the Havoc is, by cutting himself loose from all the rules and norms and disregarding every potential consequences, he is also unknowingly severing his tethers to others and alienating himself from his people.

Which is how I interpret SWK becoming so disheartened when his epic battle with Erlang terrified his own subjects into a rout, he just turned and fled——he realized that they, too, were seeing a monster.

He is no longer fighting for his people's safety, but an idea of them, who will always look up to him and do okay without him and never perceive him as a threat, and when that idea is shattered, so does his will to fight on.

I feel like the same could be said for his pursuit of immortality and power: it started off as a way to rid himself of existential fear and defend against concrete threats, but the list of "things I must do to secure my happy eternity and what is rightfully mine" just keeps growing longer and longer, until he's only focused on that sweet, sweet feeling of reward whenever he ticks off a checkbox and tunes out everything else.

After all, the more you have, the more you can potentially lose. A never ending cycle, exacerbated by his desire to never lose, until it all comes crashing down, figuratively and literally.

Back to LMK: People always point out that Azure worships this idea of SWK, and never quite sees SWK as his true, flawed self. Which I agree, but also: SWK does this too. He, too, loses sight of the actual people he's fighting for.

"I did it for US!"

The thing with a claim such as this is, multiple people can all try to do everything for the idea of "us", instead of something that may actually help each other, then feel wronged when their efforts essentially amount to nothing.

"We were all on a path of self-destruction."

For this statement to land, the self-destruction has to genuinely be each character's own doing. The fallout can, and is indeed magnified by what the others did or didn't do, but ultimately, the causes of their consequences come from within themselves: their own obsessions and attachments.

And making SWK the exception, the innocent figurehead and scapegoat, removes the complexity from the character while outright ignoring the few implications of the show that actually have some basis in book canon and are kinda interesting.

I rest my case.

[thecatundertheladder]

You know what? Fuck it. Morro is alive in my fsm lives au.

He got all the way into Fsm's tomb (which is actually just an over-the-top storage facility) before Fsm caught him.

When Morro was first taken in by Wu he was in awe. I mean it's not every day you're offered a place to stay by the son of God. But he doesn't know much about Wu or his family, nor does Wu think to tell him.

Over time, Morro works out that Wu isn't human. It's the little things at first that make him unsure of his dad's sensei's heritage. A low, draconic hiss there, a quick, barely noticeable shapeshifting mishap there. But Morro is still insecure about his place in the monastery, so he doesn't mention it. However, the truth of Wu's dragoni status comes to light when Wu serves himself a slab of raw meat for dinner, still dripping with blood. Naturally morro, who got served dumplings, freaks out.

Morro: Why are you eating that?!

Wu, confused as to why he's getting asked this: Because I'm technically a carnivore?

Morro: What!?

Wu: You know, because I'm half dragon and half oni.

Morro: No?!

So Morro finds out one "secret" about Wu and his family. And Wu even starts using his true form every now and then. Unfortunately this incident doesn't make Wu stop to think that if Morro doesn't know that Wu isn't human, then he probably doesn't know a lot of other things, such as the Very Important Fact of the First Spinjitzu Master being alive. For Morro, the Fsm's "death" is only confirmed when Wu offhandedly comments that he might of realised that Morro didn't know he wasn't human sooner, if his father wasn't almost certainly in the Departed Realm. (Wu's reasoning behind this was that Fsm tends to be in their true form more often than Wu)

When Morro runs away to prove that he's worthy of being the green ninja, he doesn't actually set out with any particular goal in mind. Rather, the idea of finding the Fsm's tomb comes about after hearing rumours about it in a few of the villages he passed through. In one of them, he even overhears two men talking about how allegedly "not even the First Spinjitzu Master's son's know where the tomb is" (Garmadon and Wu actually don't know where the storage facility is located, as the only time they've ever been there the Fsm teleported them straight into it and straight back out again). It's this comment that gives Morro the idea: if he can find the tomb, something that Wu himself has failed to do, Wu will have to make him the green ninja! And so Morro sets out to find The Tomb of The First Spinjitzu Master.

Meanwhile Wu is having a crisis trying to remember if running away for months at a time was normal human behaviour. Because his draconic instincts are seeing this as normal (I hc dragons to have very large territories that they let their hatchlings run amok in) but his oni instincts are screaming at him to find his pup student. And of course Morro is human, so he's not sure what he should be doing. In the end, however, Wu will always be more dragon than oni, so his draconic instincts win out and he settles down to wait for the return of his hatchling student (though if he needs an few calming teas a day and stops nearly all communication with the outside world that's nobody else's business).

Morro actually does achieve what so few have before, and finds the tomb after months of searching. He then proceeds to one up everyone else and get inside, even without the clues, doing this by using his power over the wind and knowledge of spinjitzu. Morro then decides to do what any teenager in the tomb of God would, and starts to explore. But the cave system that it's in is complex and dangerous for mortals, so Morro quickly gets lost.

Fsm, meanwhile, had come to their storage facility to do some much needed organisation (listen, there is thousands of years worth of stuff in there. Fsm is half dragon and has the hoarding skills to prove it). While they're moving through the caves sorting random items they hear a disturbance a few tunnels over (dragoni hearing for the win!) and go to investigate. It's there that he finds Morro on the verge of a breakdown.

Morro, who was not expecting anyone else to be in the tomb nearly has a heart attack, because there is a massive being with wings and sharp horns and talons staring down at him. He panics and gets ready to fight. But the more he observes the being in the cave with him, the more familiar it seems. After a few seconds, it clicks, the being looks like Wu. And if the being looks like Wu, and it's not Garmadon, then there's really only one person it could be. But that's impossible, isn't it? But all the same, Morro relaxes a bit.

Morro: You're the First Spinjitzu Master

Fsm, wondering why there is a small child in his storage facility: I am, yes.

Morro: But you're dead! We're in your tomb!?

Fsm, now wondering why this small child has traces of their son's scent on him: This is a storage facility. And I'm not dead, who told you that?

Morro: Well - I mean - Wu said you were most likely in the Departed Realm!

Fsm: And I was, but I can leave it at any time. I'm a god afterall. Anyway, how do you know my son?

Morro: Wu took me in and trained me, and he lied to me and told me I was destined to become the green ninja. But I've found your tomb, surely that makes me worthy. You can make me the green ninja!

Fsm: Of course you are not the green ninja. It's not about how worthy one is. It's the fact that you are mortal, you simply wouldn't survive carrying the power of the green ninja. Besides, if it makes you feel better, you can already do something I cannot. You can control wind, something that no one since Wojira herself has been able to do. I assume that's why Wu thought you might the green ninja. I do apologise, it's my fault he's not the best at communication.

Fsm: You should return to the monastery. Wu is worried. He sees you as his son, you know, he will be happy that you are safe.

Morro: How can you know that when you didn't even know who I was.

Fsm: Omniscience is something I can chose whether to use or not. Now, I believe it is time for you to leave. Come, I will lead out of the caves.

So Morro and the First Spinjitzu Master leave the cave system. Morro has had his ego boosted since he can do something the First Spinjitzu Master can't, and is less angry about being not the green ninja. He's still angry at Wu, of course, but he misses him all the same. Besides, this way he can yell at Wu in person again.

Morro doesn't go back immediately though, instead he takes a few months to gather his thoughts. As he travels through the villages and cities of Ninjago he occasionally helps people out, and starts to get a sense of what being a ninja is all about. So by the time he actually reaches the monastery he's mostly cooled off, as well as lost some of his arrogance. However, he does still have a speech to give Wu that involves several apologies about how he acted, along with an section that explains the pressure that Morro felt Wu put him under.

He doesn't get a chance to actually say the speech until a few days after he returns home though, as the moment Morro steps through the gates he is greeted by his touch starved dragoni sensei parent, who immediately whisks him away for cuddles. And Morro, equally touched starved, simply can't bring himself to stop it.

Fsm, on the other hand, is absolutely thrilled that they now have a grandson to dote on.

(Thanks to @coolprofessorbagelwinner for the little tidbit at the end)

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 5 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6 - Epilogue

Summary: Unable to find rest, the prince and the maid meet in the halo of the moonlight. Their closeness inevitably leads them to transgress a boundary from which there is no retreat.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Warning: You knew it was coming. It had to. It gets spicy! [NSFW] [NSFT]

(it remains fluffy though)

Word count: 10,500

Read it on AO3 here.

Night had long fallen over Rohan, its ink black mantle, dotted with molten-golden asters that sparkled far above the lands, enfolding the world. Guardian of dreams and protector of dreamers, it had plunged the realm into an undisturbed tranquillity. Predators roamed the plains, shielded by the darkness that Night provided, perpetuating the circle of life. Birds of prey spread and fluttered their wings, fending the air with innate grace, and waiting for unsuspecting rodents to capture their acute eye. Above it all, the moon hung in the sky, boasting its rich silver hues, bathing the mountaintops into its glow; the sole beacon of any soul untouched by the lull of sleep.

Winter had truly begun to take root once the sun had set. Despite having left the earth bare during the day, it now draped its surface with rime. Scintillating opal dust waltzed through the breeze, carrying the serenity of the sky to the wilds below. The blanket it wove upon the ground stifled the steps of the animals seeking shelter in the woods. Deer wandered between the trees, scouring the landscape for a place to settle for the night. Under a pine, a doe curls up around her fawn, letting her brown coat warm up her young.

At the heart of Meduseld, nestled in her bedchamber, Éorhild lay wide awake under her covers. Though her irises faced the spectacle that nature offered, they were blind to its magnificence. Rather, they drowned in brine that trickled down the bridge of her nose and met its end against her pillow. She wept in silence; exhaustion had gnawed too deep in her bones for her to tremble or wail.

Guilt. Remorse. Vile creatures whose claws tore her flesh into shreds, searing her with an agony so profound that she could do nothing but pray that it would pass. By then, she was in a state beyond hysteria. She was carving herself a grave in the ruthless soil of apathy, each shovelful burying her in a void of her heart’s own making. As the clod in her back grew higher by the second, she hoped that once it would shroud her, new life would take root from her despair and blossom into a bed of colourful lilies.

Éomer’s soul-baring confession had shattered her world into fragments too jagged to reassemble. Though she had never questioned his fondness, she never had imagined that it had ripened into love. His revelation had sent her mind spiralling, untethered for reason, her heart plummeting under the recollection of her reaction. Its thunderous rhythm had roared in her ears, drowning every fragment of coherence. Instinct had eclipsed thought, and before she had fathomed a response, she had murmured an apology and fled his quarters. Her mantle, hose, shoes, and veil lay abandoned on his chair, a silent testament to the dismay that had seized her. No other explanation had been uttered; no apology issued. Within a second, she had departed.

Another fainting spell had befallen her, though this time there had been no gallant rescuer to whisk her away on his steed. Mere seconds had passed until she regained her spirits and dragged herself to her washroom, where she poured herself a warm bath to thwart the promise of severe soreness in her muscles and ribs come morning. It had been but a fleeting solace. There she had lingered, with her head underwater to scream her lungs out until they burnt, the water absorbing her anguish without alerting another soul.

Then, she had shuffled the short distance to her bed, clad in nothing warmer than her shift, heedless to the chill that nipped at her skin. Heaving a rattling sigh, she had collapsed onto the mattress and burrowed beneath the covers. For hours she wrestled with the sheets, tossing and turning, incapable of drifting away. Her mind yearned for the oblivion of sleep yet clung stubbornly to the memory of her prince. Each time she closed her eyes, his image rose unbidden, piercing her with a pain radiating from her chest down to her fingertips, where it stung like nettles. Sleep, cruel as it was, evaded her.

And thus, she lay, alert and hollow-eyed, the tears she had hoped would bring release proving futile. They left her drained but long away from the hibernation she craved, her waking sorrow haunting her through the long hours of the night.

In truth, she was utterly spent, her body eroded by heartache and her spirit ravaged by the flames of regret. Mindless chores she could carry out in her room to compensate were unthinkable; she has no more strength to spare. Lifting a finger even felt an insurmountable task. She was an empty vessel adrift in despair. Insomnia was holding her captive in the world of night owls. She was its prisoner, vulnerable to its cruel grip. Too weak to even stand, she lay in the dark, unable to peer through the bars of this cage to glimpse a shred of hope. Escaping this madness seemed a fantasy that only fools could aspire to.

To quell the venom coursing through her veins, Éorhild turned her thoughts to Éomer’s plea, echoing in her mind like a cherished melody. How exquisite it had been! Never in her wildest dreams had she placed herself on the receiving end of such fervent passion, nor as one to whom those infamous three words would have been bestowed. Faintly, she recalled when she was a carefree girl in the Westfold who dared to dream of hearing them, yet never believed they would one day be hers.

His confession, so heartfelt, had unravelled her to her very core, wielding a mastery akin to the realm’s most gifted poets. Every syllable of it reverberated within the cell of her fragility. It was the only balm to the excruciating scorch of her emotions.

Éorhild imagined the life that Éomer had envisioned for them — one unshackled by constraints and etiquette. At its start was a wedding without allegiance to ranks or Gondorian nobility. Above their braided and flowered heads stretched a cloudless canopy of azure, ornate with a single golden disc illuminating the plains around them. In the middle of the Rohirric nature, their hands would join as they would pronounce the most poignant vows their people would ever witness. Better still, their union would be celebrated in solitude, far from the shadow of Edoras, away from prying ears and burdensome traditions. Perched atop a hill embraced by the towering mountains, their promise to each other would only reach the earth and sky. In that sacred moment, there would be no titles, no subjects, no servants, no rulers; only them and a bliss of their own making.

Together, they would raise a home whose walls and hearth would embody their shared spirit and all they could hope for. Behind closed eyelids, she could almost experience it. She could taste the sweetness of calling him ‘Husband’ in the dead of night, for no other reason than to release the same thrill in her chest that had danced there when they shared their first kiss on the hillside. Untainted by the world’s demands, they would do everything that life has deprived them of so far. They would hold each other close beyond the enclosure of their garden, they would touch lips within sight of others. Their only bond would be to each other.

Preventing her mind from painting the scene in richer detail, a sudden chill coursed down her spine, snapping her back to the cold reality of her solitary chamber. With a begrudging sigh, Éorhild pushed herself upright, grimacing from the soreness in her back. Her body, weary from prolonged inactivity, craved some motion. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet to the icy floor, hoping that a short midnight stroll would provide her some semblance of peace.

She retrieved a pale candle from the drawer and replaced the spent one in her holder. As she struck a match and watched the flame catch, its glow cast a sharp flicker upon her traits and kindled a heart-wrenching realisation in her mind.

Éomer must have suffered greatly, watching her flee from him in that moment of vulnerability. He had poured out his heart to her, after all; and she had not remained to listen. The thought weighed on her, and the flickering wick seemed to mock her in the stillness of the room. She anchored herself to the chest of drawers, suffocating from the lump forming in her throat.

How dared she run? How could she have deserted him when every oath she ever swore, as maid or woman, was bound to his welfare? In shadow and in daylight, she had tended to his needs with unwavering commitment. Yet, the moment that he confessed his love, she had ceased to listen. In that instant of raw honesty, she had faltered and abandoned him, her loyalty fractured by the terror of such foreign emotions.

She did not resent him for speaking his truth, not for a second, not for a million years. If anything, what invaded her then was an overwhelming sense of being cherished — something she had never known. Long had her childhood blurred into hazy memories, yet none held a fraction of the comfort that his presence provided her. Every conversation they had shared, whether by the hearth or in the corridors of Meduseld, had flown seamlessly. Not all had been easy, but never had she feared revealing her thoughts and heart to him, despite the consequences it might bring. Over the past months, whenever something amusing or thought-provoking passed through her mind, her first instinct had been to reach for Éomer, to share in the joy or laughter with him. Days grew devoid of interest; she had spent each of them thrilled at the idea of warming herself up by his side in the hall come evening. And at night, when at last she closed her eyes, it was his face, his smile, that guided her towards the land of dreams.

She loved him. The certainty struck her with the force of a galloping stallion, leaving no room for doubt. Teardrops formed puddles upon the dresser as they dripped off her cheeks, dimpled by a smile. Her hands fumbled in the dim light for a robe and clutched it around her quivering frame. With the candle holder firmly in her grasp, she yanked the door open and rushed barefoot into the shadowy hallway, her resolve now burning as brightly as the flame between her fingers.

Éorhild halted at the closed door of Éomer’s quarters, her shallow breath forming momentary clouds in the air and her pulse thrumming. Her eyes stared at this gate separating her from the man she coveted, unmoving, for what seemed an eternity. A bleak awareness crept over her — that of her impulsiveness. What had she been thinking? The silence of the Golden Hall, heavy and undisturbed, reminded her that, unlike her, most within its walls were deep in slumber.

Her courage faded and her fingers tightened their grip around the candlestick. Nevertheless, her heart urged her forward, while her brain screamed at her to retreat. When she raised her fist towards the thick wood, bracing herself to knock, a voice interrupted her momentum.

‘Whoever you are, you might as well enter,’ she heard it say, recognising it as the prince’s. There was no use in surrendering now. Éorhild squared her shoulders, drawing in a sharp breath to steady herself as her head extended towards the latch and eased the door open.

Inside, his chamber lay shrouded in obscurity, pierced only by a halo of moonlight that spilled through the window on the other side of the bed. Leaning on one forearm against the windowsill, Éomer was facing away from her. His stance was tense yet contemplative, as though the whirlwind of sorrow had rooted him there. Since her hasty departure, he had undone the plaits she had braided into his hair that morning. Their mild impressions waved his tresses, like ghosts of her touch. He wore a loose white shirt, rolled to his elbows, and tucked into a pair of silk trousers he reserved for the scarce hours of leisure he was afforded in the palace. How cold he must feel, she wondered.

Éomer cast a glance over his shoulder and the sight of Éorhild in her robe froze him mid-turn. His frown betrayed a flicker of surprise, as though he had been prepared to witness anyone in Rohan — but her — stepping across his threshold that night. His lips parted, searching for a pleasant greeting that never came. The shadows deepened the lines of his face, accentuating the vulnerability that etched there, unguarded and unfeigned. The luminescence of the moon did nothing to help the pallor that worsened his appearance.

Oh, how he must have been suffering.

‘It is you,’ he croaked, the unsteadiness in his voice suggesting that she had stolen the breath from his lungs by appearing to him.

Éorhild pressed her back to the door and held the candle aloft. His evident anguish dissuaded her from approaching, out of fear that she might twist the knife into his wounds that her actions had already inflicted.

‘Indeed, your Majesty, it is I,’ she whispered back. ‘I did not think that I would find you awake at this hour.’

‘Can I help you with anything? If it is your clothes you want, I have not moved them.’

Her gaze fell upon the pulled chair, where her forgotten belongings laying folded preserved the memory of her hasty retreat. The sight tugged at her heart — an unbearable reminder of when she both lost her composure and him. She set the candle upon the nearby chest of drawers, shedding a light on the ornate helmet he had worn into battle placed at the centre of the furniture. The biting cold seeped into her skin and she shivered, rubbing her palms against her arms for even a sliver of warmth.

‘Have you not found rest, my lord?’ she spoke again, turning to him again.

‘I am in a state where I have forgotten what sleep even is,’ he scoffed, running a hand over his face.

Silence reigned supreme once more, disrupted only by the occasional crackle of the wick. Éorhild wrestled with her thoughts, embarking on the vain quest for words that would defend this impromptu nightly visit without hurting him further. Potential phrases dissolved on her tongue before she could utter them. No justification could fully encapsulate the truth behind her presence. Besides, his evading, restless gaze suggested that it unnerved him so deeply that he could scarcely bring himself to face her.

With tentative and measured steps, she drew nearer, albeit keeping a safe distance from him to spare his fretfulness. Her eyes, however, held fast to him; it traced the contours of his face, captured the sorrowful depth of his blood-shot eyes.

‘I apologise for running away earlier,’ she blurted out. ‘When you confessed your love to me, I was overtaken by a terror so consuming that I lost the ability to think clearly. My judgement was clouded, my instincts warped, and it drove me away from you, against my will.’

Éomer’s glimmering eyes met hers at last, cautious and uncertain. He merely nodded and stood back against the windowsill. The pale aura of the moon, caressing his skin, illuminated the unshed tears in his eyes. Their sight, unbearable to her, threatened to break her; still she stood firm, drawing strength from the depths of her adoration.

‘Was it me you were afraid of?’

His question sliced her heart with a sharpness akin to Gúthwinë’s blade. Her breath caught and she dropped her hands at her sides.

‘Why would you ever think that I feared you?’

‘You spoke of terror,’ he pressed on, swiftly catching a tear with the ball of his hand before it would fall and observing the landscape again. ‘Was it fear of me? Fear that I would coerce you into my bed?’

Determined to face and confront him on the matter, Éorhild bypassed the footboard of the bed and climbed the short steps leading to the alcove where the window frame would preside their exchange. At her approach, Éomer recoiled yet made no move to elude her. This time, his eyes remained fixed on her figure as she took place across from him.

‘I never feared this eventuality in the first place,’ she intoned. ‘You were not at the root of my dread, and for allowing you to believe otherwise, I owe you my deepest apologies.’

‘Speak to me, then,’ he pleaded in a sob, his voice cracking. ‘Why did you flee?’

Though her heart ached to enfold him in her arms and never let go, she held herself back. No gently gestures, no words of reassurance, could come ahead of the explanation she owed him — explanations she was resolved to provide. It was the least she could offer, and she would not have him bear her withdrawal any longer.

‘When Master Guthláf revealed to me the laws that endorse lords commanding their maids’ bodies, I grasped how brittle my agency was in the eyes of Rohirric lawmakers and nobles,’ she began. ‘The realisation that my autonomy could be stripped from me so easily, no matter what I say, made me understand Lady Éowyn’s rage on a more profound level. For so long, I must admit, I envied her in secret — a part of me I now repudiate. I could not fathom why she, of all people, could consider herself marginalised simply for her sex.’

Her fingers clasped the sleeves of her robe. The shame caused by her mistakes, which she had mulled over for hours, stirred uneasily in her stomach more strongly with every passing thought.

‘I knew, of course, that even among servants, women and men receive different treatments. Even our very oath belittles us. Male servants may bed whomever they fancy within their rank, they may take wives and have children, and still be welcome to contribute to the palace’s upkeep. But should a maid take a lover, she risks banishment. Théodil has paid the price for it.’

A tremor seized her lower lip, drawing the prince’s attention, which had not wavered from her since she had begun to speak. She was unravelling herself before him with as much honesty as he had displayed during their fiery conversation earlier. So, he listened with patience, his senses attuned to her words. In that instant, there was nothing else he desired more than to hear her, to understand her and that turmoil, whose ravages she had concealed to protect him. Or perhaps because she had yet to perceive the extent of its devastation herself.

‘At first, I thought her foolish for so openly risking her livelihood for that guard,’ she confessed in a strangled sob. ‘But now… now I wonder — what did Théodil truly do wrong? She is hardly different from her male peers, after all. She, too, has desires and the capacity for love. Why, then, should she be punished for even a simple kiss?’

Her barriers fell and she wept openly, although she paid the tears drenching her face no heed. Still, she took a moment to gather herself.

‘What I mean to say is that I had always believed my agency over my body to be the one thing truly mine, not for others to control. To learn that I had been misled for sixteen years unsettled me in ways I scarcely knew how to express.’

‘If I may speak candidly, without causing you offense, I care for you far too deeply to risk your safety. Forcing you into anything had never brushed my thoughts, not even a little. My love for you never entailed the corruption of your consent.’

‘I know.’

Éorhild dried her cheeks with a smile that held little mirth, and he, too, echoed it with a brief chuckle. They contemplated each other, the curve of their lips betraying a tenderness, kept at bay ever since she graced his room, blossoming anew. Sorrow had lifted from Éomer’s stern traits, and the glint in his eye was no longer solely that of brine.

‘You look ethereal tonight, Éorhild,’ the prince murmured as he admired the drapes of the white robe around her silhouette. ‘You are more beautiful to me than the Elves.’

‘Do not jest, my lord!’ she chortled, covering her mouth with her hand, hoping that its presence would help dissimulate the hues rising to her cheeks.

‘I never jest!’

The tension ebbed, surrendering to the chimes of their laughter. Their shoulders loosened, and the burden they had each borne lifted higher by the second. The camaraderie that had once defined their evenings — spent by the fire, drink in hand, exchanging words straying between the mundane and the profound — returned, thawing the imperceptible frost that had solidified following their abrupt parting.

Éorhild, finally drawing a steady breath that appeased her frayed nerves now that he knew and understood her dread, acknowledged the collar of his shirt. Between the parted hems, his collarbones and chest offered her a tantalising view. They were not unfamiliar to her; she had seen and grazed them in the bath that morning, yet there was something undeniably alluring about their partial occultation. The contrast of skin and linen sent her heart hammering and provoked a slow-burning ache deep within — delicious but somewhat outrageous.

Trailing along the folds of the fabric where shirt burrowed into waistline only further aggravated the adrenaline rush inside her abdomen. Underneath the garments, there was this body she knew was robust and chiselled, but its waist possessed a narrowness that required her to sink her nails into her palms to refrain from tracing them with her fingertips.

‘You cut a striking figure yourself, your Majesty,’ she complimented him in return.

‘Oh? Thank you. I, um…’

Éomer smoothed out a crease between his dark eyebrows with his knuckle, rubbing quite harshly at his skin as though to steel his mind away from such enticing distractions. Whether he noticed her lingering glances, the subtle tilt of her voice, or the unintentional flirtation woven into her compliment, she could not tell. However, his restraint was palpable, a silent battle against the temptation to yield to such frivolities. In all earnest, it was only fitting; too much remained unspoken between them, too many truths still hung in the air, awaiting acknowledgement.

‘I wanted to let you know that… should you decide to decline the position after such an eventful first day, I would understand,’ his low voice resonated with sincerity inside the alcove. ‘Truly, I would. I would not hold it against you, even for a second.’

He hesitated, his gaze faltering. Obviously, the prospect did not please him in the slightest. Even she could tell that he was setting aside his wishes to value her decision above them.

‘It was a hardship I thrust upon you without forewarning, and I should have handled it differently. Know that you already have my deepest gratitude for even considering it and giving it a chance. I cannot, in all good conscience, ask you for more.’

Another heartfelt expression of the tumult in his spirit, she told herself. One that she had provoked. The muscles in his jaw clenched and, when his lips parted again, his voice carried the raw edge of regret and a tinge of frustration.

‘I am sorry, Éorhild. Truly. I should have discussed it with you, shared my thoughts and concerns, before bringing it to my uncle’s attention. But I was so consumed by the need to keep you close that I let my impulsivity take control. I should have known better. I apolo—'

‘Éomer,’ she interjected with a gentle tone, ‘I have no intention of leaving your service. It was — and it remains — my choice to stay. You must understand, I am not here out of duty alone. Whatever trials have emerged with my assuming this role, they have not deterred me. If anything, they have confirmed that my place is here — with you.’

Shuffling out of the shadow, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone without a sound, she came forward, meeting him halfway. Éomer’s breath hitched, sensing a delightful tension that united them at that second. The moon’s silvery glare, speckled with delicate golden tints, kissed the skin of her neck. It descended towards the lowered hem of her shift, through which he could distinguish a single mole above her left breast. His broad frame, ordinarily adopting a confident poise, shifted and found refuge against the cold wood covering the wall.

But she paid that no mind.

‘Do not shoulder the guilt of offering me this role,’ she continued, plunging her dark irises into his. ‘I am here because I choose to be. Not because you compelled me, nor because I found myself cornered. But should I ever change my mind, I promise that you will be the first to know.’

No response met her attempt at comforting him. Calm reigned as he stood petrified against the wall with flaring nostrils as his chest heaved with laboured breaths. The dim light caught a damp sheen on his forehead, and though his posture remained unchanged, the storm within him remained too evident. Éorhild lingered, her heart fracturing at his reticence to reply yet holding out hope that her presence would coax him out of this stupor. And she waited.

But the seconds dragged on, and he had not made any effort to speak. Admitting defeat, she exhaled in resignation and curtseyed.

‘I will take my leave, my lord,’ she said in forced reverence. ‘I wish you good night; I shall see you in the morn.’

Thought she turned towards the door, each step she took to leave his side was reluctant. Some part of her still hoped that he would call her back. She had not even confessed her feelings in return; perhaps that was just as well.

When her toes grazed the floor at the foot of the steps, she halted. Tears prickled her eyes, and she bit her lower lip, wondering whether to induce further conversation. Deciding in favour of it, she spun to face him again.

‘You know, I would not have been happy in that vision of us you evoked.’

Éomer’s gaze flickered to hers.

‘Is that so?’ he enquired in bewildered confusion, his curiosity undeniably piqued. ‘Then, my perception of our relationship must have been terribly misconstrued.’

Éorhild clasped her hands together to eclipse their trembling.

‘It was an appealing fantasy, without a doubt,’ she continued. ‘But I believe that you have misinterpreted what would constitute a fulfilling life from my point of view. How could I have found bliss if my husband spent his time roaming Middle-earth in search of superficial ways to please me? How could I have been satisfied with constant loneliness in a house where all has been shaped to my taste, without bearing traces of you?’

His chest tightened as he pondered what he had neglected to consider. She was right. He had been distracting by the promise of what he could offer her if they could love freely — riches, comfort, beauty — that he had omitted the one element that was truly worth offering: himself.

‘You thought of all the things I might want,’ she choked up, ‘but you never once realised that all I wanted was you. Not just your love, but your presence. Your time, your hands, your heart. In poverty or in abundance, all I would have wanted was to be with you.’

She retraced her steps and came to stand before him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin.

‘I do not seek a life without labour, but one in which we would both contribute to establish a home to thrive in. One that needs not correspond to outside standards, but one that is imperfect in all the ways that matter most. We would have built these walls together, without caring whether they are too slanted — we would laugh it off and make it work. But at the end of the day, my only home would have been you.’

A life forged with their bare hands, steered by decisions they would have negotiated and agreed upon… It sounded like the sweetest melody to his ears. The thought of a hypothetical shared future filled him with a sense of peace. He had spent so many years under pressure of external forces and standards — Gondor’s, Rohan’s, his uncle’s, his own. There was a shift inside him. In this moment, the dark clouds had parted and a sun in the shape of Éorhild illuminated his world.

To build this life together, without pretence or outward approval, seemed the only objective worth pursuing. Her vision, so simple yet fruitful, surpassed anything he had ever dared to dream for himself. Genuine companionship, shared labour and tender displays — nothing expected of a king.

To hell with the crown.

Just as he was on the verge of sharing his newfound clarity, a series of soft sobs halted him. She was weeping once more, and the sight tore at his soul.

‘I would have gladly chosen a life in which I would be your bride,’ she hiccupped. ‘In time, when we would have been ready, I would have borne you children. Even though I doubt that I would ever be a good mother.’

‘What in the world makes you question it?’

‘Selfishly enough, I would have struggled with the idea of sharing you. Having desired you for so long and finally earned the privilege to be yours, I could not bear it.’

Muttering an apology, she began to turn — but before she could make another escape, his hand lightly grazed her wrist, breaking her impetus. His fingertips caressed the palm of her hand, and his eyes bore into hers, incredulous yet hopeful.

‘Do you feel the same as I do, then?’ his voice quivered, caught between excitement and dread. ‘Or am I once again misreading your desires?’

She let out a scoff, her tears mingling with a bitter laugh as she returned his stare.

‘Of course I do, Éomer. It is you. It has always been you.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat, summoning every fragile ounce of courage the speak the truth she had silenced for far too long. These three words had longed to flow off her lips and waft through to him. It was the confession she should have offered him earlier that day, when the moment was still opportune. Perhaps then, she would have woven poetry into her proclamation, crafting it with the same methods as the many bards that had enlivened Meduseld throughout the years with tales of passion and longing. Her voice would have risen, ever so sweet to his ear, capturing the fullness of her steadfastness in verses worthy of him.

But her life was not one of great halls and song. Thus, she settled for a simple but sincere declaration.

‘And I love you.’

Uncontainable joy invaded his roaring heart. Thousands of jubilant exclamations clamoured within his mind, each vying for release. Emotion surged through him, constricting his throat and misting his eyes, leaving him on the brink of tears that would attest of his relief and elation.

Sensing that she would not be trespassing any boundary, Éorhild pressed herself against his chest and her arms found their way around his neck, drawing him into an embrace that they had both itched to indulge themselves to.

‘Ig léofie ðe,’ she repeated in their native tongue.

Éomer’s palms cradled her jaw and his thumb traced her rosy lower lip.

‘Ond ðe ealswan léofie ig,’ he cried, ‘o Éorhild, seo dyreste ond seo sweteste in blæd min.’

Weaving through his untamed mane, her fingers and drew his head closer with utmost tenderness as her eyelids fluttered shut. With a desperate fervour, he clung to her, encircling her waist with one arm, afraid that she might vanish once more. His lips captured hers in a kiss that alleviated the burden of long-suppressed yearning, poignant yet firm. It was the melding of two spirits who had been circling one another, incomplete and hollow, until this very moment.

Her mouth was supple beneath his, their heat igniting a bonfire within his chest whose flames licking the inside of his veins, chasing away all shadows of doubts and remorse. Time came to a standstill, the world beyond them melted away as he deepened the kiss. It was an unspoken promise of unwavering devotion and a future that would be theirs to hold. Each brush of their tongues spoke of the battles they had fought alone in the dark, and the unyielding faith that they would face the rest together.

Love had finally found its voice, and it was the prince and his maid who heard it sing.

Two nights prior, under the canopy of stars on the windswept hillside, they had resigned to the bittersweet comfort of a single night for them to etch in their memory — a fleeting hour to hold onto into the solitude that would follow. Yet here they stood, hearts that had once braced for parting now trembling with the yearning for another.

Their lips separated, the faintest whisper of warmth lingering upon them, and their foreheads rested together. The lovers shared tender smiles, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Fingers found their way to each other’s faces, brushing against familiar contours in adoration. A featherlight touch, yet charged with powerful emotion, as though they sought to memorise each wrinkle and curve. Shimmering more brightly than ever, their eyes locked in an unbroken gaze, devouring one another with a hunger that words could never aspire to satisfy.

In the silence, their smiles curled, testifying of the elation that enfolded them both beneath its celestial cloak. Its pull proved irresistible, and they kissed once more. Deeper, slower, imbued with sweet indulgence, as though compensating for all the hours wasted from forbidding themselves to love. This intimacy was their sanctuary, where they needed not conceal their affection.

Heat blazed between the pair, each caress fanning their craving into a wildfire that reddened their cheeks. Their kiss grew careless and urgent, their ragged breaths grazing their prickling skins. Éorhild trailed along the curves of Éomer’s shoulders, her fingertips tangling in his unbound hair. His hands roamed her back, halting every so often to pinch her waist or cup the back of her skull.

Soft, breathy moans escaped them like sweet nothings whispered in the night. Éorhild’s belly coiled with molten flames far more potent than the ones that had overtaken her that morning by the bathtub and left her clutching the wall. This was no fleeting spark but a raging conflagration induced by the unrestrained connection they were sharing.

Both knew that this night — their night — was no longer one fated to be a mere pleasant memory but one they were bound to weave. One that was about to change them indefinitely.

Sensing the unravelling of her moderation as her torso shoved Éomer against the wooden panel, Éorhild emitted a sharp gasp that cut through the haze of their fiery endearment. Realisation struck her like a bolt of lightning, and her eyes, widened in terror, mirrored the chaos within. Staggering backwards, she tore herself away from him, the intensity with which she had touched him leaving her ruffled.

Her back collided with the opposite wall, the cold surface grounding her even as her chest heaved with panicked breaths. She raised a trembling hand to her lips, as though to keep the phantom of their kiss onto them. Across the distance that now separated them, Éomer’s stare burnt with surprise and yearning, but he made no move to close the gap. Instead, he simply watched, clasping his knees together and breathing in tandem with her, as though tethered to her every gasp.

‘D-Did I aggrieve you, beloved?’ he stuttered, flattening his hands against the wall as if it was the only way to keep them to himself.

‘N-No, I…’

She twisted a strand of her hair and averted her gaze. Hues adorning her delicate features oscillated between warm and cold tones, attesting of the dilemma that was tearing her apart. Lord Guthláf’s words crept into her mind again.

No amount of earthly pleasure shared with the prince is worth your death.

‘How… are you feeling?’

Contorting his traits into a wince, Éomer’s attention flitted between his thighs, her figure, and the despair in her eyes. A sneer of embarrassment fleeted from his throat.

‘Flustered, I will not lie,’ he laughed, the sound warm but laden with tension and self-consciousness. ‘I thought I had mastered myself, but I find that I am not as composed as I had hoped.’

Though self-deprecating, the smile he bestowed upon her was genuine. Leaning further against the wall, his head tapped against the wood in a soft thud, while his hand burrowed into one of his pockets, an unconscious attempt at distracting himself from the disrespectful thoughts invading his mind.

‘But I do not forget the danger that acting upon my impulses would entail, Éorhild. Rest assured.’

‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’

‘You would not want to hear any of it,’ he responded, his voice quavering as her questions only served to aggravate his state.

‘But what if I do?’

Bashful but bold, her challenge caught him off guard. There she stood, her fists clenched against her thighs in a posture both defensive and daring, urging him to speak the words he withheld from her. In that instant, she transcended her image of a meek and obedient servant. She was a woman asserting her desires, laying her heart bare, releasing hundreds of questions to know whether the man she cherished felt the same yearning deep within him.

‘You would think me depraved,’ he insisted, reluctant to answer her plea.

‘Éomer, please.’

His nostrils flared and, in a wary abdication, he caved in. Despite his acquiescence, a subtle defensiveness crept into his voice, betraying the inner battle he was fighting and failed to spare her from.

‘You truly want to know what I am thinking?’ he hissed. ‘I long to disrobe you and lay you down on my bed. I wish to explore every part of you, to trace your skin by candlelight, hearing your sighs with every kiss I give you like they are prayers lost in the night. All I want is to make you feel revered, though I may not know the way.’

A deep inhale filled his lungs upon the realisation that he had uttered his most intimate desires in a single breath. He shielded his mouth with a shivering hand, ashamed of the impropriety he had displayed in her presence. But she wanted to know, and he had delivered. Now, all he anticipated was her flight — his revelations had this tendency of drive her away. Would she return, this time?

Éorhild straightened her posture, lifting her chin with determination, and spoke.

‘Give me the order.’

Slackening his jaw, Éomer stared at her in stunned silence, his brain hassling to process the gravity of her demand. He tilted his head, attempting to clarify whether he had heard her properly or whether his discomposure had warped her meaning. But when she refused to stand down, it was clear as day — she wanted him to dictate her.

‘Éorhild, you cannot be serious,’ he said, repulsed by the prospect. ‘You are no hound to obey my bidding. You are a woman — strong, precious, radiant, and astoundingly intelligent — and I love you, beyond reason or restraint. Do not ask this of me; I could never forgive myself if I did it.’

The distance separating them dwindled to nothing as she approached to rest a hand on his forearm, demanding his patient attention. There was no surrender to be found in her eyes — no trace of sorrow, nor hesitation. Without the shadow of a doubt, she empathised with his torment as she observed it tearing through him as he grappled still with her request.

Éomer had always held her in the highest regard, admittedly more than she thought she deserved, valued her autonomy and integrity as if they were sacred and as he had so vehemently asserted earlier. That he would deny her, was no surprise. It was as much a testament to his respect for her as it was to the principles he upheld.

And yet, this situation demanded more.

Her expression softened into a compassionate display.

‘This is not about undermining what you hold dear or asking you to betray yourself,’ she explained with such calmness that it unsettled him. ‘It is about what lies between us, what we both feel and cannot deny. I am not demanding you to abandon your conscience for my sake, but to consider that this — us — requires us to make a choice together, no matter how unconventional it may seem.’

Her hand trailed upward, gliding over the sinew of his arm and the breadth of his shoulder, finding its path along the ridge of his clavicle. It lingered there for a few seconds, savouring the warmth beneath the unfastened collar of his garment, before it continued its ascent. At last, it ended its course against his cheek and the pad of her thumb gave a stroke over the plane of his face, light as a feather.

It cupped him there, steadying him even as he faltered under the weight of his concern. She swept away the faint sheen of perspiration that clung to his skin. To him, her gesture held more meaning than words ever could. It was a delicate blend of reassurance and intimacy, one that their laws prohibited — it was already a risk she took for him. In the quiet of that moment, her touch spoke what her lips needed not say — I am here. I am yours. It is us against all odds.

His broad palm rose to meet hers, enveloping it with an affection that belied its strength. He held it there, grateful for her existence.

‘Far be with from me to compel you to act against your will, but I must speak plainly. We have little choice but to navigate this treacherous power play if we wish to remain together — even in secrecy — and to consummate our bond.’

‘I despise this eventuality,’ he sighed.

‘Consider what lies before us. If you command me, it grants us a measure of protection, a shield should our union ever come to light. It would ensure my survival and safeguard your crown, however dreadful you may find the prospect of becoming king. If you refuse…’

She hesitated for a breath, her voice softening yet losing none of its courage.

‘If you refuse, we face a bitter fork in our road: either we surrender to our impulses and I forfeit my life, or we deny ourselves entirely until the day you take Lothíriel for a wife and share with her the night we meant for ourselves.’

‘You do not understand, sunnan scima min. I cannot bring myself to strip you of your agency by uttering such crude words. To command you, especially in this matter, would be to forsake all that I admire in you.’

Éomer placed a kiss upon her brow.

‘Never will I wield my rank as a leash upon you,’ he declared. ‘No one deserves such a fate — least of all you.’

‘Oh, love of mine, you would not do such a thing,’ she responded, peppering kisses along his jawline, causing him to blush. ‘It would be a mere façade, our armour against scrutiny. We would not need to craft falsehoods should the nature of our bond be called into question. Besides, did you not once tell me not to give words more weight than they deserved?’

He exhaled in amusement and disbelief, his eyes rolling in feigned exasperation while his arms encircled her waist.

‘I cannot believe you are using my words against me,’ he jested, delighted by her audacity.

Melodious and gracious, her laughter brushed over him like a comforting breeze on a suffocating summer’s day, disarming the tension that gripped him. Before he could phrase another pleasantry, she burrowed against his chest, and he could do nothing but wind his arms around her. Her fingers threaded through his hair, grazing his scalp in gentle motions, as she rocked him in a slow, rhythmic slay.

‘I want you to give me that order,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘For this and what would follow, you have my full and educated consent.’

Éomer measured the solemnity of her statement for a moment more, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he extricated himself from her embrace. He looked into her eyes, searching for a hint of apprehension, some inkling of qualm, but he found none. He perceived nothing but the depth of her desire for his whole person, and he would have been lying if he had said that it did not stir him.

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘I am.’

‘Then, at least, allow me to make things proper,’ he pleaded, the words almost reverent, as though their sole purpose was to right a hypothetical wrong, to give their union the form it had always lacked.

With an expression both earnest and vulnerable, and as the moonlight caressed the side of his face, he lowered himself to one knee in near veneration. Her breath caught in her throat as he picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips. There was a shift in the air, unexpected yet delightful, that emulated the eternal fealty they bore to each other. Uncertainty swirled inside her soul as she tried to decipher his intentions, speculating about the ceremony fastened to his gesture.

‘Éorhild, words fail me to demonstrate how absolute my infatuation is. There is no day worth rising for without you by my side. You have transformed me in greater ways than one, and thus I shall forever lament the time I lost before I saw you, before I truly learnt what it was to be treasured. You are, without question, the most wondrous being to have come into existence and graced this wretched world.’

‘Is such a formality necessary?’ she giggled behind her hand. ‘This hardly warrants a proposal.’

‘Let me finish,’ he insisted, a radiant smile tugging at his lips. ‘And so, at this late hour, I kneel before you not as a prince, but as a man whose every thought you occupy. Since our laws forbid me from presenting you with a ring or seeing you in a wedding gown, I wish to offer you my spirit and my heart through the gift of my flesh, and it is yours to use as you see fit. For when at last you enjoy me, the shape of your hands will forever be carved into my skin, so even when the time comes for me to marry, I will always carry you with me. So, Éorhild, I beg — no, I bid you — to bed me.’

She nodded with trepidation, and they fell into each other’s arms, their lips meeting into a fervent kiss. It struck her then, with startling clarity, how meticulous his phrasing had been — a crafted formulation to bestow her with the illusion of dominion, when reality lay far from it. And she loved him even more in that instant, with the ardour of the lords in the ballads of minstrels who worship the ladies they covet.

No sooner had she perceived the faint taste of wine upon his tongue than Éomer swept her off her feet. However much effort he had granted this motion, his lips remained sealed to hers, as though the very act of breathing without her might undo him. With a knightly grace, he carried her over to the rumpled bed, as though partaking in a solemn rite to translate relics to a sacred altar. Lowering her with tender care onto the bed, he held his breath when her golden hair, tousled and waved, fanned out across the pillow like a celestial crown, its lustre shining brighter even than the surviving candle’s flame.

Inclining over her, he found himself spellbound by her features. He traced the curve of her face, committing every detail to memory. He carved the crescent moon shape of her jaw into his consciousness, dotted each of the small moles he numbered eight onto the canvas, sculpted the aquiline curvature of her nose into marble, blended pigments to achieve the amber reflection in her irises and the fair hue of her skin, so accommodated to indoors settings.

At her waist, he found the belt that cinched her gown, the haphazard bow undoing with the gentle pull of his fingers and stirring the garment underneath. The rustle of the fabric unfastening reached his ears, as intimate as a shared breath. The loosened folds revealed her chemise, like a cloak of modesty, with its unadorned and humble weave coarse under his hand. He hesitated, his gaze searching hers for permission, and she granted it wholeheartedly, guiding him by the wrist to her frame. By parting the hems of her robe in a bolder brush against her collarbones, he was unveiling a treasure he deemed himself unworthy to behold.

Reaching her out to him, she drew him to her heart, forcing him to kneel on the mattress, and her mouth greeted his in a grand welcome. His lips withdrew to wander along her jawline, peppering pecks against her tingling skin, descending upon her exposed throat. Air flowed and ebbed from Éorhild’s lungs in succinct expirations, evoking to him the waves washing upon the lofty cliffs of Dol Amroth, which he had admired for hours during his diplomatic visit there, finding solace in the unfamiliarity of the landscape and isolation from Imrahil’s court.

Beneath him, Éorhild was overcome with conflicting sensations. The kisses laid upon her neck stirred a shiver that coursed down her sides, spreading like a cold tide meeting the warmth of the shore and crackling away across her chest like seafoam chasing the sand. Each instance triggered cool thrills, yet she felt as though she was melting — an ice sculpture surrendering to the embrace of the sun, fading drop by drop into its irresistible grip.

In return, she wove a hand through his tresses. As his chaste, titillating strokes deepened into firm, open-mouthed kisses, each stoking the embers of her desire and amplifying her sensitivity, she gave a careful tug at their root, muffling a whimper in the crook of his shoulder.

Without thinking, her fingers found his shirt and bunched the fabric between them, yanking it upward and over his head. He complied without protest, assisting her in shedding the constricting garment. Straightening, he balled the shirt in his grasp and hurled it over his shoulder. It fended the air with considerable force and sailed dangerously close to the open flame of the candle, the anticipation of a catastrophe hitching their breaths. A faint metallic thud echoed as the shirt landed and sprawled atop his helm upon the dresser, and they laughed, relieved to have avoided a mishap.

Sparks illuminated her eyes at the sight of his bare torso, as numerous as the celestial bodies he had seen immortalised in Lady Galadriel’s irises. Yet, in the eyes of his beloved, even the legendary splendour of the Trees of Valinor paled before the radiance she brought to his world.

When her fresh palms lay upon the burning expanse of his chest, he yielded to gravity and passion, collapsing onto her with an urgency that bordered on obsession. His head nestled beneath her chin and questing flickers of his tongue chasing the ridge of her clavicle. The gasps he had drawn from her before magnified into strangled moans, ever so rewarding.

‘I want to devour you,’ he groaned against her dampened skin. ‘All of you.’

‘Do proceed, min heortan frean…’

Éomer cradled her chin in his hand, his thumb caressing the groove between her lower lip and her chin. His smile, candid and unguarded, spoke volumes — a quiet declaration of love that required no utterance.

‘May I disrobe you, leofre healsmægeth?’

‘I feared I might never hear you request it.’

She slipped from beneath him with an unhurried grace and rose. Standing before him, she was a vision caught between shadow and light, her form etched in soft luminescence dancing upon her shift. Her wrists moved with purpose, finding the ribbon at her collar, and with a deft motion, she loosened the tie. The neckline dipped to reveal the robust slope of her shoulders. A mere flick made her garment abandon her frame, cascading along the curves of her body before pooling into a heap at her ankles.

To him, she was a masterpiece, sculpted by the hands of the Valar themselves, and Éomer was undone. As he admired her, he forgot to draw breath, and his eyes widened as if the shores of Aman laid bare before him while the songs of the Eldar arose around him. Éorhild was the divine made flesh — there was nothing he could imagine would equal or surpass the vision of her figure in the moonlight, unclad specifically for his enjoyment.

He was unworthy of it all. He was but a flawed mortal, graced by the presence of this entity that, he felt, required of him to kneel. And he would have gladly obeyed, if not for his compulsion to explore her further.

He joined her side, caressing the defined muscles of her arms, chiselled by years of incessant scrubbing, carrying, lifting, swinging and rattling. With her eyes following his every movement, she seemed achingly vulnerable, and her lack of elocution led him to believe that she awaited some sort of approval from him — any sign that proved that her offering of her body had been seen, accepted, and valued.

As though words would have cheapened the reverence he experienced, he stared in sheer awe. But when she averted her eyes, as if doubt was corrupting her confidence, he tilted her chin towards him with a curled finger.

‘You are more exquisite than every treasure ever unearthed, more radiant than the stars that adorn our skies. Béma be damned, you steal the very air from my lungs,’ he murmured. ‘And now, more than ever, I desire you, in a way beyond all reason.’

‘May I undress you?’ she enquired, fragile with longing.

‘You may do as you wish with me. But this — this I long to give you.’

Swelling his chest with determination, Éomer unlaced the ties of his trousers. They slid from his legs, bunching at his ankles until he lifted his feet to ease the fabric off. He discarded it onto the floor and undid his braies with measured gestures, watching for any shift in her expression. When he finally stood before her, exposed in spirit and body, there was no sign of discomfort on her traits — only a flustered blush.

‘Are you still willing?’ he whispered, daring not to even hold her hand.

‘I am. Are you?’

‘What a question.’

Amidst a torrent of kisses, their naked bodies clasped together and came to rest upon the sheets once more. Torrid streaks formed sigils imprinted on their skin, igniting a hunger neither could quench. Exhalations mingled, swirled around their flushed face as their murmured voices, hoarse and tremulous, rose in a hymn to lust that only they could understand and sing.

Éorhild shivered under his hands, two tepid ripples amidst her body now subjected to the crisp wintry air. His mouth journeyed across the contours of her form, mapping every rise and hollow in almost piety. Meanwhile, his fingers traced the gentle curve of her breast, their path inflaming a crescendo of pleasure that unfurled within her core, lifting the banners ever higher upon her hills.

Breaching through the last vestiges of their sheepishness, Éomer descended, nestling his face into the sanctuary between her silken thighs. His nose grazed the curls crowning her mound, and with a devotion deeper than prayers could ever convey, he venerated her in the hushed language of sensuality. At first, in spite of his fervent desire to please, his tongue shifted with tentative hesitance, somewhat inept at procuring her what he believed she deserved. Her gaze drifted to the timbered ceiling above, as though seeking answers among the beams and shadows, striving to decipher the dim sensations prickling her.

‘Guide me, beloved,’ he pleaded, his breath hot against her exposed flesh. ‘Show me how to ravish you.’

‘I know not how,’ she admitted, her tone laced with the unfortunate tint of shame. ‘I have never sought such things before.’

He lifted his head in surprise, while his feet found purchase against the footboard of his bed behind him.

‘Not even behind closed doors?’

‘Éomer,’ she laughed, ‘I have lived nearly my whole life sharing a room with other girls, and even my bath was never a time for solitude. Besides, my days often exhausted me too much to allow such matters to cross my mind.’

‘Then, I suppose we should figure out a way — together,’ he teased with a proud grin before dipping his head back onto her.

He ventured onward in his exploration, each motion of his lips a studious reimagining of his previous attempts, drawing a map of her most receptive areas. The warmth of his breath swept over her, and he noted with great satisfaction how it ignited her pleasure anew. Finding a resting place upon her soft stomach, his hand unwittingly tugged at her skin. Her body responded instinctively — an abrupt jolt, accompanied by a sharp squeal that expressed her surprise and delight.

‘There!’ she gasped. ‘Right… there! Just… gentle…’

There it was indeed — his new treasure.

Her sighed pleas and muttered instructions guided him through the unknown, and in them he found his purpose; in her ecstasy, he found his incentive. Relentless yet mellow, he pursued her rising fervour, his focus unbroken as he listened to her cries of mounting elation. White-knuckled, her fingers gripped the sheets, her back arching into a bow of exquisite tension. Her free hand found the crown of his hair and grabbed a fistful, which she released when she realised the abruptness of her gesture. But he maintained it there, discovering an unsuspected taste for this rough display. At once, her world dissolved as a frigid wave crashed over her senses, dragging her into a rapture that evoked the sensations of simultaneous soaring and drowning.

Her knees enclosed his head in an instinctive embrace, a cry tearing from the very depths of her being. Slowly, the storm subsided, and with a long, deflating sigh, her body sank back onto the mattress. All else faded but the racing cadence of her heart, drumming a rhythm into her ears.

Éomer placed a tender kiss on her golden curls and crawled back to meet her, admiring her undone state. In his eyes, she had never looked more sumptuous —her damp, parted lips, her crimson face, and the wild tangles in her hair formed a vision of beauty that left him breathless.

Éorhild’s eyes fluttered open, drawn to his presence hovering above her. A playful smile dug dimples into her cheeks as she reached up to brush her thumbs against his beard to dry it, while a light laugh rose in her throat.

‘You look ridiculous.’

‘I do not mind it one bit,’ he chuckled in response, his eyes softening at her sight.

Oh, how he loved her.

‘What prompted you to do such a thing?’

‘Tavern songs,’ he recounted with a shrug. ‘Soldiers exchanging bawdy tales while setting up camp. You should remember to thank them for their service when you encounter them next.’

They erupted in laughter, and he sought refuge in the curve of as he breathed in her natural fragrance that clung to her skin. She encircled him with her arms around him and pressed her lips to his temple.

‘I do not know what to do to delight you in return.’

‘Do not trouble yourself over it, my love,’ he intoned, combing a loose strand of her hair away from her forehead. ‘There will be nigh on countless nights for us to uncover such wonders together. For now, I wish to… I wish to give myself to you. If you are still willing, that is.’

She stayed quiet, her stare fixed on some distant point ahead. This was the moment that her body had implored — yet now the leap seemed impossibly high, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. A storm of doubts and fears whirled with fierce violence, threatening to pull her away from the present.

But before the tempest could carry her away, the caress of his palm against her jaw grounded her. His hazel eyes, beacons in the blur, silenced the chaos.

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Never have I lain with a man,’ she confessed, though she knew the admission was nothing new to him. Her voice remained steady, but there was palpable vulnerability in it. ‘I know not what to do.’

‘I have lain with no man or woman. I have kissed other ladies, I will admit, but it has never gone this far. I know not if it eases your mind, but I, too, am untried. What I do know is to be gentle, and that is all I shall be. I promise you. And should you wish to stop, say the word, my sweet, and I will pull away without question or disappointment.’

‘Will you not consider this opportunity wasted on me?’

Éomer cradled her face between his palms, brushing his lips across it, until his gentle exploration came to rest at the tip of her nose.

‘There could be no more meaningful opportunity than this, lufestran. None more loving,’ he said, leaning his forehead against hers. ‘Tales of old tell of first unions as a moment when a piece of the lover’s soul is captured, a gift to carry for a lifetime. Now, I may not be a poet, nor one for grand gestures, but my mother filled my bairnhood with enough ballads to make me believe in such things. And truth be told, I would be beyond honoured to carry a piece of you with me, onto the throne and unto my grave, and for you to hold my heart in return.’

Éorhild’s thoughts turned to the future, to the inevitable day when they would part, and the prospect tightened around her heart like a vice. As she beheld him in enamoured contemplation, a smile broke through, warm and steady.

If the old stories held any truth, then the only one to hold a fragment of her essence would be Éomer. There was no question. She knew it, and deep inside her bones, she had known it for a long time.

‘Then claim it.’

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

[agenericplaceholdername]

Dragons Rising S2 E6-10 Thoughts

This is the last post in the series! Maybe I’ll do these for Season 2 Part 2, maybe not. But either way, here’s some thoughts on the Dragons Rising, Season 2 midseason finale:

To Mysterium!:

Geo you might not be trained, but you and the Finders were holding your own against the Wolf Masks

This scene exists solely to advertise the sets (tbf the whole show is but this is super obvious)

In The Temple of the Dragon Cores Zane has a full map of the Merged realms; now he has nothing?

Lloyd tries to reassure Arin and just puts more pressure on him :(

Fun scene with Kai and Nya

Such incredible disguises

Orange Frohicky!

I’d buy a disco toaster

Why would a cloud be on a map? And why does poison affect Zane?

Why do you hate humans, Egalt? What happened in your past?

What do you mean trick map, Cole? Are maps that change by magic(?) commonplace?

Arin vs Lloyd is not fair

Egalt!

Jiro walking on two legs is kinda strange

Are these supposed to be the same people from Gangs of the Sea or just the same character models

Poor Arin

“Well, he is a professional actor”

Dorama’s humor has overstayed its welcome

“No self-respecting school allows the students to escape”

Purple imperium drones

I doubt that’ll be the end of Dorama, but honestly I’d be okay if it was

Fugitives from Madness:

Cole this monastery looks identical, just recolored

How did that mark get there? Are the monasteries linked somehow? What about when the Monastary was destroyed (multiple times)? Did that impact the Mysterium monastary

So is Gandalaria gonna explain everything about the Monastaries? Or who this “Sprite” is? (the answer is no)

Sora cmon he clearly didn’t go through the last pillar

“Stop being so hard on yourself” someone learned her lesson from last season

Already posted about the Egalt & Wyldfyre scene but it is SO GOOD

I get the desire to use the Zane/Cole/Bonzle/Gandalaria stuff as lighthearted stuff to contrast the emotional stuff in the A plot, but it feels like the episode just grinds to a halt when we cut to them

Still nice that Gandalaria accepts Bonzle

“You can never force the motion of the universe to bend to your will” I know a certain tiger who would disagree

Why is Gandalaria’s storehouse in a different realm? Not a plot hole, bc Gandalaria is totally the type of person to do something like that, but what was the thought process?

“Yes, nearly 9%!” 

I love the Countershot scene. Great music, great for Kai and Nya, sorta nostalgic

The Blood Moon rising is so ominous (also the moon does not rise this quickly, or over the whole planet at the same time)

Did the Forbidden Five place a curse on the Dragon Masters? Why do they turn to stone?

I love how the Administration, a society from an entirely different realm, uses the word “Nindroid,” invented by Jay

THEY IMPOUNDED JIRO?

The Administration is so goofy

The way Michael Adamthwaite says, “Told you” sounds like Jay

The Administration immediately vaporizes their own paperwork lol

Gandalaria is nuts

JAY??

So many great scenes this episode

Secrets of the Wyldness:

Wyldfyre pretended to be stone once? Assuming Kai tickled her out of it like Wyldfyre tries to do to the Dragon Masters?

Kai why don’t you try to do Rising Dragon now

Thank you Cole for yelling, “The Wyldness” even though that future never comes to pass so that the Ninja know where to go

Gandalaria, Janet’s got nothing on you

I mean if the Departed Realm is part of the Merged Realms, a dead man could still owe a fine

“I hereby demand your surrender.” “Uhh… no. Thank you.”

Jay’s lighting is both yellow and blue

And so ends Jay’s part in S2P1

Does this even count as a Zane fake out death? It lasts less than a minute

“We can’t give up until we find Bonzle” why would she be hard to find? She’s supposed to just be under the Monastery — where you told her to go

The Cloud Kingdom with the Blood Moon behind it is so ominous

Goodbye Jiro

Fortune telling tea is weak, Gandalaria needs to get some spirit smoke

There’s a strange effect on the Bounty crash scene, I guess it’s the effect of Theroxian magic

RIYU MY GOAT

“Instant doom” if you all down the cliff. Remember this

Kai, Wyldfyre, and Sora is such a fun trio, I’m glad we get them together for the next few episodes

Don’t worry Sora, that won’t be the last time the Bounty will be destroyed

Is Gandalaria’s magic similar to Clouse’s? Or Hazza D’ur’s?

Shoving people in a box is typically not the best course of action

“I’m a scientist,” says Jordana earlier this episode. By the end, she’s overpowering the High Sorceress of Mysterium’s magic. No wonder Theroxian was banned

Why would walking in the direction of the moon mean you’re heading to the ritual?

Good luck Arin and Riyu

The Forest of Spirits:

Ras flashback?? Poor guy

“We are the masters of our destiny now” he says this with such malice. The Writers get out alive because this is a kids show, but a different show would just have them executed

I don’t have a fear of heights but you’d better believe I’d develop one if I was falling to my death

Poor Lloyd

The crumbling Cloud Kingdom tower in Lloyd’s vision actually happened in Writers of Destiny (and I don’t think happens later)

Jordana, that's not very nice of you. 

So much is going on and then we have to waste time messing around in the mystical storehouse. Gandalaria isn’t even an unfunny character, but this bit just drags

Riyu flying has a great bit of music, looks awesome, and is just plain fun. Arin is so happy :)

Fun battle scene

Okay, remember before about the “instant doom” thing if you fall off the cliff? Well Sora just murdered someone

Arin is genuinely apologetic, but there was no need to mention you still don’t remember Jordana’s name

Bonzle and Arin are so funny together

Wait how did Jordana get this car — did Ras build it? Buy it?

Either the Ninja trained for a good amount of time or Wyldfyre just heals super quickly

“I’m always adorable”

The Shadow Dojo looks so cool

The first look at the Forbidden Five in the M. C. Escher- inspired Nether-Space is so cool

Ras, physical abuse does not lead to a good rating on Glassdoor

Such a heartbreaking scene for Arin (and cool one for Ras). Tells us a lot about both of them. And to be fair to Arin, he does last longer here and Ras has a weapon

Great ending to an overall solid episode

Rising Ninja:

Arin sees Lloyd and Nya as his parents im crying

Heating up metal while it’s touching someone sounds like an easy way to burn them

Great cut to intro

I doubt wearing the wolf masks when the Gong is hit impacts Sora, Wyldfyre, and Kai since you probably have to let your soul be shattered, while they’re fighting it

You didn’t accidentally do Rising Dragon, you were explicitly training to do it

Great one take

Is Nokt in charge of the Five? How’d they decide he goes first

Really am not commenting a lot here because the whole battle is just so much fun

“She’ll miss my sweet shatterspin”

You’ve rewatched this part dozens of times, I’m sure— Kai doing Rising Dragon and Lloyd v Ras is so awesome

Nokt looked cooler before he opened his eyes or removed the extra cloak

Even Euphrasia gets a big moment, although I don’t know how that seemingly limited amount of wind is enough

Nya unlocking Rising Dragon is cool

Why doesn’t Cinder attack Lloyd while he’s having visions?

Sora this was probably the right move, but not telling Arin… idk how that’ll go

Teleporting the entire Shadow Dojo is super powerful; Ras’ Master must be a big threat

“Did we win?” honestly a good question Arin- most of the 5 didn’t escape, but at what cost…

“Where are we?” Good question too Cinder

Did Nokt just trip? What happened?

Jordana???

Ras’ Master is def not happy

Bittersweet way to end S2P1, while leaving a lot of thing for Part 2 to build on and/or resolve

And that’s it! Overall, I’ve heavily enjoyed each installment of Ninjago: Dragons Rising, and am looking forward to rewatching Season 2 Part 2 for the second first time! If you’ve already seen it, make sure to watch it on a legal site so Lego knows there’s demand to keep this great series going.

[lovestruckelf]

Your Mother Loved You

Summary:

Legolas and his Mother, the Queen of Mirkwood, are attacked by a hoard of orcs during one of their strolls through the forest. The Queen does all she can to save her child but is hurt during the battle. Will Thranduil find his wife and son in time or will he fade away from a broken heart?

CHAPTER 1:

Since his mother’s passing from protecting her only child from the wrath of a hoard of oncoming orcs, Legolas’ heart has never fully healed from the loss. Especially as he felt responsible for her death, he was but a child when it happened, yet he remembers it as though it had occurred recently. The last time he saw his mother was during one of their many strolls in the Mirkwood forest, she hoisted his small child-like form up into a dense tree for safety as she felt the rumble of the orc’s footsteps within the ground around her. Her elven ears picked up on their vicious snarls and knew there was no time to run. Kissing her son’s forehead before helping him hide in the trees, she unsheathed a dagger from her right boot ready to fight to her last breath, taking down as many orcs as she could before a sword ran her through from behind. Upon hearing her gasp, Legolas gently moved a branch from his view to peer down at his dying mother who was now lying on the ground, struggling to breathe as the orc sword pierced one of her lungs. Looking up in the direction of her son, she saw him risking exposure to look upon her dying form and felt his tears fall upon her face as he watched her pass into the halls of Mandos.

Trying to withhold his sobs, Legolas gently let go of the branch he had moved aside and curled into a ball on the branch he was lying on. He was desperately trying to forget the sound his mother made upon being slain and the look in her eyes as she departed this world, leaving him and his father behind. When he could no longer hear the sound of orcs and was sure he was out of immediate danger, Legolas let out a series of heartbreaking sobs and tried to take several deep breaths in between to control his breathing which he was struggling to catch. Fear and grief overtook him and the wind whispering through the trees lulled him into a deep sleep.

He awoke to a distant sound he recognised instantly. Opening his eyes and looking up at the stars that shone upon him and his mother’s body below, Legolas determined that he had been asleep, escaping the horror of his new reality, for many hours. It explained why the familiar voice he could hear on the air was out here searching for him and his mother as this person rarely left the security of the palace. His father, Thranduil, the King of the Woodland Realm, was yelling out for his mother who would never hear his plead, never answer his call. Knowing this, Legolas tried to find the courage to yell out to his father himself. He filled his lungs and opened his mouth to scream for help, but nothing came out. The thought of his father finding his mother lifeless, on the ground covered in blood broke the young elf. He did not wish that on anyone, especially his father who he loved so much. No, he would not call out but instead allow his father a few moments more of ignorance before his heart and soul would inevitably break and shatter his world as it did his own.

It wasn’t long before another elf, one of the guards, tracked the orc’s footsteps and discovered the scene of the fight. Upon sighting the fallen Queen, the guard yelled for his King to come quickly. Thranduil heard the distress in his guard’s voice and ran quickly to reach him, eyes widened in fear when he looked upon his wife’s body. He ran to her lifeless form, fell to the ground, picked her up and cradled her in his arms, and desperately checked for any sign of life; a slight breath, a weakened pulse. The King found nothing except closed eyes that would never again look upon him with all the love in the world and blue lips that he would never again get to caress with his own. His wife, the Queen of Mirkwood, and the mother of his child had been slain. Stolen from him and his son. His son. Thranduil looked up from sobbing into his wife’s hair and remembered that Legolas had been with her during this time.

“My son! Find him now! Find Legolas and bring him to me. No one rests until he is home!” Thranduil’s voice ripped through the forest and his guards instantly dispersed in search of the prince. Fearing the worst, Thranduil still cradling his wife’s body, rocking back and forth looked up to the heavens with tears streaming down his face and whispered a prayer, “Please bring him home. Give him back to me with his soul intact or return his body so he may rest with her. Oh Valar, I beg of you. Let me find Legolas.” With these words and the realisation that his son may have also perished, Thranduil shut his eyes tight, folded his lips in between his teeth and bit them as more powerful sobs threatened to break through with the fear of not knowing if Legolas was alive or dead. While weeping over his deceased wife, he heard a voice above him. It was soft, filled with fear and sorrow, yet the word was unmistakable.

“Ada… Ada, I’m up here. Please help me”, the young elf prince managed to utter through his distress. Legolas had not dared look down upon his father when he heard him below. It was an image that he knew he would not be able to cope with or heal from. Instead, he waited for the right moment to call out to his father after the initial shock he knew the King would experience.

Thranduil’s head snapped up to look above him from where he thought he heard his son’s voice. Gently, he kissed the forehead of his dead wife before placing his left hand behind her head and his right over her left shoulder to reach behind her back as he slowly moved from beneath her body before lowering her down onto the cold forest floor. Standing up, he took a deep breath to withhold the sobs that wanted to escape him. Thranduil looked straight above him into the dense branches of the tree. He reached up and was just able to touch a few of the lower-hanging branches to push them aside. His breath caught in his throat and his heart momentarily stopped as he looked upon his young son who was still curled up on himself lying on his side, trembling, protected by the thickness of the tree which held him for most of the day. Releasing his breath and closing his eyes in relief as he hung his head down for a moment, Thranduil quietly thanked Valar for protecting his son and returning him to his side.

“Legolas. Ion nin. Oh, my precious son… will you come down to me?”, Thranduil gently asked as he reached up for his child. He felt the branches above him move and suddenly two little hands grasped his own as he stretched up to further his reach to catch his son. Legolas lightly fell into his father’s arms and felt the embrace around his small body tighten to the point of almost hurting. He felt his father’s legs give way and they both fell to the ground still in the safety of each other’s embrace. Thranduil pulled away slightly from Legolas to look at him, ensuring that no physical harm had come to his son. He looked into Legolas’ eyes and saw nothing but pain, loss, fear, and confusion. This was enough to send Thranduil over the edge and he was again sobbing as he pulled Legolas to his chest, holding him as though if he let go for a moment, he’d lose his son too. Legolas wasn’t able to hold back his own emotions any longer and violently cried into his father’s shoulder, desperately grasping the clothing on his back to anchor him in place in the safety of his father’s lap.

“Adar, she’s gone. Nana is gone, isn’t she?” Legolas whispered.

Grasping the back of his son’s head to hold him tightly and placing his cheek on the side of his face, Thranduil responded through his tears, “She has gone to the halls of Mandos.”

Trembling from hearing the confirmation spoken out-loud, Legolas tried looking up at his father, “It’s my fault, Adar. It’s my fault she got killed. I should have helped. I have some training that could have helped her face the orcs but she hid me up in the tree instead. She’s dead and it’s all my fault!”. The prince upon making this declaration started hyperventilating from the shock and reality of the situation. As he spoke the words, the sounds of his mother fighting the orcs returned to his mind. The gasp she made as her life was taken. The fear in her eyes as she passed from this world plagued his mind. Suddenly, he felt his father’s hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“Legolas, you hear me now. Your mother did the only thing she could do in that situation. She protected you. She put you out of harm's way and by doing so, gave herself the best chance possible. She could not have fought as she did with the worry for you in battle also on her mind. By hiding you in this tree, she gave you both the best chance she could, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Yes, she is gone but she ensured that you would be alive. My son, nothing of this is or will ever be your fault. Don’t you ever think about diminishing her sacrifice as a mother by putting blame onto yourself. She performed admirably and must be honored as such. Do you hear me? Your mother loved you. More than anything. More than life”. Thranduil searched his son’s eyes for understanding before gently placing his forehead against Legolas’ and helping to regulate their breathing.

Hearing footsteps of his guards approach, Thranduil brought his son close to his chest once more. He glanced up to see his captain, Feren, looking upon him with Legolas in his arms. “My Lord, I heard you speaking during our search for the prince. I came to check upon the situation and am relieved you found him alive.” Legolas would not look up at the guard out of fear of glancing at his mother’s body. He kept his head in his father’s chest as he listened to the conversation. “Recall your company”, Thranduil said. “Let us return to the safety of the palace before the sun rises. My son needs rest”. Feren sounded the horn, alerting the remaining guards still searching for the prince to return to him where he stood next to Thranduil.

“My Lord, the Queen. Would you have us carry her back? It would be my honor through my deep sorrow that is coursing through my heart”, Feren asked hesitantly.

Thranduil felt Legolas’ grip tighten at Feren’s words and his small body began to sob once again. Gently caressing his son’s hair and slowly rocking his child in his embrace to help soothe him, Thranduil responded, “Thank you, Feren. Please. Take care with her. I will see her at the palace in the healer’s quarters on the morrow. Tonight my son needs me as I need him.” With that, whilst cradling his child, Thranduil rose from the ground and proceeded to walk towards the safety of his home. He shielded Legolas’ vision from the view of his wife while he whispered his goodbye to her on his way past, “Sleep well, my love. For we shall meet again in the halls of Mandos. Rest now and await my arrival”. Legolas listened to his father’s words not fully understanding their meaning. What did he mean they shall meet again? Was it possible?

As these questions entered Legolas’ mind, he found himself quickly being lulled to sleep by the gentle swaying of his father’s walking pace as they made their way home. With his head resting against the King’s shoulder and arms cast around and linked behind his neck, Thranduil felt his son’s body grow heavy and he knew Legolas had fallen asleep in his arms. During the walk back home whilst carrying his sleeping son, Thranduil allowed a few more silent tears to escape down his face. “You're safe, ion nin.”, Thranduil whispered, “No harm shall come to you for as long as I draw breath. You are loved beyond measure, and I shall do all within my power to help you heal from the horrors of this day.”. He kissed the top of his son’s head. “I promise, my love, your sacrifice will not be in vain. I shall protect him as you did.” Thranduil said as he looked to the stars.

It was a promise that was heard all the way to the halls of Mandos as a gust of wind embraced the two grieving elves. At that moment, Thranduil closed his eyes briefly and acknowledged the response. He knew his Queen was ok and still looking out for their son. He felt it within the forest and himself as he opened his eyes again and saw the outline of the entrance to his kingdom.

[stiltonbasket]

for whenever you feel like: wrh raises wwx au continuation?❤️ i already love it!!

"You cannot send your son to war."

It is the first time Lan Wangji has spoken in days. He retreated from the Wei-fu's main compound nearly a fortnight previously, filled with mingled dread and fury when he heard that Wei Ying's son would be riding to battle—and in all that time, Wei Ying did not once attempt to have the conscription order rescinded.

Perhaps he knew the effort would be fruitless. Wen Ruohan valued Wei Ying above his own sons, before he was wounded—for otherwise, he would have never carved those wretched compulsion sigils into Wei Ying's skin—but Wen Yuan was worth nothing more to him than the guest cultivators who were sent out to perish by the hundreds during the second year of the war, because he did not share Wei Ying's blood.

His father's training went only so far, Xiao Liuzi had said, when Lan Wangji first came to the Wei-fu as a concubine. Young Master Yuan has no rival for talent among the other boys of his age, and Lady Wen says that he is the very picture of Xinhua-jiangjun as a youth—but there is something about the lord's cultivation that came from his mother, the one who came down from Baoshan Sanren's mountain, and the little master does not have it. That is the power Wen Ruohan most desires in a right-hand, and so the little master is useless to him.

Wei Ying was as useful as a flesh-and-blood right hand to Wen Ruohan, even injured, but not useful enough to be kept truly happy. He had been showered in riches for the past two decades, denied no treasure that could be obtained by gold or human toil; but he had few dear ones that Wen Ruohan could not touch, let alone any assurance that his family in the Nightless City would be kept safe if he were to fail his master—and if the sigils on his back had not prevented him from doing so, he would have taken his own life in misery long before he came of age, hoping that his death would permit the infant Wen Yuan to pass out of Wen Ruohan's notice for ever.

I wish he had not told me that, Lan Wangji thinks painfully, recalling the night his beloved drank himself sick on spoiled wine and confessed the truth of his long years of service to the tyrant who lived in the Sun Palace. I can do nothing for him, and now there is nothing left but empty hope for the both of us.

For his part, Lan Wangji suffers no delusions about Wen Sizhui's ability in war. While night-hunting, he could rival Xichen at his strongest, in the years before he commenced work on the great warding seals that protect Gusu and the Unclean Realm; but A-Yuan cannot bear to stand helpless in the face of pain, whether his disciple siblings' or the pain of some little creature that crossed his path on his travels, and bearing witness to the unending agony of war will dull A-Yuan's wits and strength to the point where they might well abandon him entirely.

"You cannot send him," Lan Wangji repeats now, folding one hand over Wei Ying's shoulder. "Let him ride out with the others, if you must. But surely he can leave his regiment under cover of night and escape, long before he reaches Qinghe. He is your son—he could easily find a way to depart without being noticed, and then—"

"Where would he go, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying asks, turning around to face him. "If he deserts his regiment, the way home will be barred to him forever. If he ever dared to come back, he would be executed as a traitor after Wen Ruohan came to hear of it, and perhaps tortured for days before that. If I must lose him, I would rather he meet a quick end in battle than a terrible one in the torturing chambers."

Lan Wangji says nothing.

"You came out of the xingtang yourself," Wei Ying says dully. "You know Yuan'er would never survive it."

His gaze flickers down towards Lan Wangji's legs, as if he could look right through the thick silk of his trousers and down upon the knotted scars beneath them; and then he turns his face up to the ceiling and stands without moving for a long, long while.

"How dear is he to you?" he says at last. "A-Yuan, I mean."

"Dearer than life."

The confession falls from his lips easily. When Lan Wangji first entered the Wei-fu, he was prepared to kill his way out of it with the stone splinter he tore from the dungeon walls, if necessary—but on the wedding night, A-Yuan stole into the bridal chamber while Wei Ying slept, carrying ointment and bandages for Lan Wangji's shattered legs, and treated his injuries as skillfully as his aunt Wen Qing might have done.

"I doubt Wen Ruohan will be pleased to hear of this," Lan Wangji had rasped, stunned almost speechless by the small, deft hands flying over the deep gouges in his ankles. "Go back to bed, xiao-gongzi. Wen Ruohan ordered me here to humiliate your father, not to serve as a companion to him. What do you think he will do if he finds that someone from Xinhua-jiangjun's household dressed my wounds?"

"You're here to serve as a reminder to my Uncle Yu, actually," A-Yuan muttered. "He's Fuqin's favorite concubine, and Wen-zongzhu sent you here to punish him. He thinks Yu-shushu should have died in battle before he allowed any harm to come to my A-Die."

With that, A-Yuan finished tying off the bandages and departed; and brief though the treatment had been, it permitted Lan Wangji to ignore the fire in his bones for long enough to have a full night's rest.

The wounds are nothing more than scars now, and the full function of Lan Wangji's legs has long since been restored. He could take A-Yuan and flee from the Nightless City this very night, if he tried—but Wei Ying would be forced to stop them, no matter how desperately he wished to let them go, and then...

"Forgive me," Lan Wangji murmurs. "Good night, Wei Ying."

He spends the night tossing and turning in his bed, his thoughts lingering over the bed in the next room where Wei Ying is asleep with A-Yuan in his arms; and then, almost before he knows it, the hour of Wen Yuan's departure is upon them.

The day dawns much like any other, in a riotous storm of red and gold that falls over the Wei-fu like a blanket. Wei Ying rises early and sends the servants away, insisting that no one aside from himself should serve A-Yuan on his leaving-day; and when Lan Wangji sees the boy next, he is riding at the head of Wei Ying's old regiment, three paces behind the general who replaced his father after Lan Wangji was taken captive.

Lan Wangji reaches out and takes Wei Ying's hand.

"He will return," he vows. "Your brothers in arms love him as their own. With them close by, A-Yuan will come to no harm."

But Wei Ying's fingers do not squeeze Lan Wangji's hands in turn; and when he meets his husband's empty eyes, he knows that some part of Wei Ying's spirit has given up all hope of seeing Wen Yuan again.

[meimostar]

Hiya there! Hopefully tumblr doesn't eat this ask😭

So technically; Lovesick

Y/N Cookie reunites with their long-distanced childhood friend, hangs out with them more, and then it makes the other cookies they've known jealous of the amount of attention received

cookies of your choice btw :3

Your request has been passed through the fog.

Cookie writing to day is 'Knight Cookie'

Far ago, you met a cookie at your age in your humble village before anything could happen. He was courageous and kind to other even if it's slightly selfless in its own right, he have good intentions as a child would have but you couldn't help the thought theres more with how close you two gotten in a short amount of time with the cookie. Whenever you're down, he would be the first to contact you and cheer you from the feeling of sadness, when theres something off. He would be the one who notice it immediately. It felt like two children being so close and the concept of 'love' was something foreign to you and them.

It was a sweet little childhood and a distant memory you would recall everytime a bad day would occur, wishing that cookie came back and continue living beside you. Its wishfull thinking, but you couldn't help but get reminded of the cookie everytime. He was there when you're down at you're lowest, when the dragon took both of your homes in the sea of fire and seizes to exiet from earth realm. You lost some friends, some family but he also lost them. You've found comfort in the cookie and sympahtize, you wished you could turn back time for a moment and met them again.

" i'm.. going to be a knight, to Holyberry castle." Those words of departure, it was a shocking revalation. " I'll defeat the red dragon, i promise." You don't care about the creature that destroyed you're home, you just hoped he is in good health. " please.. don't cry, i'll come back. I promise." A promise yet he didn't came, you wait everyday at the village gates if he came back. Always everytime with a gift that you could hope he would come.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Waiting...

Its been how many years? He departed when you two were pre-teens. Young enough to be a disciple of the knights, you pray every night that wherever he goes that he is safe from any upcoming danger.. he should've been married now, with a wife or husband and a dog. You've talked to him if he plans to get married some day if their gotten older, he always response the same.

'I want to marry you.'

A cute one, the way he immediately says it with no hesitance and the way he brightened up at your chuckle. You wonder if he even remember it, you look at the photo beside your bed ontop of a drawer.

It's a photo of you and knight. Smiling, it was an old photo albeit abit burnt but it still usable. You wonder if he remembers you. You look at the poster you have on your hand, a poster of a parade for princess cookie happening on Holyberry kingdom. A march across the kingdom to show victory of a recent knight recruits.

You've been catching up with some news of the Holyberry kingdom for some time, it was pricey since the village you're living in isn't too well off but it does the job. Your planning to come to the parade, perhaps knight is in there too?.

You sighed with an unknown expression on your face, putting the poster aside as you fall asleep on your bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day for you.

.

.

.

Today, you woke up earlier than you usually do. Brushing your teeth, took a quick shower and looking your best. You glance at the poster ontop of your drawer as you remind yourself that it's for him. You want to see him after all these years of seperation, perhaps you still have a chance?.. its only a wishful possibility as you look at yourself in the mirror before taking off to the Holyberry kingdom.

As expected of the rich fruity kingdom filled with merchants and nobles trading their supply for something even more better. Ladies and gentleman chatting and bickering before the bell chimes on signalling that the parade about to start. You overheard some of the ladies talking about the knight and a princess being best friends or even more than friends. It tugs at your heart as you try to digest the implications of the words that they said.

You walk aimlessly at the crowd before another chime rolls around, signalling the parade is beginning. The large castle doors swung open slowly as carriages and knights lined, walking as well as marching bands with trumpets, drums and plenty of entertainment lined. You can hear the music, confetti falling and the excitement of people shouting with joy.

One perticular carriage caught your eye, it embedded a sigil, specifically. The Royal Sigil, you kept your eye on it as you squish yourself through the crowd to the front as you saw him. Knight with the princess as tears swell up in your eyes, smiling as you finally saw how grown he has been. He seemed more mature now, not cute like the past childhood you have.

You waved at him, hoping he would see as you two caught eye contact. The world felt slow down as the only thing you could focus on is knight.

"... [Name]?"

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Thank you for reading, there will be a part 2 for knights P.O.V and the ending.