#source: broken sword the sleeping dragon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kckt88 · 8 months ago

Text

Fracture.

Summary:

After taking Harrenhal, Aemond is haunted by his past sins.

Warning(s): Angst, Swearing, Drama, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex, (F Recieving), Loss of Virginity, P in V, Visions, Torment, Despair, Aemond POV, BAMF Alys Rivers, Ending Open to Interpretation/Ambiguous.

AEMOND x O.C

Word Count: 9870

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Prince Aemond Targaryen lay in a dilapidated bed within the blackened ruins of Harrenhal, the once-mighty castle now a testament to fire and war.

The room around him was in disrepair, with crumbling stone walls, broken windows that allowed the cold, damp air to seep in, and a ceiling that leaked, letting the rain pour in rhythmically.

Aemond's one good eye stared up at the ceiling, his mind replaying the events that recently transpired.

He and his men, including Ser Criston Cole, had ridden into Harrenhal with expectations of battle, ready to face his uncle Daemon.

But the castle had been deserted, save for a few trembling inhabitants too frightened to flee.

Initially, they had celebrated their bloodless victory, mocking Daemon as a coward who had fled before the might of the Greens.

But the victory was hollow.

News had soon arrived that King's Landing had fallen to the Blacks, and Rhaenyra now sat on the Iron Throne, his mother and sweet sister taken as hostages.

Daemon, far from being a coward, had outmanoeuvred him, drawing Aemond to Harrenhal while the real prize slipped away.

The realization had been a bitter one, and now Aemond lay in the ruins of a castle that was as broken as his plans.

The rain poured harder, as if the gods themselves were mocking him. Every drop that struck the stone was a reminder of his failure, of how his uncle had outsmarted him.

Anger seethed within him, a fire that threatened to consume him from the inside. He was trapped in Harrenhal, far from King's Landing, with little choice but to regroup and try to salvage what remained of the Greens' cause.

Aemond clenched his fists, the anger fuelling his resolve. He would not be beaten, not by Daemon, not by anyone.

As the rain continued to pour, Aemond began to form new plans, his mind racing with possibilities.

But for now, all he could do was listen to the rain and wait.

Aemond tossed and turned in the tattered bed, sleep evading him as his mind churned with anger and frustration.

The rain outside had grown heavier, its pounding relentless against the ruined walls of Harrenhal.

Suddenly, in the midst of his restlessness, Aemond noticed a shadow pass by the closed door of his chamber.

Who could be prowling the halls of Harrenhal at this hour? He rose from the bed and reached for his sword, unsheathing it silently.

Moving with the stealth of a hunter, he approached the door and slowly pushed it open, peering into the dimly lit corridor.

The hallway was empty, but he could hear the faint sound of footsteps echoing through the stone passages.

Determined to uncover the source, Aemond stepped out, following the elusive sound. The rain hammered against the castle even harder now.

The flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows as he crept forward, every muscle coiled and ready to strike.

He turned a corner and saw a shadowy figure slip into a room at the end of the hall. With a narrowed eye, Aemond quickened his pace, his grip on the sword tightening.

He reached the door, hesitating only for a moment before pushing it open and stepping inside.

The room was small and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something faintly metallic.

Before him stood a woman, the very one he had spared when he first took Harrenhal. She moved calmly, busying herself with adding ingredients into a bowl as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

"It's a touch late to be stalking about a strange castle putting its people to the sword," she said, not even looking up from her work.

Aemond’s sword flashed as he pointed it at her, his voice cold and sharp. "You—"

She turned to face him, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I'm Alys."

Aemond's eye narrowed as he assessed her. "Strong?" he demanded.

"No. Rivers," she replied evenly.

His sneer was immediate. "A bastard."

Alys only smiled wider, her gaze steady and unperturbed. "Once you get to know me, you'll find that I'm not so bad."

Aemond scoffed at her audacity. "What are you, a maester?"

She smiled again, a sly, knowing expression. "In a manner of speaking. I took on the duties after the last one fled."

Aemond circled the room slowly, his sword still held at the ready. "Why?"

Alys shrugged lightly, still focused on her task. "He just never settled in."

Aemond watched her intently, the tension in the room thickening as the rain drummed louder against the stone.

He was caught off guard by her calm demeanour, her unflinching presence in the face of his hostility.

There was something about her that unsettled him, though he couldn’t place what it was.

"How are you settling in, my Prince?" Alys asked suddenly, her voice smooth and knowing. "I've come to know the face of tortured rest well enough. Sleep can be thin in this place." She began mixing the ingredients in the bowl, the sound of the pestle grinding against the mortar echoing in the small room.

Aemond bristled at her observation. "What would you know of my sleep?"

Without missing a beat, Alys took a lumpy red substance and tossed it into the bowl. "Harrenhal has been cursed since its first stone was laid," she said, her voice taking on a slightly ominous tone.

She licked the red substance from her fingers, her eyes never leaving Aemond's. "Black Harren felled a grove of weirwood trees that grew on these lands, with heart trees imbued with the spirits of those who lived long before he came. It’s said their whispers can still be heard sometimes."

Aemond scoffed, his scepticism clear. "Ridiculous."

Alys only smiled, her expression inscrutable as she continued her work, the eerie atmosphere in the room growing thicker with every passing moment.

Alys looked up from her work, her gaze steady as she spoke. "The very bed you sleep in was made from such a heart tree; you know. Its whispers are likely what keep you from finding rest."

Aemond frowned, his eye narrowing. "You are a very strange kind of woman."

Alys giggled softly, a sound that echoed eerily in the small room. "I’m no woman at all, my Prince. I’m a barn owl cursed to live in human form."

Aemond curled his lips in disdain at her strange words, turning to leave the room.

But before he could step out, Alys’s voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks.

"Your hands will never be clean of the blood you’ve spilled, all for the sake of a debt that you once claimed was worth the eye you lost when you gained your dragon."

Aemond froze, his heart skipping a beat. "What did you say?"

Alys turned her eyes on him, her expression grave. "It was not your niece’s debt to pay, yet you claimed it so and took her maidenhead. Your thirst for vengeance then claimed its next victim in the skies above Storm's End—a nephew's life taken in rage. And that, in turn, led to the loss of your other nephew, a son for a son. And then there was your brother, burned and maimed for life by your command."

Aemond's face twisted in anger, his voice low and dangerous. "Do not try me with your insolence, witch."

Alys didn’t flinch, continuing as if she hadn’t heard his threat. "You don’t realize what you’ve lost. Things could have been so different."

He scoffed, turning his back on her, but her next words hit their mark.

"Even now, you think of her—of what might have been had you not been so cruel."

Aemond paused, his breath catching in his throat. The truth of her words unsettled him, stirring memories he had tried to bury.

He turned to see Alys pouring the contents of the bowl into a cup, the mixture dark and steaming. She held it out to him, her expression calm and knowing.

"Here, drink this," she said softly. "You’ll need your sleep if you are to right the wrongs you have committed."

Aemond hesitated, his pride warring with the growing sense of unease she had planted in his heart.

But something in her gaze—something ancient and wise—compelled him to reach out and take the cup. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, the liquid bitter on his tongue.

Aemond found himself adrift in a dreamlike state, his surroundings shifting and warping until he was no longer in the ruins of Harrenhal but back within the familiar walls of the Red Keep.

He was disoriented, as if he were both present and not, a ghost in his own memories. The hallways of the castle were dimly lit by flickering torches, and the echoes of distant footsteps reverberated through the stone corridors.

As he walked, his body moved with a purpose that was not entirely his own, as if some unseen force was guiding him.

He knew where he was going, even before the door appeared before him, the door to the chambers Lucella had been given during her stay at the Red Keep.

After the fight at the dinner, he had followed her that night, unable to banish her image from his thoughts.

She had been so beautiful, so enchanting, and yet he had convinced himself that she was nothing more than an opportunity—a chance to exact a twisted form of vengeance for what her bastard brother had done to him.

As he approached the door, he felt the weight of his own guilt and desire pressing down on him, but he had pushed those feelings aside at the time, replacing them with cold calculation.

The door creaked open as he stepped inside, and there she was, just as he remembered.

Lucella stood by the window, her back to him. She had turned when she heard him enter, her eyes wide with surprise and something else—hope, perhaps? He had seen it then, but he had refused to acknowledge it.

In this strange, almost out-of-body experience, Aemond watched himself move toward her, watched the way his younger self’s eyes had lingered on her, drinking in every detail.

She was so vulnerable, so trusting, and he had taken advantage of that.

"You shouldn’t be here, Uncle" she had whispered, her voice trembling.

He had ignored her words, stepping closer until he was right in front of her.

His hand had reached out, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear, and he had marvelled at how soft it was, how perfect she was.

Even when he was a child, he had always thought she was beautiful.

But he had steeled himself, reminding himself of why he was there.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, the kiss searing and insistent.

Lucella pulled away, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and desire. But the intensity of his kiss, had been too much to resist.

With a soft moan, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately.

Aemond’s hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, his kisses growing more fervent.

His hands roaming over Lucella’s back as he slowly backed them towards the bed.

Their lips never parting; each kiss more heated than the last. Lucella breath hitched as she felt his long fingers deftly begin to untie the laces of her dress.

As the laces came undone, Aemond's hands brushed against her bare skin. Lucella shivered at his touch, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Aemond smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened his usual intensity.

His hands moved with purpose, sliding the dress from her shoulders and down her body, exposing her skin to the cool air.

Lucella’s hands found their way to Aemond’s own clothing, eager to remove the barriers between them.

Once she had removed the out layers of his clothing, her fingers explored the hard planes of his chest and abdomen.

Aemond groaned softly at her touch, his lips trailing down her neck as he laid her back against the soft sheets.

Aemond positioned himself above her, his expression a mixture of desire and determination.

Lucella’s breath caught in her throat as she gently cupped his face with her hands. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of his scar.

Slowly, she slipped off his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire he had placed where his eye once was.

With tenderness, Lucella leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred cheek.

She felt Aemond’s sharp intake of breath, a moment of pure vulnerability passing between them.

Her fingers moved to the tie that bound his long, silver hair. With a gentle tug, she undid it, and his hair cascaded down, framing his chiselled face.

“So beautiful,” whispered Lucella, her voice filled with affection.

Aemond’s gaze softened, the fierce intensity giving way to something more tender, more real.

“My sweetest-” whispered Aemond as he pulled away and descended down her body, kissing and nipping at her skin as he went.

A strange feeling of familiarity lingered within his mind. Almost like they'd done this dance a thousand times before.

“W-What are you doing?” asked Lucella shyly.

“I want to kiss you-here” replied Aemond as he pressed forward and ran his tongue over her warm wet folds.

She bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to slowly tease her entrance.

“None of that. I want to hear how good I make you feel” growled Aemond as he began moving his tongue against her, in rhythm with his fingers.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Lucella, as she writhed against the sheets.

“That’s it-such a good girl for me” growled Aemond.

“OH-” whimpered Lucella, as Aemond continued to move his tongue and fingers over her centre.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Lucella arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond slowly crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Lucella blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself issa zaldrīzes” muttered Aemond, as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth, sucking off her slick. (My dragon).

“W-What are you doing?” asked Lucella as Aemond’s hand slid down her body and began teasing her folds.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Lucella.

“You are a maiden-” replied Aemond.

“Aemond” exclaimed Lucella as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Lucella’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“So warm-so wet for me” rasped Aemond, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Lucella.

Aemond removed his fingers and then moved between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

Lucella shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

Aemond leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, his tongue catching her fallen tears.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Lucella sighed in relief.

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Lucella her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster”

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Lucella.

“Your perfect-” whispered Aemond.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Lucella.

“Lucy-my Lucy” moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“-I-I f-feel-” whimpered Lucella.

“-Let it happen-my sweetest, peak for me” exclaimed Aemond.

“ OH- ”

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and slowly began rubbing her pearl.

“ AEMOND ” screamed Lucella’s her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

“Fuck-” groaned Aemond as he felt the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-Aemond” whimpered Lucella.

“Lucy-” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled rope after rope of his seed.

Aemond watched the scene, the bile rising in his throat, he knew what was coming.

He would pull his softened cock from her and redress himself with all the haste he could muster.

The sound of her sweet shaky voice asking him to stay was like a knife to the heart.

He watched himself hesitate, that inner conflict, he remembered it well.

Torn between staying or following through on his plan.

In the end, he chose the latter.

He convinced himself that this was justice, that she was nothing to him.

But the truth had been far more complicated. He had wanted her—truly wanted her. The fire that had burned within him that night was not born of anger or revenge, but of a deep, undeniable desire.

Even as he took her, he knew that she meant more to him than he could admit.

But he had buried those feelings, locking them away beneath layers of pride and pain.

He had told her she meant nothing, that she was just a means to an end, that he had taken her maidens blood in exchange for the eye he lost, but even now, in this strange half-dream, half-memory, he knew he had lied.

Then he had left her there, discarded her with her maidens blood and his seed between her thighs.

Her sobs had haunted him as he walked away, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him like a physical burden.

Aemond watched as his younger self walked out of the room, leaving Lucella behind. He wanted to scream, to reach out and stop himself, to tell her the truth—that she had meant something to him, that she had always meant something.

But he was trapped in this memory, unable to change what had already been done.

The memory began to fade, the walls of the Red Keep dissolving around him as the darkness closed in.

Aemond was left with the echo of his own voice in his mind, the cruel, cold words he had spoken, and the knowledge that he had lost something precious that night—something he could never get back.

Aemond sat at the head of the table, the once-grand hall of Harrenhal a shadow of its former self, much like his own fraying composure.

Ser Criston Cole spoke with authority, laying out plans for their next move. His voice was calm, confident, as he detailed a potential assault on the small town of Drarry.

The town’s levies could bolster their dwindling forces, he reasoned. It was a sound strategy, one that should have commanded Aemond's full attention.

But Aemond wasn’t listening. His mind drifted, the words swirling around him like the incessant rain outside, distant and meaningless.

His attention was instead captured by the young boy serving wine, a boy who shouldn’t—couldn’t—be there. It was Lucerys.

Aemond's heart pounded as he stared, unblinking, at the boy. The youthful, innocent face he had once known approached him, but something was horribly wrong.

Luke’s visage began to warp and twist, the fresh, unmarred skin turning a sickly grey, decaying before Aemond’s eyes. His eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets; his flesh rotted away to reveal bone.

Deep, jagged gashes crisscrossed his body, and parts of him were simply missing—his left arm gone, his torso a ghastly open wound.

"Wine, Your Grace?" Luke rasped, his voice a nightmarish croak as water and bile spilled from his mouth.

Aemond lurched from his seat. The occupants of the table stared at him, confusion and alarm evident in their expressions.

Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the sudden silence, sharp with concern.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?"

Aemond’s breathing was ragged, his eye wild as he pointed toward the abomination before him. "Can’t you see him?"

Criston exchanged worried glances with the other men at the table. "See who?"

Aemond’s words died in his throat as he turned back to where the twisted figure of Luke had stood.

But instead of the grotesque apparition, there was now only an older, grey-haired woman, her movements slow and deliberate as she poured the wine.

Her face was lined with age, her expression calm, as if nothing had happened. The room around Aemond felt suddenly too small, the air thick and suffocating.

His breath hitched as he glanced back at Ser Criston, who was watching him with deepening concern.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" Criston repeated, his voice softer this time, as though speaking to a man on the edge.

Aemond forced himself to nod, swallowing hard against the bile that rose in his throat. He tried to focus on the words still being spoken around the table, tried to ground himself in the reality of their situation, but his mind was spinning, unable to shake what he had just seen.

He reached for the cup in front of him, his hand trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. The bitter taste of the wine lingered on his tongue, sharp and acrid, but it did little to steady his nerves.

His thoughts were a tangled web of anger, fear, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name.

Aemond sat slumped in a chair before the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across the worn stone walls of Harrenhal.

His head hung low, cradled in his hands, the weight of the past days pressing heavily upon him.

He felt disconnected, as though the world around him had become a blur, the edges of reality fraying like the tattered banners that hung in the desolate castle.

With a sigh, he pulled off his eyepatch, exposing the sapphire that gleamed coldly in the firelight. The socket where his eye had once been throbbed with a dull ache.

He took a slow sip of wine, hoping the liquid might numb the gnawing unease that had settled in his chest.

But then, a sound pierced through the haze that enveloped him—a soft, mournful weeping.

The sound was faint, distant, but unmistakable. He set the cup down, the echo of its base clinking against the table, and reached for his sword.

The cold steel felt reassuring in his grip as he rose from the chair, the fire at his back now casting long, dancing shadows along the walls.

He moved through the darkened corridors of Harrenhal, the sound of weeping guiding him like a beacon through the gloom.

The castle was silent save for the rain still pounding against the stones outside, but the weeping cut through it all, a sorrowful melody that pulled him deeper into the bowels of the keep.

Aemond paused in front of a closed door, the source of the weeping just beyond. He hesitated for a moment, his pulse thrumming in his ears, before pushing the door open with a slow creak.

Suddenly, the world around him shifted, the cold, crumbling walls of Harrenhal melting away to be replaced by something entirely different.

He blinked, disoriented, as he found himself standing in a chamber unfamiliar yet unmistakable. The walls were adorned with carved dragons, their serpentine forms etched into the stone, and the distant roars of dragons echoed through the air.

The air here was warm, heavy with the scent of salt and ash. It dawned on him with a start—this was Dragonstone.

The weeping grew louder, more desperate, and Aemond’s breath hitched as he moved further into the room.

On the bed, shrouded in shadow and sorrow, was Lucella. She was huddled against her mother, Rhaenyra, who held her tightly, stroking her hair in a futile attempt to soothe her daughter’s anguish.

Lucella’s sobs were gut-wrenching, her small frame shaking with the force of her grief. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, a mix of confusion and dread rising within him.

He took a step forward, the sword in his hand now feeling alien, almost wrong, in this place.

His gaze locked onto Lucella, her face buried in Rhaenyra’s shoulder, her tears soaking her gown.

Aemond’s grip tightened on his sword, his knuckles white, but he felt powerless, a mere spectator in this twisted dream. His mouth opened to speak, to say something—anything—but no words came.

He was paralyzed by the weight of his own guilt, the sight of Lucella’s broken form etched into his mind

Aemond stood at the foot of the bed, his presence unnoticed by the two women.

The air was thick with tension, the only sounds in the room the soft crackling of the fire and Lucella’s quiet sobs.

"On the night of the petition for Driftmark-" Lucella whispered, her voice trembling as she confessed the truth that weighed so heavily on her. "Aemond, came to my chambers, and he took my maidenhead-"

Rhaenyra's grip on her daughter tightened, her knuckles white as she struggled to contain the fury simmering just beneath the surface. "Did he force himself on you?"

Lucella shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No, Mother, he didn’t force me. He whispered sweet words and when he touched me, it was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. He was gentle, he made me feel good" Her voice faltered, a wistful note creeping in as she remembered that night, her words tinged with a sadness that pierced through Aemond like a dagger.

“Lucella-” whispered Rhaenyra softly.

"But when it was over," Lucella continued, her voice breaking, "He discarded me. Like I was nothing. He said that I was a means to an end, that my maidens blood was an exchange for the eye he lost"

Rhaenyra's expression darkened, her eyes burning with cold, calculated fury. "He took advantage of you and he will pay for it," she swore, her voice low and dangerous. "For what he has done to you, for what he did to Lucerys. I swear it. He will pay”

Aemond felt the weight of her words like a noose tightening around his neck. This was his fault—he had done this.

He had shattered Lucella’s trust, her innocence, and now, as he stood there, he was faced with the unbearable consequences of his cruelty. He had thought himself in control, convinced that this was justice, but now, watching the devastation he had wrought, he realized how terribly wrong he had been.

But then, Lucella spoke again, her voice trembling with something deeper, something that sent a cold chill down Aemond’s spine.

“Mother-forgive me” she began, her breath hitching, “His seed, it took root. I carry his child inside me.”

The room fell deathly silent, the air thick with the weight of her words. Aemond’s heart stopped, his mind reeling as he stared at Lucella, unable to process what she had just said.

A child. His child.

Rhaenyra’s reaction was immediate. Horror and disbelief flashed across her face as she pulled Lucella even closer, as if trying to shield her from the harsh reality of the situation.

"No-" she whispered, her voice breaking.

Lucella nodded, her tears flowing freely. “It’s true, Mother. I carry his child.”

Aemond’s knees felt weak, his body trembling as the full weight of his actions crashed down upon him.

He had not only destroyed Lucella’s innocence but had also left her with a child—a child that would bear the burden of his sins.

"Do you wish to keep the child?" Rhaenyra's voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of urgency, of desperate concern.

Lucella hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "The child is innocent of their father's sins," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I cannot condemn them for what he has done. This is my child, Mother”

Rhaenyra’s heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow. She held Lucella close, pressing a kiss to her forehead, her mind already racing to find a way to protect her daughter and the innocent life she now carried.

"You are strong, my sweet girl," she murmured. "But for your safety, and that of the child, we must keep the identity of the father a secret—at least for now. No one can know that the child belongs to Aemond”

Lucella nodded again, understanding the gravity of her mother's words.

The war had already torn their family apart, and the truth of her child's lineage could ignite a blaze that would consume them all.

"You will go to the Vale along with Aegon and Viserys, to stay with Lady Jeyne Arryn” said Rhaenyra, her voice firm with determination

Lucella's eyes widened slightly at the mention of her younger brothers. "Aegon and Viserys?"

Rhaenyra nodded. "Yes, they will go with you as will your dragon Silverwing. You will be well cared for in the Vale, but you must remain far from this war. Jacaerys has informed me that Lord Cregan Stark has agreed to take your hand in marriage, of course you being with child does complicate things, and I understand if you do not wish to follow through with the marriage-”

“What man would take a woman as his wife whilst she carries another man’s child” asked Lucella quietly.

“An honourable one-but it’s your choice my sweet girl, I will not force you” said Rhaenyra.

“I support my Queen, and I will consider the marriage”

Rhaenyra hugged her daughter tightly, as if trying to imprint this moment into her memory. "You are so brave, my love, I was truly blessed the day you were born"

As the embrace lingered, Aemond, still standing at the foot of the bed, felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to Lucella, to tell her that he had not meant for things to turn out this way.

But when he extended his hand, it was as if an invisible barrier prevented him from touching her.

He tried to call out to her, but his voice was lost in the void, drowned out by the increasing darkness that surrounded him.

The room, Rhaenyra, and Lucella began to fade, their voices becoming distant, muffled.

Panic surged through Aemond as he fought against the encroaching blackness, desperate to hold onto the last vestiges of the vision.

And then, in an instant, everything vanished.

Aemond jolted awake, gasping for breath. He was back in his bed at Harrenhal, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a cold sweat.

His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with the revelation that Lucella was carrying his child. The weight of what he had seen, what he had heard, bore down on him like a leaden shroud.

This was no ordinary dream—it was a vision, a cruel reminder of the consequences of his actions.

Lucella, far away in the Vale, hidden from the war and from him, was carrying his child. A child he might never see.

Aemond sat there, staring into the darkness of his chamber, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

The morning sun barely touched the horizon when Aemond stormed through the corridors of Harrenhal, his mind set with a singular purpose.

The events of the previous night, the vision of Lucella and the revelation of his child, had ignited a fierce determination within him. He could no longer afford to remain idle, bound by the chains of his own mistakes.

Ser Criston Cole, deep in discussion over battle plans, was abruptly interrupted as Aemond barrelled past him, disregarding his shocked protests.

The plans for an assault on Drarry, once deemed crucial, now seemed inconsequential in the face of the personal turmoil Aemond faced.

As he descended the stone steps toward Vhagar’s resting place, the sound of his hurried footsteps was interrupted by a familiar, unsettling voice.

“It’s too late,” Alys said softly, her tone almost too calm for the gravity of her words.

Aemond stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “What do you mean, it’s too late?”

Alys’ lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. “Lucella is no longer in the Vale.”

Aemond’s heart pounded as he demanded, “Where is she?”

Alys’ smile widened, her eyes glinting with a cruel delight. “Lucella now resides at Winterfell, as the soon to be wife of Lord Cregan Stark.”

The words hit Aemond like a physical blow. “What?”

Alys tilted her head, her gaze unwavering. “To secure the North for her mother, Lucella has agreed to wed the Warden of the North. It was a strategic marriage, one that consolidates power and allies. Your child will be raised in the North, under the protection of House Stark.”

Aemond’s face twisted in rage. “She carries my child! She belongs with me!”

Alys merely smiled again, her expression unchanging. “Aye, she carries your child. But Lord Stark is an honourable man. He has pledged to protect both Lucella and the child. Tell me, kinslayer, how does it feel knowing that your son will be raised by a wolf? That he will grow up calling another man father?

“You dare-” snarled Aemond, freezing as he felt something soft move across the back of he clenched hand.

He looked down and for the briefest of seconds a saw a flash of ribbon, gold and white.

“Your arrogance and pride have cost you the one thing you have sought your entire life. Lucella would have been a good wife; she would have loved you, given you many children. You would’ve had everything you ever wanted, but now, such things are lost to you.”

Aemond’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of what Alys was saying.

The world seemed to spin around him, the walls of Harrenhal pressing in on him as if mocking his loss.

Alys turned to leave, her form slipping back into the shadows as she offered no further comfort or explanation.

Her parting words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the choices that had led him to this point.

Aemond was left standing alone, his thoughts a storm of anger, regret, and despair. The realization that Lucella, the woman he had wronged, would soon belong to another, and that his child would grow up under another man’s name, crushed him under a weight he could barely endure.

As Alys disappeared from view, Aemond sank to his knees, the full impact of his actions crashing down upon him.

Days blurred into an unrelenting haze for Aemond, each one melding into the next as the weight of his actions and their consequences pressed down on him.

The war continued, relentless and unforgiving. Strategies were drawn and redrawn, plans for battles and sieges were made and executed with grim efficiency.

Patrols scoured the countryside, small settlements loyal to Rhaenyra were attacked and burned, their inhabitants driven from their homes or slaughtered.

The brutality of the conflict seemed endless, a grim reflection of the turmoil within Aemond’s own mind.

Yet, despite the relentless pace of war, the nights were far worse.

In the darkness, where shadows danced and the silence of Harrenhal was punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the hearth or the distant rumble of thunder, Aemond was haunted by nightmares that left him waking in a cold sweat, his heart racing.

Lucerys appeared to him in his dreams. Sometimes, he came as a sweet-faced child, his eyes wide and innocent, his smile unblemished by the cruelty of their world.

Other times, Lucerys was a grotesque, rotting mass of flesh and bone, his once-pristine features now distorted by decay and violence.

His body was marred by deep wounds, the sight of him a horrific testament to the fatal consequences of Aemond's vendetta.

As if the visions of Lucerys were not torment enough, Aemond was plagued by the weeping sounds of Lucella.

Her voice, broken and plaintive, filled the nights with a sorrowful lament. She would ask, over and over, "Why?"—a question that cut through Aemond’s soul with a sharpness that left him gasping for breath.

He could not answer her, could not explain why he had allowed the rage and hatred within him to consume his compassion, why he had been driven to such cruelty.

And then came the visions of his brother Aegon, a spectre of burnt and charred blackened flesh.

Aegon’s form was twisted and unrecognizable, his once-familiar features now a nightmare of burns and disfigurements.

His ghostly voice would accuse Aemond of betrayal, of causing his suffering and letting him fall.

"We are brothers," Aegon would rasp in the dreamscape, the anguish in his voice palpable. "How could you do this to me? Do you truly hate me that much?"

These nightly horrors, each one a reflection of his deepest fears and regrets, eroded Aemond’s sense of self.

The lines between dream and reality grew increasingly blurred. He would wake up trembling, the echo of his nightmares clinging to him like a shroud.

The faces of Lucerys and Aegon, the sound of Lucella’s weeping, all of it haunted him with an intensity that made the waking hours a desperate attempt to outrun the demons that plagued his sleep.

In the harsh light of day, he would rise, draw his sword, and return to the cycle of war and violence, but the burden of his actions weighed heavily on him.

The faces of the people he had wronged, the blood on his hands, the dreams that taunted him with their cruel reminders, all mingled together in a relentless torment that made him question if there was any escape from the darkness that had now consumed him.

Aemond stood alone in the ruined courtyard of Harrenhal, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the desolate stone.

He had taken to spending his time in solitude, seeking solace in the cold embrace of the night sky and the silence that now enveloped the once-majestic castle.

His thoughts, tangled in regrets and what-ifs, churned restlessly as he gazed at the distant, indifferent moon.

The serenity of his isolation was suddenly pierced by the soft, unmistakable sound of a newborn baby's cry.

The sound was so incongruous with the emptiness of Harrenhal that it jolted Aemond from his reverie.

He followed the sound with a mix of confusion and desperation, his heart pounding with a sense of urgency that he could not explain.

He came to a stop before a set of weathered wooden doors, their surface marred by time and neglect.

With a deep breath, he pushed them open and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, and his eyes were drawn to Lucella, who sat on the edge of a bed, gently rocking a small bundle in her arms.

Aemond’s heart ached as he saw himself sitting on the bed beside her, taking the bundle into his own arms with a tenderness that seemed foreign and distant.

He watched as this other version of himself whispered softly, “ēdrugon ñuha zaldrītsos” (sleep my little dragon).

The warmth in his voice was palpable, and Aemond felt a pang of longing for a peace and connection he had never fully embraced.

Before he could process the depth of the moment, the room began to fade, plunging into darkness.

The sound of a child’s giggle echoed around him, drawing his attention.

Aemond turned to see a silver-haired boy, no older than six, standing proudly in the training grounds of the Red Keep.

The boy swung a wooden sword with a determined grin, his laughter ringing out as he called, “Watch me, Kepa! Watch me!” (Father).

Aemond’s heart warmed as he observed this tender scene, the boy’s eager energy a reflection of his own youthful enthusiasm.

He watched himself teaching the boy the skills of the sword with patience and affection.

The bond between father and son was evident in their shared joy and the way they moved together in a dance of instruction and play.

In an instant, the scene shifted again. Aemond found himself standing beside Lucella as she gave birth to a baby girl.

The sight of the child being placed into her arms, Lucella’s exhausted yet elated expression, was accompanied by the sound of his own cries as he held their daughter.

The raw emotion on his face was a testament to the profound love and vulnerability he felt.

The vision continued to shift, and he saw another version of himself taking his children flying on Vhagar, with Lucella flying beside them on Silverwing.

The thrill of the flight was unmistakable, the sky filled with the sound of their laughter and the roars of their own hatchling dragons soaring alongside them.

The scene was a vivid portrayal of a life filled with joy and familial bonding, a life that seemed so out of reach, but at the same time it seemed like a memory, one that he couldn't place.

Aemond felt an intense pressure in his chest, as if the weight of the vision was physically constricting his breath.

The laughter of his children, so vibrant and full of life, became a haunting reminder of what he had lost. The scenes began to dissolve, and the joy that had filled them faded into the encroaching darkness.

Gasping for air, Aemond reeled backwards, clutching his chest as if trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream.

He stumbled and found himself back in his chamber at Harrenhal, the oppressive darkness of the room pressing in on him. He slumped into the corner, his back against the cold stone wall, and the tears that had long been pent up finally broke free.

As Aemond cried, the sound of his children’s laughter seemed to be swallowed by the void, leaving him alone with the heavy, crushing weight of his regrets and the unbearable knowledge of what might have been.

Aemond sat in the cold, dark corner of his chamber, his body trembling as he sobbed uncontrollably.

The overwhelming flood of grief, regret, and torment seemed to crush him from all sides. He could barely breathe through the anguish that wracked his entire being.

He cried out into the emptiness of the room, his voice hoarse and pleading. "Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone! I can't take it anymore-"

The silence that followed was heavy, almost oppressive, until Aemond felt a subtle movement in front of him.

He looked up, his tear-blurred vision struggling to focus, and saw Alys kneeling before him.

She reached out, her fingers gentle as they brushed through his dishevelled hair, an unexpected comfort in the midst of his despair.

Aemond, driven by an instinctive need for solace, moved forward and wrapped his arms around her, his grip desperate and tight. He buried his face in her shoulder, his cries muffled against her. "Please, stop tormenting me-to show me the chidren its cruel"

Alys remained still for a moment, her voice soft and almost serene. "Your only freedom is within the eye of the gods."

The words struck Aemond like a blow to the chest. He remembered his sister Helaena’s words, the chilling premonition she had uttered when he had begged her to come with him to Harrenhal and she had refused.

"Aegon will be king again," she had said, "he's yet to see victory, he sits on a wooden throne, and you'll be dead, swallowed up in the gods' eye, you were never seen again."

The memory was like a dagger twisting in his heart, amplifying the sense of doom that had followed him.

He pulled away from Alys, his face a mask of anguish and realization. "Leave me," he said, his voice breaking. "I wish to be alone, just as I always have been."

Alys’s hand reached out to him, a gesture of compassion, but he snatched it away with a harsh movement. His anger and sorrow surged together, mingling with a desperate need for solitude.

"I said leave!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Alys stood, her expression unreadable, and then she slowly walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance.

As the last echoes of Alys’s departure faded, Aemond slumped back against the cold stone wall, the chill seeping into his bones.

He closed his eye, trying to shut out the overwhelming sense of loss and failure.

With a whisper barely audible even to himself, he repeated the one name that seemed to encapsulate his pain, his regret, and his longing: “Lucella.”

As the days dragged on, Aemond’s mind grew increasingly fragile, the weight of his regrets and visions pressing down upon him with relentless intensity.

The once-proud prince who had thrived on determination and strength now found himself teetering on the edge of madness.

Each night, the visions that plagued his sleep became more vivid, more insistent. Lucerys haunted him with that same blend of innocence and grotesque horror, Lucella’s weeping echoed in the corridors of his mind, and Aegon’s charred, accusing form lingered at the corners of his consciousness, sniping and hurling insults at him.

'Coward, treasonous dog and vile cunt' were some of the one's his brother favoured.

When word reached Harrenhal of Helaena’s death, Aemond’s fragile grip on reality began to unravel entirely.

The news that his gentle sister had thrown herself from the window of Maegor’s Holdfast struck him like a dagger to the heart.

Helaena, who had seen visions of the future in her dreams, had become yet another victim of the war that had torn their family apart. The shock of her death sent Aemond spiralling deeper into the abyss of his own despair.

He withdrew further from the world around him, preferring the cold comfort of solitude over the company of others.

He stopped attending the war councils, even as Ser Criston Cole and the remaining host of thirty-six hundred Greens prepared to march south from Harrenhal to meet the Hightower forces.

Aemond refused to join them, claiming he would follow later, though deep down he knew he had no intention of doing so.

Instead, he lingered in the empty halls of Harrenhal, haunted by the ghosts of his past and the weight of his failures.

He ate alone, trained alone, and slept fitfully in a chamber that seemed to grow darker and more oppressive with each passing day.

After Criston and the men had left, the silence in Harrenhal became deafening. The once-mighty fortress, now nearly empty, seemed to breathe with the echoes of lost battles and the whispers of curses long forgotten.

Aemond’s thoughts turned inward, his despair and grief consuming him whole.

There was no longer a way forward, no victory that could redeem the losses he had suffered. His mind circled around the same grim conclusion: there was but one way out now.

With a heavy heart, Aemond sat at a table in his chamber, a quill in hand. He stared at the blank parchment before him, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face. He hesitated for a moment, then began to write. finality, each stroke of the quill marking a step closer to his inevitable end. The letter was addressed to his uncle, Daemon.

"Daemon," the letter began, the words sharp and direct, "The time has come for us to settle this war as it should have been settled from the start—between you and me. I challenge you to meet me in the skies above the Gods Eye. Let this war end in fire and blood"

Aemond set the quill down, his hands shaking. He folded the letter carefully and sealed it with wax, pressing his sigil into the hot, red wax.

The task completed, he sat back in his chair, feeling the weight of the decision he had made settle heavily on his shoulders.

The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening as the candle flickered and sputtered. Aemond closed his eye, the sounds of Lucella’s weeping and the laughter of his lost children echoing in his mind.

The visions that had haunted him were not gone, but now, they seemed distant, as if they were preparing to leave him for good.

The next day, he would send the letter. And then, he would wait for the response that would seal his fate.

Two long weeks passed before Daemon finally arrived at Harrenhal.

Aemond spent those days in a fevered state of anticipation, his mind torn between dread and the fierce desire to end this war, to end himself.

When the day finally came, Aemond watched from the crumbling ramparts as Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, descended from the skies, his crimson scales glistening like blood in the fading sunlight.

The sight of his uncle astride the fearsome dragon filled Aemond with a cold resolve. This was it. The end.

He made his way to Vhagar, and with practiced ease, Aemond ascended the rope ladder and secured himself into the saddle.

He could feel Vhagar’s own anticipation, the bond between rider and dragon thrumming with shared purpose. With a roar that shook the very stones of Harrenhal, Vhagar took to the sky.

The two dragons met in the air, their roars echoing across the sky.

They circled each other, two titanic forces of nature, before clashing in a fiery, savage battle. Vhagar and Caraxes locked talons, their wings beating furiously as they tore at each other with teeth and claws.

The sky above the Gods Eye was filled with the sound of snapping jaws, the ripping of flesh, and the heat of dragon fire.

Caraxes was the first to find purchase, his long, serpentine body coiling around Vhagar’s neck. With a vicious twist, Caraxes latched onto Vhagar’s throat, his fangs sinking deep into the thick scales.

Blood, hot and dark, poured from the wound, raining down upon the waters below. Vhagar let out a deafening roar of pain and fury, her massive wings beating frantically as she tried to shake the smaller dragon off.

In a final, desperate act, Vhagar managed to tear into Caraxes’ belly with her claws.

The Blood Wyrm’s entrails spilled out, steaming in the cold air. But Caraxes did not release his grip on Vhagar’s throat. The two dragons were locked in a death embrace, neither willing to yield.

As Aemond struggled to keep control, he looked up in time to see Daemon leaping from the back of Caraxes, his sword, Dark Sister, gleaming in his hand.

The older man’s face was a mask of grim determination as he hurtled through the air, landing with catlike grace in front of Aemond on Vhagar’s back.

There was no time to react as Daemon moved with the speed of a man possessed, thrusting Dark Sister into Aemond’s remaining eye.

The blade pierced through flesh and bone, driving deep until it burst through the back of Aemond’s throat. The young prince gasped, a final, choking breath escaping him as the world went dark.

Below them, the two dying dragons plummeted toward the Gods Eye. The impact sent a gargantuan splash of water into the air, the surface boiling with the mingled blood of the two beasts.

As Caraxes, his strength failing, clawed his way onto the bank, he let out a final, rattling breath before collapsing, dead.

Vhagar, her throat torn out and her life slipping away, sank beneath the surface of the lake, her massive form dragging Aemond’s lifeless body with her.

The weight of the ancient dragon pulled them both down into the cold, dark depths.

Aemond jolted awake, his hand instinctively pressing against his remaining eye, his heart pounding with the intensity of a nightmare that lingered as a grim reality.

The sensation of the sword piercing through him still felt vividly real, the ghost of pain haunting him as he tried to calm his racing breath.

The room around him seemed to spin, the shadows from his nightmare clinging to the edges of his vision.

He felt a gentle hand on his arm and turned sharply to see Lucella gazing at him with concern.

For a split second, he was paralyzed by fear, convinced that this was yet another vision sent to torment him.

He gasped, moving backwards and falling out of bed with a heavy thud that echoed in the quiet room.

Aemond scrambled to his feet, the words of the witch, telling him that his freedom lay in the eye of the gods, seemed to mock him from the depths of his confusion.

He began pacing the room, muttering to himself about the unreality of it all. “It’s not real- another vision-sent to torment me-why must you keep tormenting me” His mind was a tumultuous storm, and he could barely grasp the threads of sanity slipping through his fingers.

Lucella got out of bed and moved to his side, taking his hand and pressing it gently to her cheek.

“I’m real, ñuha jorrāelagon” she said softly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that cut through his panic (my love).

But then Aemond’s voice wavered as he asked about the war. “The Greens repudiated the succession-crowned Aegon as King. Lucerys-he died in the skies above Storm’s End. Jaehaerys was murdered in retribution. A son for a son-” His babbling grew frantic, but Lucella’s calm presence seemed to anchor him, if only slightly.

Lucella placed her hands on his face and shushed him gently. “All is well,” she assured him. “Your grandsire had the intent to crown Aegon, but he lost his head for it, along with those who conspired against my mother. But it was our marriage that truly united the family.”

Aemond blinked, stunned and stammering. “M-marriage? What about your marriage to Lord Cregan Stark?”

Lucella grimaced slightly. “Cregan? He’s married to Alysanne Blackwood.”

Aemond’s eyes widened in confusion. “He is?”

Lucella sighed, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “What in the hell was in that wine you were drinking with Aegon?”

Aemond paused at the mention of is brother.

"A-Aegon. How is he?"

“Other than being deep in his cups, he was fine the last time I saw him.” replied Lucella.

“What about Helaena?” Aemond pressed.

“She’s recovering well” said Lucella.

“F-From what?” asked Aemond.

“From birthing another child—a son named Maelor. That’s why you were drinking with Aegon; you were celebrating the news of his son.”

“S-Son? But he and Helaena, t-they d-don’t-” muttered Aemond.

“Things aren’t perfect between them, but in recent years they have found comfort with one another-Aegon is trying and that’s all we can hope for” said Lucella softly.

The revelations were disorienting, but the most startling came next.

Lucella glanced towards a corner of the room, where a soft babble could be heard.

Aemond’s attention snapped to the cot, and he moved swiftly to see the babe inside. He stared down at the child, who reached up toward him with tiny, outstretched arms.

He picked up the baby, cradling them gently, and rocked them with a sense of deep, overwhelming affection.

Lucella’s smile was warm as she observed him. “You always were better at soothing our daughter than I was,” she said.

Aemond looked at her, his eye wide with astonishment. “D-daughter? What about our son?”

Lucella smiled softly. “Aerion is asleep in his nursery across the hall.”

The enormity of it all seemed to sink in. Aemond was overwhelmed by the flood of memories that quickly returned to him—the execution of his grandsire, the crowning of Rhaenyra, the wedding to Lucella, the birth of their son, Aerion, and the moments of being with his family.

He remembered reading to Aerion, singing to him in High Valyrian, helping him learn to walk and talk. He saw Lucella beside him once more, giving birth to their daughter, Daenys.

Stunned and teary-eyed, he whispered, “It’s real-all of this is real.”

Lucella’s expression softened, and she gave him a playful pinch. Aemond winced, and Lucella’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she said, “Is that real enough for you?”

Aemond furrowed his brow but then his eye caught sight of the gold and white ribbon, delicately wrapped around a book.

Lucella followed Aemond's gaze and smiled, "The ribbon that bound our hands on our wedding day-"

"Y-You kept it" muttered Aemond, remembering the feel of it on the back of his hand.

"Yes-I did" replied Lucella softly.

Aemond’s face broke into a genuine smile as he leaned in to kiss her lips. She then went on her tiptoes, whispering in his ear, “I’m with child again.”

Aemond’s joyous laughter sounded round the room, his arms holding their daughter even closer.

“T-Truly?”

“Yes-it seems that your seed really likes to take root inside me ” replied Lucella smirking.

As Aemond pressed another kiss to her lips, his attention was caught by the door as it creaked open softly.

Aemond looked to see their son, Aerion, standing in the doorway.

The little boy was sucking his thumb and clutching a stuffed dragon teddy to his chest, his silver hair tousled from sleep. His big, round eyes gazed at his parents, filled with the innocent worry only a child could have.

Lucella smiled warmly at the sight of their son. "What’s wrong, sweet boy?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Aerion shuffled into the room, his thumb still in his mouth as he mumbled, “No sleep, Mama.”

Lucella’s heart melted at the sight of him. She walked over and scooped him up in her arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "How about some snuggles with your father?" she suggested softly.

Aerion nodded, his thumb popping out of his mouth as he hugged his stuffed dragon tighter. Lucella carried him to the bed and placed him beside Aemond, who had just settled with Daenys resting on his chest.

Aemond smiled tenderly as Aerion snuggled up against his side, seeking comfort and warmth.

Aemond gently adjusted his position, leaning back against the pillows to support both children.

Daenys, nestled on his chest, made small, contented noises in her sleep, while Aerion curled up close to his father.

The boy's tiny fingers clung to Aemond's loose cotton shirt, his stuffed dragon tucked securely under his arm.

Lucella climbed into bed beside them, her eyes filled with love as she watched her family. She reached out, gently brushing her fingers through Aerion’s hair before leaning into place a soft kiss on Aemond’s cheek.

Aemond turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze, and smiled—an expression filled with deep contentment and peace.

In that moment, Aemond felt like he finally had everything he had ever wanted. The weight of his past, the burdens of a war that would never come to pass, and the haunting visions that had plagued him all seemed to dissipate, replaced by the warmth and love surrounding him.

His family was whole, safe, and with him—everything else faded away.

As they all settled into the quiet, Lucella lay her head on Aemond's shoulder, her hand resting lightly on Aerion's form.

The gentle rise and fall of their children’s breathing filled the room, a soothing rhythm that lulled them all into a sense of serene calm.

Aemond glanced down at the two small faces resting against him, then over at Lucella, who smiled up at him, her eyes shining with the same love he felt in his heart.

The world outside could wait.

For now, in the sanctuary of their bed, surrounded by those he loved most, Aemond was content.

He finally had his family, his children, his wife—the life he had longed for, and it was more beautiful than he had ever dared to dream.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #kcktfics

125 notes · View notes

tarotbee · 3 years ago

Text

Ways of Worshipping Ares

(For @sleep-deprived-enby4 )

⚠️ TW for blood mention and gun imagery⚠️

- weapon imagery

- weapons such as knives or swords

- armour

- toy army soldiers or knights

- horse, dog, boar, vulture, snake, woodpecker, bull, barn owl and eagle imagery

- horse shoes

- dog fur or dog teeth (ethically sourced)

- feathers (ethically sourced)

- bull horn (ethically sourced)

- go do axe throwing

- take up a sport like knife throwing, martial arts, boxing, fencing or archery

- bullet shells

- war memorabilia

- whiskey

- strong red wine

- water

- black tea and black coffee

- associated gems/metals: iron, steel, garnet, ruby, bloodstone, amber, citrine and red agate

- associated scents for incense or candles: frankincense, dragon blood, whiskey, musk

- associated plants/herbs/spices: cinnamon, raspberries, tobacco, jalapeño peppers, cayenne, cherries, garlic, black peppercorn, cumin, red pepper and chilli flakes

- take self defense classes

- carry self defense tools

- protein shakes and energy or sports drinks

- a can of soda

- Red meat (eg: beef)

- a fried egg

- blood from the meat

- red roses and thorns

- a playlist that makes you feel, brave, energised and confident

- trophies and medals!

- spicy foods

- spicy jerky or twiggy sticks

- keep track of your successes, his can be daily tasks, when you conquer them cross them off, and then offer the list to Ares

- write down or draw art of your fears

- support and donate to war veterans

- learn about the wars in history

- study history in general, most places there are people there are wars or riots

- cut toxic people out of your life and do not be gentle, of they have hurt you they have no right to stay in your life, cut them out, they are parasitic

- take care of your mental health, take your meds or vitamins, go to therapy, do your shadow work and eat well, this is one of the best ways to honour Ares

- support SA survivors

- research PTSD and C-PTSD

- find constructive ways to let out aggression

- go to a rage room

- be an active part of your community, speak up about the issues you see

- stand up for people's rights. Fight for them. Fight for yourself too.

- create a workout routine! Doesn't have to be complex, it may be going for a walk and then in time making it a run, adding in a few sit ups

- go to the gym

- protect yourself, physically, psychologically, energetically and spiritually

- wear the colour red for confidence

- wear clothes that make you feel confident

- a candle of red, black, purple or orange

- the chariot tarot card

- spicy chocolate

- energy/protein bars

- broken glass

- storm water

- Olive oil

- caramel

- wear safety pins on your clothes (this is a statement in alt groups that you are a safe person and support minorities)

- leave safety pins on his altar

- sushi

- flowers

- masculine scented perfume or cologne

- spicy salsa!

- chocolate or chia pudding!

- burnt matches

- cigarette butts

- pray or meditate during thunderstorms

- watch war movies and documentaries and play war/combat and strategy video games

#pagan #paganism #omnist #omnism #paganblr #ares #ares god of war #greek gods #greek god #ares deity #greek mythology #deity #deity work #deity worship #deity devotion #ares devotion #ares devotee #deities #tw guns

493 notes · View notes

d4rkwr1t3s · 4 years ago

Text

Ticking Time

Ships: Prinxiety, maybe platonic/mentioned romantic Dukexiety, mentioned other ships

Trigger Warnings: Apathy!Roman, a few innuendos, talk of gore, suicidal thoughts, depressive states, talk of bodily fluids (by Remus)

Roman had enough with everything. His ideas weren’t cutting it. Everything he knew had been tilted on its axis over and over. He was silenced quite often and made fun of. He had to apologize to everyone but no one had to apologize to him. He sighed and placed his head in his arms.

Everyone had just assumed he had hit a creative block and he had to some extent. Nothing felt interesting or good enough anymore. The once vibrant red of his sash was now a muted grey. Usually, he would be upset by that but now he just felt nothing, numb. He looked over at the door to the imagination. It wasn’t just his but it was better than his slowly greying room. There it would be bright. Didn’t Logan say something about sunlight helping with depression? He couldn’t remember and he could feel himself caring less and less about it. He stood from his desk and stepped into the imagination.

Usually even just stepping inside made him feel better. Usually his horse Merida was there to greet him. There was nothing vibrant or lifelike in his realm. The forest was alive as usual with Remus’ creatures. Each creature curses and spits at seeing him. Right, they’d get out eventually. Why didn’t he care though? The people weren’t real. There wasn’t even anyone there to protect anyway. The streets were barren and there were no bright colors in what he created. There were no decorations for some sort of festival. The town’s buildings were crumbling and slowly wasting away to become nothing but rubble. Even the castle seemed in ruins but not from a war, from time.

Roman stepped inside and the doors shut behind him firmly. He sighed at it and looked up at the tapestry behind the throne. It seemed faded and the picture was no longer decipherable. He sits at the throne and lounges a moment. He listens to the creaking, breaking, dripping. His head hits the back of the throne but no sound escapes him. He looks to the side with a heavy breath. He feels like he’s drowning but there was nothing there. He didn’t feel panicked though. He felt strangely calm. Did it just feel like a suffocating hug? Roman couldn’t tell. He moved his hand in a circle to conjure something but nothing appeared. He looked up once more before he felt the gentle dripping of water. He put a hand to his face and wiped some tears away. Why was he crying? He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t feeling anything really. The tears didn’t even make it to the ground, blowing away as ash after it left his face.

He just sat on his throne and looked out across the empty throne room. It wasn’t comforting but it wasn’t haunting him either. It was a weird place to be. He looked up at the timer on the castle wall. It started and was just going up, ah, that’s what it was for. He hoped he could get out of this alone but he highly doubted it. He glances again at the clock. How long would it take for the others to notice? A day? A few days? A week? He highly doubted it but he didn’t hope for any less.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week had passed and no one had heard from Roman at all. While this wasn’t too much of a surprise considering his romps in the imagination, it was odd that no one was told, and that there was no influence by Roman. Every idea Thomas seemed to have came from Remus. Patton and Virgil had been working overtime to keep Thomas from actually streaking through his neighborhood, or hitting his friends with the fake morning star, or even doing dangerous stunts. Some were a bit more concerned than others but it was taking a toll on everyone. There were no new videos since all ideas came from a less than spectacular source.

Virgil sighed heavily with his headphones blasting his playlist. Where the hell was Roman? He grunted at a sudden pressure on his stomach and peeled his eyes open to see who it was. He groaned when meeting a certain side’s eyes. “Remus,” he groaned out, “get off.” “No thanks! I know you feel it too!” “Feel what you insufferable prick?” “Oooh, nice one but sadly I’m not talking about a boner this time.” “Gross. Get off.” “No. You know something’s wrong too.” “I always feel like something’s wrong. Now get off!” Virgil moved to throw him off which barely even budged Remus an inch.

“Just look!” Remus pulled out a clock in a circling green and grey pattern.

Virgil looked at it with confusion, “uh-huh? What about it? It’s a clock? It’s the wrong time but nothing seems off about it.” “That’s the thing! Ever since the split it’s been red and green and broken. Now it’s green and grey and working. Something’s off with Robro and you’re the only one in this stuffy pile of horse shit that gives a shit. Some-” “Stopping you right there,” Virgil cut him off with a look of disgust before he shook his head, “even if there was something wrong Roman’s door is locked.” “Oh? Little bat tried to sneak in?” Remus teased, “gonna grab something to-” “Oh shut up. No,” Virgil's face still heat up at the implications, “what about your side?” “Haven’t been,” Remus shrugged, “besides it’s crawling with nightmares.” “I know that much but can we get over?” “Probably. Especially if something happened to the prince himself.”

“Okay. So can we go?” He questioned while he motioned for Remus to get off. “Yeah. We can go. If you’re ready to face some of your worst nightmares,” Remus teased him again with a grin. “Oh fuck off,” Virgil shoved him off this time and got up, “let’s go before this gets any worse.” “Ugh fine. You’re no fun anymore,” Remus pouted again but got back up and shook himself down before he grabbed Virgil and threw him over his shoulder. “Remus!” Virgil yelped and struggled in his grip. “Off we go to the piss-yellow road!” Remus cackled as Virgil groaned.

~~~~~~~~~

“Will you put me down now?” Virgil asked from his place on Remus’ shoulder. They had been walking for a little while and his stomach had started to get sore.

“Mhhhh nope!” Remus replied cheerfully while he shifted Virgil’s position.

“Why not? Your shoulder is not comfortable and I can’t fight like this.” “That’s the point! We don’t need to fight right now. As long as you’re attached to me you’re fine. I’ll put ya down when we get to Roman’s side.” “Which is how much longer?” “Not too long.”

“Very reassuring,” Virgil spat out sarcastically before sighing and just got comfortable. Remus hummed a sea shanty under his breath as he walked.

A little while later Remus stepped into the meadow right near the border with a whisper of, “wow.” “What? I can’t see.” “Look down.” “What?” “Look down.” Virgil sighs but looks down at the grey dying grass, “holy shit.” “I know,” Remus shifted to let Virgil down, “that’s not a good sign. We gotta hurry and look out for falling crumbling rubble and of course my little nightmares,” Remus grinned.

“Of course. It can never be that easy,” Virgil huffed and stepped to bolt into the kingdom. Remus not too far behind him with his morning star at attention.

~~~~~~~~~

“Next time,” Virgil panted, “just tell your nightmares to fuck off.” “But this was so much more fun!” Remus chirped with his morning star on his shoulder.

“Ugh,” He doubled over for a moment before standing straight up again and walks into the castle with another groan, “you’ve got to be kidding me!”

Remus cackled at the thorns, “sleeping beauty? Where’s the dragon?” Just as Remus uttered those words the ground started to rumble. Virgil glared at him, “you just had to open your fat mouth!” “Well I open it for-” “Don’t you dare finish that statement,” he snarled and dashed towards the left where there were fewer thorns for him to cut through, “you can deal with whatever that is!”

“Fair enough!” Remus cackled and turned to go outside where there was a thundering roar.

Virgil huffed and cut his way to Roman’s room in the castle where he was not. He sighed, “okay einstein, where would he be?”

He started checking all of the rooms he passed with no luck in finding Roman. He walked back to the throne room, or thorn room now. Virgil looked over where the thorns were the thickest, around the throne. It was quiet inside aside from the ticking of a clock. A clock? He looked around for it and found it at the top of the tower of thorns before it flattened to create a ceiling. Could he be up there? Virgil looked for any sign he was up there but finds nothing. He sighed heavily before a glint to the side caught his eye. On the throne was a figure of stone but the glint of a sword at the statue’s side lured him closer. He hissed in pain when a throne vine grabbed his wrist. Virgil cut the vine and continued trudging forward to the statue. The thorn vines continued to slice at him even as he cut them down. He was panting once more when he got to the thorn column. Virgil raised his weapon to carefully slice through the column. He reached his hand through the incision he made and barely brushed his fingers against the statue’s. He couldn’t see the statue’s face but he could see the sleeve, “Roman…” The statue didn’t move, of course. Virgil cursed under his breath and forced his body through the column even if it caused the thorns to drag across his body. He made a small noise of surprise when he fell into Roman’s lap. He took a breath before pressing a soft kiss to the edge of Roman’s mouth. Virgil laughed softly when it didn’t work, “of course. This isn’t a fairytale. I can’t just magically make it better for you. I wish you had talked to me or even someone else. I want to help. You helped me so much and I should’ve checked on you. I went through hell to get here Roman. Please come back to us…” He sighed and moved to get up from where he was, “I’m sorry we didn’t protect you, Roman.” Virgil shook his head as he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned to leave and tell Remus he failed. He jumped as a weight was pressed to his back and arms wrapped around his waist. “V?” Came the weak and rough question. “Roman!” Virgil turned to hug him tightly even if it caused him to wince, “you’re okay. I got you.” “I’m tired,” he mumbled into Virgil’s chest. “Alright princey. Let’s get you home, okay?” “Mhm,” Roman’s breathing was slow and even which made Virgil chuckle before picking him up. “Rest now princey. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures but Roman was already asleep. The ticking had stopped as Virgil walked out of the castle and back to Roman’s room.

#prinxiety #platonic dukexiety #remus sanders #dark creati #roman sanders #creativity sanders #virgil sanders #anxiety sanders

20 notes · View notes

otonymous · 4 years ago

Text

Prisoner Of Love (Ikesen Kenshin - NSFW)

Description: Can two victims of circumstance find their way to love? Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Spoilers for the first half of Kenshin’s MS. Potential trigger warnings: angst, imprisonment, mild mentions of injuries, self-harm and death, self-loathing, anxiety, possessiveness (it IS Kenshin after all 🤣), slight dub-con elements, profanity, vaginal intercourse, squirting Word Count: ~3100 words (~17 minutes of angst and smut) Author’s Notes: Sending out a super giant thank you to the incredibly kind and gracious @azuchi-princess for commissioning this Kenshin piece from me. I cannot tell you how honoured I am to have been entrusted with writing for your husbando! 🥰💕 It was an absolutely wonderful process working with you, and I’m so glad to have been able to indulge in my need for angst and smut at the same time!

(SPOILER ALERT!) This story takes place shortly after Kenshin has MC (read: YOU!) placed behind bars as his “spoils of war,” but I have taken creative license in altering the events that occur afterwards. Moreover, the perspective shifts between that of the reader’s and Kenshin’s in the hopes of delivering that optimal punch of angst 👊🏼🤣

Please note the warnings listed above — especially the potential triggers — and avoid this read if anything makes you uncomfortable. Otherwise, dear readers, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this piece! 💕

Chapter I (Kenshin’s POV)

Betrayal.

Cutting deeper than the sharpest blade.

Unforgiving like Himetsuru-Ichimonji, severing the red string of fate as quickly as it is drawn from its scabbard.

So why was it that Kenshin still couldn’t bring himself to hate her?

Footsteps echoing along stone walls in the bowels of Kasugayama Castle — the very place where he had her cast behind bars — Kenshin wanders, trapped in a hell from which there was no escape.

For the confines of the mind were impervious to even the God of War’s sharpened steel.

And in between each beat of his thunderous heart, he hears her: gentle tears rolling down that delicate face to fall on packed earth, the ground’s inhospitable chill reaching up through limbs to rob even the final vestiges of warmth from bone. Her every shuddering breath is a weight upon his chest, suffocating until Kenshin clings to the reins of reason holding him back from storming her cell like a madman, animated solely by the fire commanding him to see, to touch…

…to love her.

Hands clenching into tight fists, Kenshin’s knuckles blanch whiter than his already pale skin when he slows to a stop. Round the corner and there she’ll be.

Woman of the Oda. The Devil King’s own.

She, who had lied in the same breath that commiserated with him as they waited for Sasuke’s return. She, whose tears left him dazzled, catching the light of the fire like precious stones even as their salt stung, seeping into his open wounds. She, who had held his hand within her own, caring not about sullying her perfect skin with his tainted blood.

Because tainted is what he is. It is what he deserves.

And yet, he can’t help but see the moonlight in her gaze, shimmering like a spectre every time he closes his eyes. Can’t stop himself from desiring the tender warmth of her smile. Still wonders at her fearless bravado in the face of a man who brought nothing but death and destruction upon friend and foe alike.

Isehime.

No.

No, he will not see her, Kenshin thinks, gaze frosting over as he wills the ice in his veins to freeze a heart he no longer wanted to feel. He walks away, forcing himself to believe that the sound of her sorrow growing faint was nothing more than mice in the walls.

Chapter II (Reader’s POV)

Ethereal moons beckon from scrolls depicting each of the four seasons — resplendent colours discordant against the drab stone walls on which they hang.

Cherry blossoms flutter against gold-foil skies; delicate petals frozen in time as they float across a folding screen.

Even the futon in the corner of your cell seemed fit for a princess at court, much more luxurious than the one in which you had slept at Azuchi.

The Dragon of Echigo had took it upon himself to see that his spoils of war would want for nothing, and yet he would deny you the one thing you truly desired:

The man himself.

Sasuke, Shingen and Yukimura would visit — sometimes together, sometimes in turn — graciously sharing their company for which you were so starved. Your ninja friend swore with as much emotion as he could muster to do anything and everything possible to persuade his lord to release you, or at the very least, agree to see you. Yukimura couldn’t stop shaking his head, the expression on his face indignant to see you treated thus, ‘boar woman’ though you were. As for Lord Shingen, he likened you to a bird in a gilded cage, trying to tempt you with offers of freedom and a ready smile on his face that surely would’ve moved any woman to see it…

…any woman but you, that is.

For in your eyes, there was only ever Kenshin — the man who came to your rescue time and time again without knowing your true identity. Intoxicating like the finest sake, each and every moment spent by his side became a precious embrace of a memory, emblazoned in your mind until it was impossible to forget:

The black cape that flowed from broad shoulders like a powerful wave, trailing behind him that night he saved you from those thugs in Azuchi. The way your feet dragged behind his footsteps, moving slow just to watch him cut swift through tall grass with all the seasoned grace of a dancer. His porcelain skin glowing from within as if lit by the light of his own moon.

And in his eyes…sorrow as unfathomable as the sea was deep, rising like smoke from sapphire and emerald in those rare moments the Dragon of Echigo let down his guard. But alas, no more.

You had broken his trust.

How many nights have you lain awake, seeking out pinprick stars through the sliver of window high above your prison and thinking about how things might have been different? What if you had disclosed your relationship with the Oda at the very start? Would the press of the cold steel of his blade be more of a consolation against your neck than the heartbreak spreading from chest to limb every time you lay down to sleep?

Sleep?

No, that was not forthcoming these days — rest a luxury you couldn’t afford until the moment you could face Kenshin for yourself and tell him that you never meant to hurt him, never meant to lie. That though Nobunaga found you first, you had no ulterior motive in approaching Kenshin other than the fact that you…you…

…simply couldn’t stay away.

No matter what anyone tried to say about him.

For even on the battlefield, every nerve singed as the stench of freshly spilt blood filled your nostrils, you still couldn’t tear your gaze from the one they revered as the God of War. Like an immortal stepping from an unfurling scroll, Kenshin moved with the fluid grace of a master painter wielding his brush, completely at one with his sword as he dispatched his enemies with a precision that terrified and awed all at once.

And when he held you in his arms that night — the same hand which had claimed countless lives bleeding into your own as you clasped it in prayer for Sasuke’s safe return — you had felt no fear; only the wish that time would stretch into eternity so that you might forever have him near.

“Kenshin.”

You say his name once…twice…the syllables rolling off your tongue to echo down the hallway like a ghost, lonely and forgotten in the dungeons of Kasugayama Castle. What was freedom to you when you couldn’t bear to break the shackles chaining you to a god who would never look your way again?

Chapter III (Kenshin’s POV)

“Kenshin.”

Her voice halts him in his tracks, one hand shooting out to rest upon the cool stone wall as Kenshin bolsters himself against the sudden weakness in his knees. When was the last time he heard her speak his name? Had it always sounded so melodic, caressing up the spine to curl gently upon the lobe of his ear?

That she is calling for him at a time when she should’ve been fast asleep is a source of elation and anxiety all at once, She is thinking of me tempered by the dread in knowing that she wasn’t getting the rest her body needed. And slowly, slowly…the scales start to tip: if she didn’t sleep, she’d become too exhausted to eat. And without eating, she would…

…die.

The nightmare would begin anew. Except this time, it would be her blood on Kenshin’s hands, spilling crimson over the scars left behind by Isehime’s lifeless body.

She’ll slip away from you like the other, the voice in his head chastises, full of malice as darkness begins unfurling from the corners of his mind, tightening the vice in his chest. They come hard and fast, thoughts tangling one over the other like a labyrinth of vines from which there was no escape:

Poison runs through your veins. Loving her would only doom the girl to misfortune and regret.

If she is not yours, could you possibly surrender her to anyone else?

You cannot outrun your curse. All those you hold dear will end up like Isehime: sleeping in the cold earth.

No one must lay eyes on her beauty, witness her elegance, know of the rare flower blooming in the depths of this dungeon.

No one but you.

Fist pulling back, Kenshin releases the full force of his strength in a punch to the wall. Bruised bone and shredded skin send blistering pain to interrupt the cacophony in his head, silence reigning supreme once more until

“Kenshin?”

…she calls for him again, voice coloured with anticipation this time. He hears a shuffle, sees her in his mind’s eye — throwing off the covers of her bedding to press against the bars, straining to peek around the wooden slats that kept her from freedom. Kept her from him.

“Please, Kenshin…is that you?”

He knows not why he does it, body moving before his mind is even aware. Kenshin had managed to make his way to her cell undetected every night since he put her there, standing silent in shadowy corners just to watch her sleep, allowing the rise and fall of her breath to soothe him with the knowledge that she was still very much alive. But now, in a single moment of thoughtlessness, he had thrown it all away.

She gasps to finally see him and even the sound of that is beautiful, resonating clear like the note of an expertly plucked koto. His gaze falls on her tightened grip around the bars, follows the solitary tear gathering starlight as it rolls down her cheek. And when her eyes widen in horror to look upon the state of his injured hand, Kenshin feels it:

A shift deep within, barely perceptible but wholly significant, like ice cracking beneath the surface of a frozen stream.

And the rush of waters that follows drowns the lovers in a flood from which neither was capable of nor willing to escape.

Chapter IV (Reader’s POV)

Perhaps he really was a god, answering every prayer that ever slipped past noiseless lips to materialize before you in that prison. His white kimono is pristine beneath that black cloak, as if emphasizing the sanctity of his being, the unalterable distance between Uesugi Kenshin and a mere mortal such as yourself. But then the rivulets of red run down that swollen hand to tell you otherwise; the revelation bittersweet because maybe now, there was a way for you to be together, complicated though circumstances were.

So you reach for him through the bars and he complies, watching as you lay kisses upon bruised fingers, feeling the familiar sting of your tears as they seep into wounded flesh and broken hearts — full of sorrow, full of joy…and impossible to stop.

“Push me away.”

His voice is soft for the hard edges of his words. Head lifting, you meet those striking eyes, focused and still. Yet, you felt the storm brewing in those blue and green depths, turmoil barely concealed beneath the ice of his gaze. And there, standing before the man whose very blood stained your lips, you refuse.

Lightning flashes in those eyes and suddenly, his fingers are curling tight about the sleeve of your kimono, Kenshin pulling you close through the bars in one swift motion until the stilted rhythm of his breath is dancing hot over your skin.

“Say it. Say you hate me, that you want absolutely nothing to do with me. Do it now or else—”

“No. Never. How could I ever bring myself to hate the one I love—”

The grimace on his handsome face cuts you off, the great Dragon of Echigo trembling at the very word, love, like it was dirty, taboo. And as the final threads of control slip from his grasp, Kenshin is moving once more without thought — his body a slave to the dictates of the heart. Yanking on the ring of keys hanging from his tapered waist, Kenshin throws open the door to your cell and in an instant, he is by your side.

��Fine. Then I’ll make you hate me.”

His whisper is a promise.

The keys clatter as they’re thrown to the ground, but all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears, deafening with every pounding beat of your heart to feel his lips on yours for the very first time. The insistent tongue pushing into your mouth carries a hint of sake, the fervour of his kiss leaving you intoxicated and desperate for more.

Long fingers thread through the silk of your hair, Kenshin’s grip gentle yet firm as he angles your head to deepen the kiss, bringing you closer and closer until the end of his exhalation marked the beginning of your next breath. And hadn’t it always been this way, you forever chasing after the mystery that was this beautifully broken man? The intensity of his want is a spell that bewitches, inexorably pulling you into the crucible of his desire, passion matching yours flame for burning flame until all else was extinguished.

Good and bad, right or wrong.

Words insignificant like ash in the face of this all-consuming love.

“Hate me,” Kenshin begs, teeth sinking into your lower lip until the taste of your blood mixed with his. “Please…or else I’ll never give you up.”

Open-mouthed kisses now trailing wet along the column of your neck, your fingers find purchase in his golden hair, pulling hard as you yield to the sensation of his breath moving lower and lower still. Kenshin groans, the sound resonating from deep within his chest to send a rush of heat that dampens the sacred space between your legs.

Body ready and heart set, your mind had been made up long ago. So you grasp onto those shoulders — broad and strong — to pull Kenshin up before you. And in the silent space between the beating of twin hearts, you say with a conviction so strong there could be no doubt,

“I am yours.”

The sound that catches in his throat is guttural, almost feral as those eyes of emerald and sapphire train on you with the intensity of a thousand suns. A sea of emotions flit across that handsome face, subtly shifting until one finally wins out:

Need.

You barely feel it though it must’ve taken considerable force to tear your obi off, the sumptuous kimono he gifted you with slipping from your shoulders as the God of War sets you upon the futon fit for a princess. Elegant even in haste, Kenshin disrobes with the grace of snow falling on frost-covered pine, revealing porcelain skin stretched over perfectly sculpted muscle that beckons to your every nerve.

And before the dungeon’s chill could rattle your bones, he gathers you into the heat of his embrace. Skin to skin, the arms wrapped around you tremble when he whispers, “I’ve wanted you so desperately, I-I don’t think I can hold back.”

Head falling back onto your pillow, you will Kenshin to see the sincerity, the surrender in the darkened gaze that reflects his very image.

“Then give me everything. I want…all that you are.”

It tears a breathless gasp from your lips, mouth drawn open in a silent scream when Kenshin fills you to the hilt with a single thrust — the thick, hard heat of his cock testing the limits of your body with its size. Equally skilled in bed as he was on the battlefield, the God of War is a force to be reckoned with, the swing of his hips graceful even as they connect with yours, ruthless in speed and intensity.

He moves within your body like he belongs, pulling out only to dive even deeper into slick depths until pleasure bloomed pink along your skin, the hardened tips of your breasts so enticing Kenshin couldn’t help but take them into his mouth in greedy turn as he continued thrusting, harder and faster until your legs began to shake.

“Oh god, Kenshin! You feel…so…good...ahh!—”

Pants and screams echo down darkened corridors, the sound of your pleasure in being taken this way resonating in the corners of every prison cell until you think to bite onto the sleeve of your kimono. But Kenshin just shakes his head, the sweat of exertion glistening on his body as his fingers move towards your mouth.

“No, I want…hmm…to hear you. Every sound you make is…precious to me. Let it out.”

With that, he removes the embroidered fabric, lips pressing to yours to swallow every licentious moan for himself as he props your legs up against his shoulders. All of a sudden, like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place, the motion awakens sensations you never before knew existed.

Unable to scream with your lover’s tongue in your mouth, your body responds in the only other way it knew how: convulsing beneath Kenshin until he is forced to pull out, allowing a flood of your arousal to cascade past swollen lips, spilling down the insides of your thighs in a lewd display that wets the bedding beneath your entwined bodies. And yet,

“More. Please, Kenshin…I want more…”

…you were insatiable.

The sight, sound and smell of you so undone ignites a fire inside the warlord, his mind scrambled by lust. And when he slides into you once more, he fucks with absolute abandon, yearning for complete union even as he leaves you breathless to finally spill into your depths.

* * *

You awake to moonlight glowing soft beyond shoji screens and the rhythm of a heartbeat, measured and slow beneath your ear. The robe you wore was fresh and soft; vague recollections of Kenshin gently caressing your fatigued body with a washcloth filtering in and out of your thoughts. At some point, he must’ve carried you to his chambers, sleeping now as you were upon his chest.

Lifting your head, you gaze at your lover in repose. It fills you with affection to see him — heart tightening to bind you to this man. And as his muscular arm winds about your waist, you knew you would forever be a willing prisoner to his love.

Thank you so much for reading! Check out more of my work here! 📚

#ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikesen kenshin #ikemen sengoku kenshin #uesugi kenshin #ikesen kenshin smut #ikesen smut #my writing #commission #azuchi-princess #thank you again my dear!#you are lovely to work with

204 notes · View notes

bestiarium · 4 years ago

Photo

The Gwiber [Welsh mythology]

Snakes and serpents have been symbols of evil and death for a very long time, and in many mythologies throughout the world. In one such tale, Welsh mythology speaks of the monstrous Gwiber. Though it was not the only one its species, it was the only one with the ability to live both on land and in the water, an ability which it put to good use by terrorizing the local folk and eating their livestock. The locals offered a handsome reward to anyone who could slay the beast. A hero called Owen fancied himself something of a Witcher and rose up to the challenge. Before he went, he consulted a wise old man, who predicted that the beast would bite him and he would die. The next day, Owen donned a disguise and went to see the man again to ask for his fate if he were to fight the Gwiber. The man told him that he would suffer a broken neck and die.

The third day, Owen disguised himself as yet someone else – a miller this time – and asked the old man the same question again.

The wise man predicted that the hero would drown and die.Owen was fearless, and given that the old man had given him three different predictions, it was obvious that he had no idea what he was talking about. Therefore, Owen should be able to fight the beast without fear of any of the three predictions coming true.

And so, he fought the monstrous Gwiber but the beast took to the sky and bit Owen in his shoulder. The hero slashed his sword but he was wounded and slipped. He fell on a rocky outcrop and broke his neck before tumbling into the water and drowning. Thus, all three predictions had come true, and Owen died.

Later, his friends found his body and avenged him by shooting the Gwiber with arrows when it was sleeping, killing the beast for good.

Source

:https://allaboutdragons.com/dragons/The_Gwiber_of_Penmachno

(image source 1: Collette J. Ellis) (image source 2: Churchman’s Cigarettes, image found on nannau.wales)

List of creatures so far

#dragons #dragon #mythical creatures #mythology #Welsh mythology #Welsh folklore #folktales #folk tales #world mythology #myths #myth #monster #creature #monsters #creatures

30 notes · View notes

imnotusedtobeingloved · 4 years ago

Text

KISS HIM OR KILL HIM

(PLEASE DON’T REPOST/REBLOG)

Warnings: heartbreak, betrayal.

Pairing: Zuko x f!Reader

Characters: Zuko, Katara, Aang, Toph, Sokka.

Requested: I guess?

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, nor the gif. Credit to the owners.

Summary: Part five of “destiny is a funny thing”.

previous part

A/N: Welcome to the next part!

Have fun reading!

The sound of the waves rang in your ears as you sat in Appa’s saddle, resting quietly. You’d guided him through the night so the boys could rest, until Aang took the reigns this morning. Since your departure you’d done nothing but fly and a glimpse to your left told you that Zuko was getting incredibly bored. “We’ve been riding for hours. I don’t know why, but I thought this thing would be a lot faster,” Appa growled from below, sending vibrations through your body. “Appa’s right, Zuko,” Aang said, turning his head towards him. “In our group, typically we start our missions with a more up-beat attitude,”

“I can’t believe this,” The prince whispered beside you, lying down shortly after. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” you heard the Avatar say, before you closed your eyes, trying to get a little bit of sleep before you’d arrive.

You woke up, just as the island came into view. You’d barely noticed Zuko snuggling his head against your tigh while you slept. Careful you pulled away, before he opened his eyes. You didn't feel anger anymore, every time you looked at him. But you also weren't ready for this type of closure yet. “Wake up!” You said, when you’d made it to the other side of the saddle, watching him blink sleepily. “We’re here!” You got down from the saddle, landing directly between the broken pieces of the old temples.

When everyone finally dismounted, you turned towards the buildings. “Whoa!” The three of you stood next to each other, staring in awe, before you slowly started walking. “Even though these buildings are ancient, there’s something eerily familiar about them,” You nodded. “I can tell the Fire Sages’ temples are somehow descended from these,” The air was warm. It was a serene and calm atmosphere. Almost too calm for your liking.

“Okay. We’ve learned something about architecture,” Aang said looking around curiously. “Hopefully, we’ll learn something about firebending too. The past can be a great teacher,”

snap!

Suddenly Aang triped, yelping, as the path in front of him went down, leaving spikes in it’s wake. You gasped and reached a hand out, trying to catch him, but your fingertips barely grazed his clothes. Your heart stopped for a second when he nearly fell onto the sharp edges, but he managed to blow a blast of air from his mouth, somersaulting to the other side. “Guys, I think the past is trying to kill me,” Zuko knelt down, taking a look at the trap. “I can’t believe it,” He muttered, picking up the tripwire to inspect it. “This booby trap must be centuries old and it still works,”

“There’s probably a lot more. Maybe this means we shouldn’t be here,” The Avatar mulled, gripping his glider tightly. Next to you Zuko took two steps back, running along the wall adjoining the path, before jumping down on the other side. You raise a brow, running straight for the other side. With a gust of wind from Aang, you managed to jump right to them, without getting hurt. “Where’s that up-beat attitude you were talkin’ about?” Zuko said, dusting off his shirt. He smiles as Aang turns back. “Besides, people don’t make traps unless they’ve got something worth protecting,” You huffed, walking along as you could feel his gaze on your back. “Sounds like you’ve got experience with that,”

As you walked on, the buildings around you started to look less and less like ruins. The father in, the more intact they were. Cravings decorated the wall and scluptures framed the doors. One caught your eye in particular. It was a carving of a person surrounded by two dragon, breathing fire. “Look, this seems promising,” Aang said, pointing towards their rigid bodies. “Though I’m not sure what this tells us about the original source of firebending,”

“They look pretty angry to me,” Zuko threw in. “I thought the dragons were friends with the Sun Warriors,” He turned towards the Avatar, before answering. “Well, they had a funny way of showing it,” The prince lowered his gaze for a moment, before he turned around and went.

“Zuko,” You said, making him stop in his tracks. “Something happened to the dragons in the last hundred years. Something you’re not telling us,” The fire bender closed his eyes for a moment, hesitating to answer, before opening them again. “My great-grandfather Sozin happened,” He started to explain how the dragon hunting started, as you crossed a bridge. How they became nothing but trophies. And how they became extinct. “The last great dragon was conquered long before I was born,” He said, palm touching one of the dragon statues. “By my uncle,” Aang tilted his head. “But I thought your uncle was ... I don’t know, good? “

“He had a complicated past,” Zuko spoke. “Family tradition, I guess. Let’s just move on,” He quickly marched on, which left you and Aang to catch up to him. Soon you arrived at a vertical column, a sunstone burried in it’s center, above a wall with two gates. The prince stopped in his tracks, as the Avatar rushed forward, pushing and pulling at the doors. “It’s locked up!” Zuko rubbed his head, looking around. “Wait,” He took a step backward, looking at the place he stood in a second before, where the light from the sunstone beamed on a circular craving.

”It’s a celestial calendar. Just like the Fire Sages have in their temples,” He looked back up at the gates. “I bet that sunstone opens the door, but only when sunlight hits at just the right angle,”

You confirmed it with a nod and agreed. “Yeah, On the solstice,” An experated sigh passed Aang’s lips. “Monkeyfeathers! The solstice again? We can’t wait here that long,” Zuko unsheathed one of his swords. “No, we can’t,” You raised a brow, crossing your arms. “What do you have in mind?”

“We might be able to speed time up,” He placed his sword on the ground in a particular angle, causing it to reflect the light. “Let’s see if we can outsmart the sunstone,” The reflection, being guided by Zuko, moved over the other sunstone on top of the gates.

“Nothing’s happening,” Aang said, watching quietly. “Come on ..,” The prince muttered, not giving up. Out of nowhere the ground started shaking, as the gates opened, only stopping when the inside was fully revealed.

The Avatar picked up his staff, walking up to the gates along with you. “You know, Zuko, I don’t care what everyone else says about you,” Aang nudged him with his elbow. “You’re pretty smart,” Zuko smiled at his compliment, until you snorted, and it fell realizing what he’d actually said.

Meanwhile the boy had already walked inside, looking around the dark room. He gasped at the big, angry looking statues. “Relax. They’re just statues,” Zuko said.

They were lined up in a circle, displaying different postures. ”It says this is something called the Dancing Dragon,” You read, and saw Aang imitate one of the poses out of the corner of your eye. A subtile ‘click’ sounded upon the corrent positioning of his foot, pressing a buttom. “Zuko, (Y/N), get over here! I want you to dance with me” The former pulled his hand back. “What?”

“Just do it,” The Avatar pulled the both of you with him, getting you into the right positions. Zuko groaned unwillingly. ”Let’s follow the steps of the statues,” You took the stance of the statue before you, moving along with the boys and similarily pushing the buttons on the ground. “Don’t you see? These aren’t dance moves. These statues are giving us a lesson,” You could hear Aang say from behind you, to which Zuko answered less enthousiastically. ”This better teach us some really good firebending,”

Upon performing the last move, something changed about the atmosphere. A part of the ground detracted, making a vertical column emerge, holding a yellow, egg-shaped sunstone. The air bender raised his hands in triumph. “Hurray!”

”Wait,” You interrupted his outburst. “What exactly is that?”

Zuko ran up to it, before you’d finished your scentense. “It’s some kind of mystical gemstone,” Aang raised his arms, as if reaching out to him. “Well, don’t touch it!” The prince, stopped to let the boy catch up with him. “Why not?”

“Did you already forget what happened out there with those spikes?” You reminded, as Aang turned to look around, warily, and added: “I’m just very suspicious of giant glowing gems sitting on pedestals,”

The fire bender ignored him, picking up the egg as Aang’s eyes twitched. “It feels almost alive,” He described, before attempting to put it back, but it was to late. The three of you screamed out in horror, as a geyser of viscous slime erupted from the pedestal and pushed Zuko toward the grates in the ceiling, sticking him there. “Zuko!” You screamed, looking up to him.

“Oh no, it’s another trap!” Aang shot a worried glance at the struggling prince, as more slime shot from the column, forcing you both to retreat.

“Ugh, I can’t pull free. It’s like some kind of glue,” Zuko’s voice sounded from above, unable to break free. “Ugh! You’re unbelievable!” You yelled as more substance burst out. Spirits... sometimes you really didn’t know wheter you wanted to kiss him or kill him. “(Y/N), watch out!” Aang grabbed you around the waist, jumped across the slime and took his staff on the other side of the room. You clung to his robe, gasping, as he climbed on a statues head, sending a gust of wind towards Zuko, trying to get him free. But it only managed to push him from his back to his front. “Aang!” His ears perk up at the panic in your voice, upon seeing the slime still rising drastically. Soon enough his staff got caught in the substance,with all attempts to pull it out failing. “Hold on to me!” He says, jumping up to the grates, as slime engulfs the room. You landed next to each other, both groaning as you struggled to get your hands free. “I can’t move! Zuko, do something” Aang grunts, squishing you between him and the prince. “Me? I can’t move either!” You hiss at his words. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place!”

A groan left your mouth, as the slime presses the air out of your lung and then... ceased. “It stopped,” You tried to turn your head to look at him, but the slime wouldn’t let you, clinging to every part of your body. “Great observation, Aang,”

“At least we have air. Maybe if we stay calm, we can figure a way out of this,” The fire bender said, staring up into the sky.

But you didn’t. The three of you stayed glued to the grates, until the sun sunk and the darkness came. You closed your eyes and sighed. “You just had to pick up the glowing egg, didn’t you?”

”At least I made something happen, (Y/N)! If it were up to you, we’d never have made it past the courtyard,” You growled, opening your mouth to reprimand him, but Aang interrupted the air first. “Heeeelp” He yelled, mouth wide open.

“Who are you yelling to?” Zuko and you both screamed back at the same time, growing more agitated by the second. “Nobody’s lived here for centuries,” The prince added. “Well, what do you think we should do?”

Anything to get us out of here, you thought. You’d spend hours staring at the sky, and despite it’s beauty, it was getting dull.

“Think about our place in the universe‌?” You heard a sigh on your left at Zuko’s answer, just as a foot, slipped into a bound sandal stepped into view.

“

Who is down there?

”

tags: @zvkonation @viva-la-millennia @randomness501 @drheinzd @kaylove12 @duh-dobrik @yeetscreetiwannaeat @ ashnkamfeun @hailkyoshi @shortmexicangirl @animexholic @sorrythatspussynal

#zuko x reader #zuko fic #avatar zuko #zuko x y/n

89 notes · View notes

airgetlamhh · 5 years ago

Text

Thoughts on Lostbelt 2

Longpost ahead.

So.

Lostbelt 2. Finally played it after so long, and this will contain spoilers.

To make sure everyone knows what they’re getting into, I’ll give the thesis statement right here: Lostbelt 2 is bad.

The entire time I played through the story, I kept waiting for it to pick up. I kept waiting for it to shrug off the poor pacing, the deus ex machinas, the random things just happening for the convenience of the plot. I kept waiting for it to shrug off the poor characterization, the constant telling instead of showing, the moral myopia. It never did.

From nearly the very start to finish, Lostbelt 2 is bad.

We start off fairly fine! A desperate ploy to sneak through the Lostbelt to meet up with the allies we’ve learned about, the Wandering Sea, interrupted by a Lostbelt Servant attacking us with the intent of stealing the Paper Moon that allows us to perform Zero Sails. All of that is a decent setup!

And then we’re told how strong this Saber is. How incredible they are. How their swordplay surpasses anything else they’ve ever seen, how they desperately wish that Musashi was there, how no no, he didn’t use his sword, he only parried! Things that Sherlock Holmes observes, not Mashu, not the one who’s actually been fighting for two years now, so Mashu seems borderline useless. Holmes figures out it’s Sigurd because...he uses a sword in a Scandinavian Lostbelt, and he figured out that Holmes used magic because Holmes fire magic lasers at him. From this, Holmes is able to pinpoint Sigurd’s identity, and that’s just the setup for the rest of the chapter, really.

To be specific, what I mean is that we will constantly be told how incredible someone is with very little evidence, and the plot will bend and warp to make certain things happen.

The scene does exactly one good thing, which is the foreshadowing of Surtr. Coming into it knowing that aspect allowed me to appreciate little bits like Surtr talking about Heroic Spirits like he wasn’t one, and Surtr not being able to kill Mashu because Sigurd resisted it. But that’s about all that was good in the scene, and all it really does is set up a consistent thing of Surtr being one of the only good parts - until he isn’t, of course.

I’m going to shift here from specifics to characters, because otherwise I’d be rehashing the entire story and I don’t have the time or effort required for that. That being said, it is difficult to decide where to start, so I’ll go right to the very building blocks of the story, the themes.

Lostbelt 2 is, very obviously, attempting to have a theme of different kinds of love throughout the story. Part of this is because it’s very much set up like an otome game that the author Hikaru Sakurai would write, with Ophelia in the center, but it’s a more general theme too, with Skadi and the others all building up towards it. Now, love is an absolutely wonderful thing to build your themes around, exploring and examining it can be great for stories. Beasts themselves do that, examining different varieties of genuine, but toxic love that allow them to be well-meaning monsters.

The problem is that Lostbelt 2 does not engage with these themes on anything but a surface level. Skadi represents maternal love, so she constantly talks about how everyone is her children and how she’s their mother. No examination of the desire to see her children grow, the pain she feels when they fight, the struggle of forcing herself to cling so tightly knowing that it’s suffocating them and going to kill them before they reach 26.

Napoleon represents passionate love, so he flirts with every woman he sees. No examination of why he’s so passionate or what drives him to burn so brightly, beyond a token mention that for some reason when he’s summoned he’s driven to seek out a lover, another aspect of things happening to serve the plot.

Sigurd and Brynhildr represent true, romantic love, so they act mushy the entire chapter from the moment the real Sigurd appears. Now, don’t get me wrong, I liked their scenes a lot and I’m happy that they chose that portrayal instead of the one I was afraid of where it was yandere jokes day in day out. But there’s no engagement with the fundamentals of their love, nothing that tests it, even the existing complications with Brynhildr’s tragic summoning are swept away with a single line of “I can resist them better now maybe because my saint graph is broken”, so ultimately there’s no conflict whatsoever. And sure, that’s nice, but it’s not very good if you’re trying to build your story around a theme of love.

Next, Surtr, who represents obsessive, dangerous love. I honestly actually think Surtr’s done well, even if the love he happens to represent is the least positive one. Surtr is capable of only one thing, destruction, and when he fell for Ophelia in that moment where she saw him and he saw her, he decided that if he ever had the chance, he would repay her the only way he knew how: allowing her to watch as he destroyed everything. When he’s summoned, he acts basically like the possessive one in an otome game, constantly talking about how Ophelia is his woman, getting angry when Napoleon flirts with her, spending most of his time pushing things between them as far as they can go etc. etc. I’m not particularly a fan of how his desire to repay Ophelia battling against his singular purpose transformed him into a typical possessive bastard boyfriend, but it’s at least engaged with on a deeper level.

Finally, Ophelia. She’s the otome game protagonist here, born into an controlling family and finally freed, hiding a secret special power, beloved by almost all the men involved in the chapter while she’s harboring feelings for someone else, even has the typical friendship route with Mashu going on. Her love is a love that she doesn’t acknowledge, but that’s all it is. It’s never engaged with beyond the fact that she clearly loves Kirschtaria but insists she doesn’t, and her final scene as she dies is Mashu telling her that yes, she did love Kirschtaria. That’s all.

For a theme of love that’s supposedly woven into the Lostbelt, it’s barely examined at all. It’s not well written, and in comparison to Lostbelt 1′s theme of what it means to live in a world where the strong devour the weak and how deeply it examined and engaged with that, it’s a genuine disappointment.

Now, to move onto the plot, it’s...in the abstract, it’s fine. Chaldea is intercepted and forced to fight in the Lostbelt and ends up dragged into the overarching ploy by Surtr to release himself and burn everything. That’s a perfectly fine story, but the problem is that when you get to the moment-to-moment stuff, it falls apart completely.

Skadi is constantly talked up as this incredibly powerful true goddess, not merely a Divine Spirit, and we know she can see and hear our every move because of her snow. How does the story work around this borderline omniscience within her Lostbelt? Skadi just decides not to do anything about Chaldea with zero rhyme or reason. We need to sneak into the palace and avoid alerting the guards, except Skadi already knows exactly where we are, except that doesn’t matter because we need to sneak in for some reason. We get captured with no plan to escape, and it just so happens that not only was Skadi keeping a Divine Spirit amalgamation locked in the dungeons too, but that she can piggyback on you making a contract with Napoleon (pure dumb luck you hadn’t done it before) and force a connection with you too, and then cast spells to hide you while you escape. Skadi knows we’re trying to free Brynhildr, who is the sole threat to Sigurd and Skadi’s own Valkyries in the entire Lostbelt? She just decides to do nothing at all.

So much of the plot happens because either Skadi makes terrible decisions to do nothing, even though she knows Chaldea is there to destroy her entire world, or it happens because random shit goes on that couldn’t have been planned for like Sitonai. Shit like Surtr suddenly becoming Fafnir and being able to use the Evil Dragon Phenomenon to brainwash Ophelia somehow, like Ophelia’s Mystic Eye being able to do anything the plot demands, even when it explicitly goes against its existing capabilities like rewinding time on Sigurd’s wounds, like Bryn and Surtr somehow being able to resist the effects of her eye with no buildup or explanation. It’s poorly written in terms of the exact events that happen, and that all culminates in Skadi’s one cool moment, where she declares she’s going to kill the seven billion we fight for for the sake of her ten thousand...and then right after, it reveals that Skadi was going easy on us and refused to use her runes of instant death for no reason even though she was fighting for the survival of her entire world. The moment to moment plot is not good, and neither is what comes next, the worldbuilding.

In Skadi’s Lostbelt, half the world is covered in Surtr’s flames, while the other half is blanketed in Skadi’s snow. Where the two areas meet are the only places where life can grow, and so Skadi set up villages there. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough food for everyone, so she enforces strict population control: if you are not the mother or father of a child by 15, you are sent away to be killed by the giants. If you are the mother or father of a child, you are sent away to be killed at 25 instead. Through this tragic method, Skadi enforces a limit of 100 villages with 100 people, a total population of 10000. This is all fine.

But take a closer look at what we actually see, and this falls apart. First, the giants. The giants are immortal and never need to eat. They do nothing but sleep all day and attack any human that comes close to them. Later, it’s revealed that they’ll attack any heat source including Valkyries, except we know that’s not true. Giants never attack each other, they never attack and destroy any of the plant life around them, they never attack the Lostbelt tree seeds, they even fight alongside mass-produced Valkyries before it’s revealed that Skadi and the three originals can mind-control them! They exist only to destroy, but Skadi can control them with her masks and indeed uses them as labour, keeping them chained up in her castle to be brought out and controlled as needed, or using them to guard Brynhildr’s castle.

Worst of all, the first time we meet anyone in the chapter, it’s Gerda, who is sneaking out of her village to go to the massive liveable area close to Village 23. This area happens to be the only place she can go to get medicinal herbs that she needs or one of the people in her village will die in childbirth. This area is also full of giants, who have not destroyed it despite being fertile and full of life and heat, and who are allowed to take this place that could be used to grow more food for humans who need it, and simply stay there doing nothing.

Now, this is where I thought the game would engage with things. How Skadi, in professing her love for all her children, is actually being cruel and unfair. They certainly set it up in the conversations she has, where she casually mentions how humans must die for her coexistence to continue. Skadi chooses to keep the giants alive despite the fact that they are all braindead and can do nothing but kill and destroy the moment their masks are removed. She chooses to keep them alive even though it comes at the expense of the humans who must die when the giants never make that same sacrifice. She chooses to allow them fertile land even though they cannot farm nor do they need food, and in doing so deprive the humans of potentially living longer, having more supplies to do so. She makes these strange choices and then later reveals she can control the giants to do her bidding, and it all seems to fall into place.

What we see from how she’s characterized early on is that the system is unfair and Skadi is unwilling to change, because it benefits her tremendously. Gerda’s village didn’t have enough herbs to save the children forced to breed by 15, and despite Skadi’s omniscience letting her know that Gerda had snuck out and was trying to save a life, she did nothing. There was no system in place to beg a Valkyrie to get these herbs, and no indication whatsoever that Skadi would use her powers to control the giants to save Gerda’s life. The picture painted is someone who cares about humanity not out of true care, but simply out of obligation. Those who disobey her rules, even for good reasons, are left to die by the engines of destruction she keeps alive.

That’s not the story it tells later on, though. Skadi, portrayed from the start as this all-powerful goddess with complete control over everything, is revealed to be far weaker than we thought, and far less monstrous. Ignore all the times she did control the giants, she actually can’t do it all that well. Ignore all the times she declared she would not allow anyone she loved to be killed, but chose not to act to tell her Valkyries or her giants or anything else to save either Chaldea or Gerda. Ignore the evidence we see on screen that there’s more land that’s simply taken over by the giants, Skadi can only make those initial 100 villages and can’t make any more. Skadi is not bad. Skadi did the best she could. Skadi is morally right.

Please love Skadi, there’s no complicated moral quandary here, she’s just Good.

Comparisons to Lostbelt 1 are impossible to avoid. Both have the same basic cause, a calamity that was impossible to predict and impossible to avert. The stagnation that dooms a Lostbelt created by the kings in question in their desperation to survive. Ivan turned humanity into the Yaga and created a world of strength, where progress is impossible because everyone in his new world was too busy devouring each other to work together. Skadi created a world of weakness, where progress is impossible because she limited the population to avoid everyone dying out. There is, however, one crucial difference between the two. Not in terms of story, not in terms of characters, not in terms of themes.

“Your existence itself has already become a grave sin.”

That one line, spoken to Ivan, is the biggest difference between how the story engages things. In both Lostbelts, Ivan and Skadi did horrible things and made horrible choices because they had to, for the sake of survival. Ivan twisted humanity into monsters that lost capacity for mercy or empathy, while Skadi forced brutal population control and careless death on humanity because of her refusal to allow the giants to be destroyed. Both of them did horrible things, but only one is held to account by the story.

What Ivan did was evil, and the story recognises it. It doesn’t accept the excuse that it was all necessary for survival, because that’s irrelevant. It’s evil regardless. This same sentiment should have been expressed with Skadi, but it’s not. Ivan is condemned, but Skadi is absolved. She had no choice. She did the best she could. After building her up as all-powerful, the end of the story instead destroys her agency and power in its haste to prevent any kind of responsibility falling on Skadi’s head. Even to the very end, where she declares that she’ll kill all seven billion lives we fight for for the sake of her ten thousand, she holds back and allows us to win, despite how it butchers her character.

The biggest irony in all this is that Ivan’s world was worse than hers in ways. There was no way for the blizzards to stop, no meat besides for the demonic beasts. Crops couldn’t grow, and instead of living in peace, the Yaga were constantly tormented and killed by the Oprichniki. There were no liveable areas like there are in Lostbelt 2, no merciful ruler that sees all, and controls the greatest threats, no peaceful villages where food can be grown. There’s far more justification for Ivan to claim he had no choice and that he did all he did for survival, because it’s hard to see what his choices were. But Skadi? Skadi intentionally does not act and intentionally allows suffering and pain to come to her children, both actively by not saving Gerda, and passively by allowing the giants to take land they don’t need. Despite this, Skadi is absolved, because the story desperately wants her to be a tragic waifu that you love.

There’s lots more I could talk about. How Sitonai was pointless and existed only for a pathetic FSN reference. How Gerda was a cowardly and manipulative piece of writing compared to Patxi. How Ophelia’s story of always being told what to do is resolved not by her taking the step to freedom herself, but being told to free herself by someone else. The constant repetition that plagues the chapter, the weirdly prevalent sexism that everyone gets in on when it comes to Ophelia’s love life, the nonsense of the final battle itself, the absolute nonsense of Skadi being Scáthach-Skadi. I could even talk about how I’d fix the chapter, because boy howdy there’s a lot there.

There’s lots more I could talk about, but this is already very long, and I think it speaks for itself. Obviously asks are available if anyone wants me to examine them in more detail, but for now, I’ll finish off with one last reminder.

Lostbelt 2 is bad.

#FGO #fgo lostbelt #cosmos in the lostbelt #Lostbelt 2 #Fate Grand Order #Fate/Grand Order

138 notes · View notes

mustyrosewater · 5 years ago

Text

𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒔

𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔 : 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅, 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕, 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 : 𝑹 18+

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 : 6,159

if somebody were to say that a brothel was only a place for people to submit to their desires and fuck pretty girls, they would only be half right. in westeros, brothels were so much more than that. if the walls could talk, they would be spinning tales for all to hear, whispering secrets that not even kings could tell with confidence, secrets that some would rather keep secret than out in the open for all to see. secrets that people would be willing to hand over countless riches in order to be kept within the walls. brothels held the darkest truths, truths that could bring a man to his knee’s if one would so desire. dorne was arguably the most perfect place that one could own such an establishment, a popular trading hub among westeros, men traveled in and out of its waters everyday, men who had been all across westeros, who met with many notable figures, and thus, also carried many secrets. in the comfort of a woman’s arms, a man could let anything slip out, in the comfort of a woman’s arms they felt safe. little did they know that the presence of a whore was just as dangerous as having a sword held to their throats, perhaps even more so. when drunk on dornish wine, they were even more likely to allow their secrets to be spilled and let their hidden truths unfold, all into the ears of the woman who held them. you had learnt from a very young age, that to traverse anywhere in this world, secrets were more precious than gold, more powerful than the tallest castles walls, and more dangerous than a dragon. by the time of your thirteenth name day, you had already stacked up a deadly armada of secrets, through listening to men talk or forgotten letters making their way into your possession. by the age of seventeen, you’d brought men to their knees with these secrets. making friends with the whores that they would forget about within minutes, doing them favors in exchange for the secrets they held. it was not surprising how many men were willing to pay a hefty price to keep their hidden ‘habits’ from making their way into the light. saving the riches that they would give you, you soon had lords and ladies from all over westeros sending you shares of their wealth in exchange for keeping their secrets. all under a carefully disguised alias, they had never discovered who you truly were, and they never would so long as you wanted to. it had taken several years of your life, but eventually, you had come into possession of your own brothel. you had not an exact memory as you how it ended up in your care, perhaps a particularly friendly lord’s version of payment or left to you by a previous owner. how it came into your possession was a memory you held little care for. the girls, your girls, your little doves, they were the only thing in this cruel world you held any true care towards. your little doves were the ones who collected your secrets now, in exchange for the secrets they would give you, you gave them protection, a home, warm meals and anything else they may want to ask for. though that was not usually a large tax for you, most you had recruited from the street, others would hear of you themselves and come to you from broken homes. they were never forced into their profession, never deceived; so many men had attempted to deceive you so many times throughout your life, you would be a fool to repeat their behavior yourself. their duties were made clear to them, you explained the things that they may have to do, but always reassured them that if this was not what they wanted, they would be free to leave, but would not receive anything from you. nobody had ever been successful in this world by giving away their services for free, thus you would not give your charity to those who did not work for it. that was what you taught your girls, their hard work was the reason they had a place to sleep and a belly full of food. you had not had the luxury of being born into nobility, made obvious by the word sand at the end of your name rather than that of any noble house throughout westeros, you were a bastard, you gained nothing in pretending that you weren’t. the knowledge of your parents was virtually unknown to you, you knew nothing of your father and very little of your mother. all you knew was that she was the source of your dornish heritage and a prostitute. you were born in a brothel, it was where you grew up and where you learnt your first ever secret, one you held closely to this day, one that you would never tell, after all, it would no longer be a secret then. knowledge of your establishment and its reputation grew quickly, receiving high praise from your several donors being an added benfit, and thus you quickly gained more high profile clients, even lords from the south began to make their way through your doors, eager to experience a night with one of your girls. one of those clients was one of dornish royalty, your own homeland. prince oberyn was no stranger to your establishment, in fact, he had been on your very first nobleman. you could remember him saying that there was not a brothel in dorne that he was unaware of. as far as you knew he seemed to be impressed, as he quickly became a regular, often bringing visiting lords with him to experience one of his favorite establishments in his homeland, often telling them that a dornish brothel was unlike anything they had experienced. you were unsure if he was aware of the source of your wealth, he never asked. of course, you never expected him to. there were several different stories that strangers had strung together over the years, some claimed that you were descended from a lost line of kings that had left you their riches, others claimed that you were a witch who used blood magic in order to stay young and seduce men into handing over their coin. you always found particular amusement in that one. these rumors and stories did nothing to deter your customers. if anything, it only brought more in. men would come all the way from the north to experience your girls, some even hoped to have you for themselves. they would be sorely disappointed every single time however. today has begun like any other, you had awoken to the sound of birdsong, along with the hustle and bustle of the markets outside, the same as every morning. you’d quickly gotten out of your large bed, not before untangling yourself from the mix of golden and maroon bedding that you woke up eveloped in. the silks were soft against your skin and always left your hair in a pleasant mop of messy curls that you never bothered to untangle. placing a fresh layer of kohl around your eyes, you smudged with your fingers before leaving your room and knocking on all of the girls rooms, waking them up at the same time as always, a routine that they were all used to by now. unlike other brothels around dorne, you did not open at any particular time, the brothel opened when you wanted it to, or more accurately, when you finally awoke after a night of indulging in exotic fruits and wine, often with all your girls enjoying it with you after long day of work. your dark maroon dress held itself loosely over your body and flowed as you walked through the halls and towards the entrance, your golden earrings dangled playfully with every step you took, and your golden bangles clinked together softly as your arms swayed back and fourth. your steps made little noise, mainly due to the fact that you had an absence of shoes. wearing shoes inside was something that you considered distasteful and thus, your customers would discard their shoes at the entrance, a golden rule that they always followed. what you hadn’t counted on happening on this morning, was you walked to the entrance and unlocking the doors, only to hear a swift knocking ring out just as you had began to walk away. this was somewhat normal, you were popular, people had been known to wait at the entrance. what had left you ever so slightly surprised was opening the door and seeing oberyn standing there. you knew the prince to enjoy his mornings and it was almost unheard for him to be out and about this early, especially at a brothel, that did not normally happen until later in the day and even then, he would have a posse of other men with him, eager to show your girls off. there was only two other men with him this time, men you didn’t recognize. judging by their finely stitched robes of emerald green and brown, they were almost certainly highborn, tyrells if the roses stitched into their sleeves was anything to go by. “prince oberyn, this is a pleasant surprise.” you drawled, not caring to hide the still slightly tired tone in your voice, if they couldn’t already tell you had just awoken judging by the fact that you were squinting slightly from the bright sunlight suddenly flooding onto your face. “i see you have brought some friends.” you continued, letting your eyes travel up and down the two men who, quite frankly, looked terrified. whether it was of your or their surroundings you didn’t know and you didn’t care to ask. “i just thought i could show off my favorite establishment to my visitors from highgarden.” you were right, definitely tyrells. leaning against the door frame and gesturing to the two men, you ignored the princes blatant flattery and only let a sly smile cross your features. you tilted your head, pretending to deliberate whether or not to let them in as your eyes traveled back over to the two men. you made eye contact with one of them, a face full of freckles and strawberry blond hair, paired with brown eyes, a rather striking combination, especially seeing as the tyrells were known for their fiery red heads. “my girls do love their redheads.” she smirked as you spoke, practically leering at the man who could have been any older than twenty five, he quickly blushed and broke eye contact with you, suddenly deciding that the ground was very, very interesting. how adorable. “i suppose i can make an exception for my prince.” you bowed dramatically, making a show of letting the three men inside. “i’ll just go an get my little doves, they do enjoy their beauty sleep.” you smiled and quickly turned your back, leaving the three men in the entrance as you walked up the small set of stairs quickly. rousing your girls from their rest was easier than one may think, you had already awoken them earlier, it was only a matter of telling them to come downstairs and to bring food and drink for the lords that had come to visit. before long, you returned with your girls in tow, three of which were now carrying trays of exotic fruits followed by wine made from grapes grown right here in dorne. guiding the three lords to an area with several couches, you gestured to the girls to put the food down in front of them. within seconds the girls were already all over the two tyrells, who seemed to be soaking up the attention like spounges, stupid grins befalling their faces as your girls sat on their laps and played with their hair. “should my lords need anything else, you need only ask.” you bowed, the smile never leaving your face the entire time. something that you’d noticed right away, was oberyn’s outright rejection of your girls attention. did he not feel like it today? had something changed? maybe he preffered the company of a male today? you were unsure. “actually, there are a few things i wish to discuss with you.” he spoke up, standing from his spot on the couch “with your permission of course.” this was odd. you’d had pleasant small talk with oberyn in the past, but the way he’d worded this made it sound as if there was a problem, you didn’t like problems, problems were bad for business. nodding slowly, you turned your head back to your girls and smiled once more. “look after them while i’m away little doves.” they all smiled and waved goodbye as you walked up the stairs, oberyn following closely behind you. even as you walked in front of him, you could feel his eyes drilling into the back of your head, the intense stare of the red viper was one that could be felt across rooms, much less when he was meters behind you. that paired with the anticipation of what he wanted to discuss with you was causing your heart rate to speed up ever so slightly, enough that it was noticeable. as soon as you reached the door to your chambers, you swung it open with little hesitation and stepped inside, walking straight towards a small table that had been set up with fruit and wine, no doubt by one of your girls. while pouring two goblets for yourself and oberyn, you hear the door shut behind you and take an intake of breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. being alone in a room with oberyn suddenly feels so much more intense when you know there are things he wants to discuss. you turn with the two goblets in your hands and offer him one, which he takes with a kind smile. you knew better than to take a smile as a sign to let your guard down, there had been several men who came and went, men who hid behind a smile, you knew better. you return his smile with little apprehension on your face and sit down, gesturing for him to sit across to you. taking a sip of your wine, you silently hope that it may help to strengthen your nerves. you weren’t one that was known to cower in the presence of many men, you had even kicked a fair few onto the street for hurting your girls. oberyn was not many men, he was not a man, he was the red viper, if he so wanted to, he could kill you right here and now and nobody would even hear you scream. out of pure habit, you let your hand briefly glide over the dagger strapped to your side, a gift from one of your past donors that never left your side. you watched with narrowed eyes and oberyn sat across from you, taking a few drinks from his goblet before placing it back on the table. “what did you wish to discuss? i do hope you haven’t grown bored of us my prince.” you had to play coy, whatever reason he’d called you up to the privacy of your own chambers, you intended to stay one step ahead of him the entire time, that was the way you’d survived in this life and that was the way you were going to keep surviving. “i would not dream of it.” he began, his eye’s never breaking contact with yours as he spoke “i am simply curious as to what you plan to present to me next, i have been a loyal customer for years have i not?” you forced yourself not to furrow your brows in confusion, instead nodding in agreement. “of course.” you paused, only for a moment. the air was tense, but not in a threatening way, it felt tense for an entirely different reason that you couldn’t put your finger on. “i’m not sure what else i could offer you that i haven’t already, you know my little doves are always willing to serve.” you stood when you finished, taking your goblet with you and walking to your large window, looking out onto the view you had of dorne. from where you stood, you could see the docks and wooden boats travelling in and out of port, no doubt carrying goods to be sailed off to kings landing. the sun shone down brightly onto the crystal blue waters and beaches of dorne. your home. you had hardly known anywhere else your entire life and you wouldn’t have it any other way, the people you’d met, the things you’d done, all in your home. the shit infested streets of kings landing held little interest to you, the freezing winds of the north were undesireable in your eyes, here, in dorne, lied the true beauty that westeros had to offer. beyond the sea lay a child on the iron throne, a targaryen girl in the east with three dragons and winterfell in ruins. something big was coming to the seven kingdoms, you could feel it in your bones, something cold, something unfeeling, more bloodthirsty than any king that had come before as dangerous as thousands of armies. the seven kingdoms were going to be shaken. it didn’t take very long before you felt oberyns presence behind you. he was so close that you could practically feel his breath on the back of your neck, you were able to smell his scent, sandalwood and musk, it was practically an aphrodisiac to some. before long, his breath had traveled from your neck to the back of your ear, resulting in a sharp intake of breath from you as you quickly realized he had you trapped in your window sill, breathing on your ear and practically pressed up against you, he had you exactly where you imagined he wanted you. “none of your little doves are appealing to me anymore.” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, only loud enough so that the two of you could hear. his whispers sent a shiver running down your spine, resulting in your eyes fluttering closed. you could physically feel your heart rate transitioning into a faster speed, his presence behind you was having an affect it had never had you before, an effect that neither man nor woman had given you for a long while. you could practically feel the lust radiating off of him. “and what is it that appeals to you now my prince?” you asked, your head turning to the side slightly so that the breath that was once on your ear is now against your cheek, his lips are ghosting over your cheekbone, though your eyes are still shut. you’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t physically showing the effect he was having on you. your breathing had grown ragged already, your cheeks were turning a soft pink and you were shivering, it was obvious. the prince chose not to answer you, instead, he gripped your hips tightly and brought your bodies together, pressing his face against your cheek, breathing in deep breathes of your scent. you gasped softly, fighting back the small sound of surprise the threatened to leave you. his chest pressed tightly against your back, his hardness grinding against the back of your thigh. “oberyn…” you breathed out, only now opening your eyes which immediately landed on his own, a deep dark brown filled with lust. and secrets. before you could say anything else he leaned down, planning to capture your lips in his own, his eyes beginning to shut as he leaned his head further down. your hand shot up form your side, gripping his chin tightly just as his lips barely ghosted over your own, so close that you were able to feel the soft breaths coming from his mouth on your lips. you stared at each other in silence, your tight chin on his chin never once leaving, so much so that you were fairly certain you were going to leave marks. pushing his face away from your own, you let go harshly and turned suddenly, gripping the golden collar of his tunic roughly and shoving him backwards. the prince did not seem to mind your roughness in the slightest, in fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. shoving him down on one of the chairs, you placed your hand flat on his chest. it wasn’t placed there to keep him sitting, you knew that if he wanted to take back control, he could in seconds, the only reason you were given control was because he allowed it, he could easily overpower you if he chose to. your fingers curled against his chest, digging into the golden fabric as you bit your bottom lip, staring down into his eyes intensely. this was all about power, whoever had the most power was the one who was going to lead, and that person would you, you were going to be sure of that. “you are in control to often for my tastes.” you finally spoke, your voice low as you moved forward, eventually gripping onto his shoulders and gripping his shoulders, straddling his lap, all while making sure to make every single one of your movements painfully slow, only letting yourself graze over his crotch where you could now see a notable tent in his dark orange pants. part of you swelled with pride at the thought that this was the effect you’d had on the prince, the other part of you was still on high alert, you were still unsure why he’d taken such a sudden interest in you, it could have been for any reason. “by all means my dove, take the lead.” the nickname for you that he’d settled on only filled you with more stubbornness to stay in control, the way he lightly patronized you made you want him to submit to you, mind, body and soul. showing little hesitation, you reached up with one hand and placed it on his cheek, letting your fingers scratch through his facial hair softly. you felt his hands run over your hands and quickly gripped his wrists tightly, placing them back on the arms of the chair, with a soft thud. “patience my prince.” you practically purred, tilting your head and smirking softly. the idea of not touching did not seem to bother oberyn, if anything, he seemed eager to see how long he could last. returning you hand to his cheek, you continued to stroke his beard, eventually sliding your hand down to meet his throat, using your index finger to trace around the ball of his throat before travelling further down to where his tunic had been left open, exposing the tan skin of his chest. you slid your fingers across his soft skin and let your eyes travel back up to his face once more, checking to see how he was faring against your light touches. his face remained stoic, barely showing any sign of being bothered by what you were doing. though you supposed it was silly to think he was not inept as showing as little emotion as possible, he had after all, met several lords and ladies over the years, he was obviously very skilled at the game of thrones. you continued to let your hands travel as if they had a mind of their own, gliding over the silk fabrics of his tunic until you reached the lather belt snugly fit around his hips. curling your fingers around the material, you unbuckled it slowly, slow enough so that he could hear every little sound it made, feel every movement. you wanted it to be pure torture for him and pure bliss for you. the prince continued to stare at you as you began to undo the strings of his pants. you could have sworn he was even smirking. he wasn’t taking you seriously in the slightest. this filled you with determination, determination to catch him off guard, even if it were the smallest little bit. you wanted to stay one step ahead at all times, and that the moment, prince oberyn martell was in the lead. deciding to opt for a change of pace, you quickly let your hands slip into his pants, wrapping your hand around his half hard member and squeezing lightly. while doing so, you leaned forward and let his lips grow closer to yours, but you did not kiss him, you refused to give him that satisfaction. his sharp intake of breath told you all that you needed to know, this was how you had managed to catch him off guard, now, you were back in the race. beginning to pump him slowly, you breathed onto his lips, making sure that he could feel how close you were to him. you could see his lips beginning to form into a thin line, it was getting easier and easier to tell that he was having difficulty holding back, the more and more you pumped his cock, the harder it was getting for him to remain as stoic as he was mere minutes ago. continuing to rub him, you let your lips meet his jaw, still not touching his lips, and began to kiss along his jawline until you reached his neck. you latched onto the skin of his neck, sucking and biting every where you could. before long, you’d left behind a plethora of small bruises along his neck and chest. it was then that he finally, finally let out a noise. it was quiet as a mouse, but you heard it, a small grunt, the one sign you needed to tell you all you needed to know. a smile crept along your lips as you lifted your head back up to face him once more. “not so stoic now are we my prince?” you tilted your head, smirking at him. it was then in that moment that the prince let out a sound you were not prepared to hear, it wasn’t a grunt, it wasn’t a groan. the sound that the prince let out came from deep in his throat, it was a low growl, resembling that of a wild animal. as he growled, the prince leaned forward quickly, intending to capture your lips in his own. unluckily for him, you quickly turned your head to the side and leaned back, still unwilling to let him kiss you. quickly withdrawing your hand from his now fully erect cock, you stood and walked back to the table where your wine sat and picked it up, taking a rather long sip from your own golden goblet. your back was now facing where the prince was still sitting, a dangerous move you could admit, but you honestly didn’t care. you were finished with your session of teasing the prince, you were going to let him take you. or at least that was what you wanted him to think. it didn’t take long for the prince to be behind you again, practically grinding his crotch into your backside as his hands came around you, one curling around your waist in order to pull you further against him, the other wrapped gingerly around your throat, causing you to tilt your head back and allow him access to latch his lips to your neck, where he wasted no time in leaving marks of his own. you continued to sip your wine as he left love bites along your skin. the hand that was around your waist glided up to your chest where he groped at your breasts hungrily, his other hand that had been previously around your neck flowing down to do the same, resulting in him with both of his hands on your breasts, palming them aggressively and growling obscene things in your ear. “i need to be inside you.” he grunted, taking extra care to grind against you when those words left his mouth, resulting in a pleasant hum on your part. finally finishing the wine in your goblet, you slowly put it back down on the wooden table. the moment it hit the wood, oberyn wasted little time in letting one of his hands travel to your back, quickly reaching in between your shoulder blades only to push you down harshly, resulting in your chest being pressed into the table and your thighs digging into its edge. you smirked as you laid your head down on the table, bracing yourself with your hands as he kicked your legs apart hastily, obviously having no patience at for you or your teasing. he showed little hesitation in hiking up your maroon dress, letting on ring covered hand glide up the supple skin of your thigh, before finally reaching your soaked folds, which he quickly ran his hand across gathering your wetness along his fingers, letting out a satisfied hum as he did. he leaned forward so that his chest was pressed against your back and his mouth was against your ear, breathing heavily against it. “i certainly hope your wet enough to take my cock little dove.” his words were obscene, though you expected nothing less from the prince, only letting your smile grow in response, a response which he took as his confirmation to continue. as he began to pull down his own pants, your mind wandered for the briefest of moments. you never saw yourself as the type to sleep with nobility; you’d had your fair share of both men and women, several experiences that would make a sept crumble to its bare foundations. and yet, this was never something you pictured to be in the cards for you, preparing yourself to be taken by the red viper, the prince of dorne, who desired you just as much as you desired him in that moment. being distracted by your own thoughts, you were only brought back into reality when you felt his sinking his cock inside you with little to no remorse, not even waiting before setting a pace that was absolutely brutal. you let out a loud cry and let your mouth hang open as you shut your eyes, letting out sounds that you were fairly certain could be heard in every room of the brothel, though you knew nobody would interrupt you, they knew better than you risk getting either you or the prince upset. his hips rolled against yours, emitting sounds of flesh slapping against flesh as he fucked you harder than any man had before. it didn’t take long for the two of you to establish a rhythm, though you were having trouble keeping up due to the sheer force in his thrusts. unexpectedly, you felt one of his hands reach the back of your head, where he quickly wrapped his fingers around a bunch of your thick curly hair, wrapping it around his knuckles and tugging harshly, causing you to arch your back and grip the wooden table, which was now creaking and shuffling along the stone floor, causing even more sounds to emit which would alert anybody in range as to what the two of you were doing up in your chambers, not that anybody would need to wonder in the first place. his chest was once again pressed against your back, though this time, he buried his head into the crook of your neck, grunting and growling against your skin, some poor attempts to silence the sounds coming out of him as he fucked you like tomorrow was not going arrive, like the sun was not going to rise the next day. your arm reached behind you to run your fingers through his back hair as you let out your own set of whimpers and cries. “oberyn…please don’t stop..” you were able to cry about between your moans and whimpers, your words only seeming to egg the prince on as he began to go harder and faster if that were even possible. “my little dove, your pussy takes my cock so well..” he rasped into your ear, his words getting more and more muddled towards the end of his sentence. you practically mewled as you felt your walls beginning to tighten around the princes cock, he filled you so much, you were hardly even sure if you were actually managing to take all of him at once. the hand that wasn’t still currently wrapped in your hair and pulling it harshly reached down to your clit, beginning to rub it in fast pace circles that only made the coil that was slowly winding in your stomach begin to tighten, threatening to release at any moment. “my p-prince, i’m going to-” you began, only to be cut off by another growl in your ear. “yes my little dove, come around your prince’s cock.” that was all the insentive that was required for you to feel your walls tighten around his hard cock and begin to convulse as the slapping sounds of him fucking you quickly became wetter with the moisture of your release flooding around his still hard cock. it was another few moments of thrusting before oberyn suddenly pulled out of your warmth and began pumping himself with his hands, letting out several grunts and groans until finally, with a rather loud groan and hushed whispers of your name leaving his lips did you feel him releasing onto your backside and thighs. those next few moments were spent in almost silence, the only sound that filled the room was the sound of the two of you panting heavily as you simultaneously came down from the pure euphoria was was the mind shatterign orgasms that you’d shared with one another. with little to no care for his own garments, oberyn quickly reached for the discarded top half of his tunic which he’d stripped himself from at some point and used it to wipe up the remnants of his release from your skin. he didn’t seem to care for getting his own clothes dirty, no doubt he sent them somewhere to be washed each day or otherwise had new ones made, he was a prince after all. slowly standing up straight, you felt your joints cracking softly as you stretched, raising your arms above your head with a loud sigh. it wasn’t long before you felt oberyns presence behind you once more, his hands stroked your upper arms slowly as he leaned down to kiss your shoulders, moving your messed up hair out of the way to gain access to and kiss your neck softly. letting out a happy hum, you turned slowly until your were facing him, leaning back against the wooden table and looking up at him. he placed either hands at your sides against the tables and leaned his head down, tilting his head slightly, his lips getting closer and closer to yours until they stopped just as they grazed together. this time, you didn’t stop him, in fact, you leaned your head up and captured his lips in your own softly, slowly enjoying your first time kissing prince oberyn, relishing in the feel of his lips on your own. finally pulling away purely for the purpose of air, you couldn’t hide the smile as you stared at one another. there were no words exchanged but you didn’t have to, words were not necessary when you could communicate through expressions and movements. reaching to your side, you picked a grape from the golden plate and held it up to his face, tilting your head in question. the prince replied by leaning forward and opening his mouth, letting you place it between his lips and use your index finger to push it inside his mouth. he happily accepted and chewed on the fruit, humming happily as he tasted its juices. without saying anything else, oberyn rested his hands at your hips and guided you away from the table, moving towards your large bed and placing you down on the golden sheets, hastily climbing on top of you. “are you not finished with me yet my prince?” you asked, feigning ignorance as you looked up at him. “there are still several other things i would like to do to you my little dove.” he whispered, letting his hand reach down until it once again found itself inbetween your legs and caressing your now drenched folds, sliding his fingers around. he pulled his fingers from your core and brought them to his own mouth, never breaking eye contact with you nor blinking once as he sucked your own wetness off of his fingers, humming in a mix of delight and satisfaction. releasing his fingers from his mouth with a satisfying 'pop’ sound, he smirked down at you and leaned in closer, whispering softly in your ear. “better than the sweetest of fruits my little dove.”

#oberyn martell #oberyn #prince oberyn #the red viper #game of thrones #game of thrones fic #oberyn x reader #prince oberyn x reader #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell smut #game of thrones smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x read #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #oberynmartell

396 notes · View notes

retphienix · 4 years ago

Text

Dragon Quest 11 ending talk for a bit

I literally laid down to go to bed, remembered DQ11, and got so riled up that I had to get up to type this.

Mostly I want to, in frankly boring terms, say what the true ending of DQ11 entails. Spoilers under readmore, that's all this post is.

In non-spoiler terms I wanted to say My god I love DQ11. I loved it a lot, and I'm embarrassed by some of the misunderstandings I tripped through on my playthrough, but I can't feel too badly when some people I respect for how they give deep looks into games also suffered the same Or Perhaps Interpretation Really Is The Final Word And Our Misunderstandings Are True Regardless! But that's not relevant to this post, this post is about what I believe is the intended/true understanding the game tries to give us.

To be blunt, when that word I won't use until the readmore is involved, interpretation can lead to different understandings.

But I wanted to just offer my understanding, which I believe to be the intended understanding based on actual words used in the game, and offer that to anyone who may be a touch confused or just interested in hearing about the ending again without a ton of theories thrown around (it's not that complicated, we just make it that way because **** is involved).

Time Travel. That was the word.

By the end of the true ending there are 3 concurrent timelines going on.

Not one, not two, 3.

In universe this is made clear as early as the beginning of the epilogue (first ending).

Serena and the lot all tell the Hero that he can throw away his life to see a better end.

Some interpreted this as meaning "destroy this time and start again" but nah. I enjoy those interpretations, it adds some hefty weight to things, even GC Positive- my source for DQ retrospective information- interprets it that way and if he still thinks that's the case then more power to him.

But nah, from everything I read in my playthrough and every word said in that scene- unless it's ALL rewritten in the remaster- that's not the case.

First ending your friends tell you that this world will live on without you if you go. The tragic trade you are offering isn't "The world's livelihood" for a better end, it's "YOU'RE time in this world's livelihood" for a better end.

Timeline 1 - You save the world after it's gone to shit, renew hope, reignite strength, inspire the world to become better (Think Serena) and you "Die" in the final fight.

Or at least that's the legend your allies will tell if you decide to give up your life here to save the world all over again.

You shatter the time thing, an action that can only be done by the wielder of that blade, and that's the end of this timeline creating new ones. It goes on without you, better off for having had your help, but you effectively killed yourself in that timeline's eyes so that you could try again in a new one.

Timeline 1 - The world has hope, you "died", the time egg deal is broken which also means the sword is broken.

Timeline 2 - The world is saved before most damage can be done, it's a much happier end- you give Serenica the same chance as you.

Timeline 2's time egg is destroyed by HER, creating a new timeline yet again where the tradeoff is Serenica losing immortality (not a big deal).

This makes Timeline 3 where Serenica and Erdwin save the world EONS before bad things happen, give birth to Erdrick (Loto) and DQ3 begins. Also timeline 3 still has its time egg and sword I'd assume!

Now to some this was all obvious, from all I can recall it's in the actual text of the game, but DQ11 is HEFTY and can be confusing in the moment- I for one kept getting annoyed at timeline 2 having lesser character development than 1 but that was the point, 2 was given a kinder hand thanks to Hero, all the stuff still happened in 1 and exists in 1, this is just the world that 2 is.

To be honest the story isn't complex, it's just plentiful, I was so invested in the minutia of it all that I got confused on the timeline stuff and judging by some theories I've seen (GC's for one) I'm not the only one. I just wanted to say that it's been quite a while since I beat it, I've been able to sit on it, I've been able to absorb it and review things that are said in game and I'm pretty damn sure it's this simple.

Shattering the time deal doesn't seem to ever be compared to destroying the time line, it just creates an opportunity to influence a new copy of it for the Hero, so that means 3 timelines.

That also supports the books at the very end. That'd mean Serenica reads Erdrick books on both previous timelines (previous still feels like the right word for that, the two "broken egg" timelines at the very least) because their timeline's story is still being told, but from the window they have on the previous timelines both stories are finished.

1 and 2 are still going, but 3 can't see them anymore just as they can't see each other or 3.

Also that's just a fun tidbit having her tell the story of the Hero saving the world twice in two scenarios like that.

Anywho, I literally tore myself from sleep to just reiterate what happens at the end of DQ11 and the three timelines associated with that because I??? I don't know? Felt like it? I never explained it during my playthrough, and here's my final take. I assume.

#Dragon Quest #Dragon Quest 11 #DQ11 #DQXI #Dragon Quest XI

21 notes · View notes

scoooby · 5 years ago

Text

The Reason to Live (is to Die For This)

Read on AO3

Continue to read on Tumblr

Beta: @tenderlyannoyinglight

Word count: 6.3k

Trigger warning: descriptions of pain, death and violence.

Relationship: Merlin/Arthur *if you don't like merthur it can be taken as gen if you skip the last hundred words

Summary:

"I don't want to leave him. He thinks. I can't.

It shouldn't be the first thing he thinks of. He should be thinking of his mother, Gaius, Gwen. He should be thinking of how Kilgharrah had said he was an immortal, but Kilgharrah is also a big lying liar who lies, so he shouldn't have believed him. But he doesn't think of any of those things, after ten years of sacrificing, his brain is wired to think of Arthur, only of him."

In which Merlin is stabbed instead of Arthur. Oops.

Merlin doesn't know where the blood came from, flowing down and not stopping. There's so much of it staining the ground and his clothes, forming a puddle, he feels dizzy and nauseous looking at it. It's been almost ten years, but the sight of injury still repulses him. It scares him even more because he can't find its source. No, it terrifies him. Whose blood is it? Where is he, exactly? But he tries not to dwell on it and wonders where Arthur is. Wasn't he just here? Silly Arthur, always disappearing.

He giggles, then sobers up. He has more important things to worry about. Like the blood. Blood is so red. Like strawberries. He wishes he could make strawberries right now, Freya likes them. Speaking of which, he should probably talk to her soon.

He touches his hand to his abdomen, startled when he feels something wet and sticky. Oh.

Oh.

It's his blood. He's been maimed. He's the one dying.

I don't want to leave him. He thinks. I can't .

It shouldn't be the first thing he thinks of, and he should be thinking of his mother, Gaius, Gwen. He should be thinking of how Kilgharrah had said he was an immortal, but Kilgharrah is also a big lying liar who lies, so he shouldn't have believed him. But he doesn't think of any of those things, after ten years of sacrificing, his brain is wired to think of Arthur, only of him.

It shouldn’t be. He should be more carefree and alive and happy, like he is now. And he’s so happy.

He distantly hears a thud behind him, as if something heavy, clad in metal, had fallen. Swords are made of metal. So is armour. Stupid armour. It takes so fucking long to put armour on Arthur.

He feels hysteria rise up in his throat, he feels like laughing, He doesn’t know why. He’s been stabbed, he should care more. But those thoughts don’t even hit him. He wants to run, to jump. He could fly, like Kilgharrah. Or Aithusa. Can Aithusa fly? He would have to ask Morgana.

But Morgana doesn’t like him.

Maybe Balinor would know when dragons start to fly. He knows a lot, right?

Oh, but he can’t. Balinor is dead. Balinor is extremely dead and rotting. Hunith would be sad if she found out, he doesn’t want her to be sad. She deserves the world. He won’t tell her.

“Don’t worry,” he coos, even though there’s no one there. “I won’t tell.”

He tries to get up, but his knees are weak. He doesn't know why his ears have started to ring. Hhhhh. Hhh. That’s all he hears. It sounds weird. Weird. Weirdweirdweirdweirdweird. What a word, All words should be like it.

Everything is just a blob of grey and black. All he sees is a spinning world and green spots in the corner of his vision. He doesn’t mind, he likes green. He tries to say something, to scream maybe, yet all that comes out is a small, meagre groan.

He feels his eyes closing- And that's it. That's all there is-numbness, and then nothing.

Arthur is not ashamed to admit that he killed Mordred. The knight almost killed Merlin and dared to smile after doing so. Arthur couldn't just let him get away with it, no matter how much it pained him. Guilt doesn’t even come to mind. Mordred isn’t worth it - he tells himself as he walks, knees shaking, towards his manservant's body laying still on the ground.

He's bleeding at an alarming rate. His eyes are closed; his face deathly pale. Arthur doesn't bother with modesty as he rips the stupid brown jacket off (one would think he would come into battle wearing proper armor, at least). He had imagined doing it many times before, in entirely different circumstances, maybe with a bed underneath them.

Merlin torso is littered with scars as wood is with lines. Most of them are healed, so that only white lines are painting Merlin’s pale skin, while others are red, but still no cause for intervention. An enormous hole inflicted near his lungs, however does. Arthur’s not new to blood or injuries, but looking at this one does make him wanna vomit.

He stops, unsure of what to do. His hands hover over the body. What can he do, dammit? He knows first aid, Gaius taught him some when he was little. Nothing has ever come close or as grave as to this. He has been taught to call for the help of nurses, never to do it himself. He has to stop the bleeding, but how ? He's supposed to tie something around it; he remembers that much at least. He looks towards Merlin's face, exhausted and un-moving, a red cloth loosely tied around his neck. All he has to do to stop the blood temporarily, until he delivers Merlin to safe, more medically trained hands, is to tie the stupid red neckerchief around and hope for it to be the right thing.

He prays as he puts it around the gash. He's not entirely sure who he's praying to. It’s an unconscious reflex to beg for health. To be able to say it is someone else's fault, because he knows it's his. He should never have let Merlin come in front of him; let the sword pierce him. Damn him; damn Merlin; damn Mordred; damn the War; damn Morgana; damn everything.

It sickens him, all of it. This cave, this life. The air is dirty. The metallic smell of blood engulfing everything and making it its own. Throwing up would sound like a good idea if Arthur didn’t have more pressing matter at hand.

The air also smells of disappointment. What is he even doing? He's just two years into his reign, the army is practically gone. So many knights are dying in his name, right now, with their belief in him. And now Merlin is going to die too.

No. Merlin can't die, I won't allow it. His resolve hardens as he picks him up in his arms, Merlin’s head on his shoulder, back bent so gravity can keep the blood inside. and carries him through the mass of dead bodies. Arthur places him on the horse and climbs on behind him, arms on the reins and still supporting Merlin’s head.

It's a long ride home. You have to make it. For him. Is the only thought he clings to.

The aftermath of the war lingers everywhere. Bodies within quarter of a mile of another, their sunken eyes staring at them as the ride past.

No one stops them, too busy focusing on their own injured. Arthur's head is down to not see them. They probably hate him. With all of his being, he agrees.

Morgana, from an early age, showed to be better fitted for the crown. Might have even made Camelot a better place, once upon a time, in a time long gone.

Now they're both just as terrible and ill-fitted for his home.

He tries not to think of her, it’s too painful. So, he focuses on saving Merlin again. Merlin. His best friend, who he had always hoped would become something more. His rock, the only one he could trust. Something he has proved over and over again, but something he had realised only during his father's funeral.

Uther’s death is a recent memory. Arthur had cried until there were no tears left to shed over anyone else after. Not out of love or grievance. His father’s love for him was long gone before he himself was. But because the moment Uther’s life ended, Arthur’s reign began and the feeling of no support or companionship with it. Morgana was gone. Ygraine had never been there to begin with, and the overwhelming responsibility hit him- hard . He had felt so alone. There was no one there for him. No one cared.

Then Merlin had placed a hand on his shoulder, whispered to him, told him he was going to be a great king and that he was sorry. As if Merlin was at fault. As if he wasn't the only reason Arthur was still standing.

It made him see more clearly that he might not ruin the kingdom- his kingdom. A spark of heat, mixed with joy and sorrow ignited like wildfire spread all over his chest, then back, arms and legs followed soon, and finally his face; he returned Merlin’s sentiment with a warm smile.

Maybe that's when he had fallen in love, or when he had realized that Merlin was the only one he could trust. He's still not sure which one it was, maybe the love had come slowly, or maybe, and just the seed had been planted back then, or maybe it had come fact and crashing.

And now he was going to be gone too. Arthur sighs, his eyes drooping from a week of no sleep. Everyone leaves. They always leave. Maybe he still had some tears left.

The dark is disorienting. Is he sleeping? Is he even alive? He has to be, he has to make sure Arthur gets back home.

"Emrys," he hears someone say. No, not someone- Morgana. Her voice is unmistakable, ragged and sickly sweet at the same time. She had always been like that, even before, a dizzying array of opposites.

"Witch," he whispers. "Why have you brought me here?"

The smugness in her voice is apparent, "That's very hypocritical of you, isn't it? After all, you're magical too. More than me, even." She didn't answer his question. "All alone now, aren’t you? No one to save you." He shakes his head; how did he manage to get here? The last thing he was doing was shouting at Arthur to bring him along ("I always thought you were the bravest man I knew." “That’s not fair.") Arthur's face had been so disappointed, and it had broken Merlin's heart. But if the war was still going on, then no one would be coming for him. He will have to get out of this by himself.

"What. Do. You. Want." He grits out, he doesn't have the patience, nor the time for this, he has to help them. The knights are strong, but even the strongest of human kind wouln’t last long against an immortal army. He has to be there with them, to help them, to keep them alive. No matter how much his words hurt, Merlin will still save them, because that is what he does.

She laughs. " You."

"I don't have time for games, leave me be."- turning his head around trying to locate Morgana’s voice; the darkness, the nothingness, hasn’t changed.

"Oh, but why would I do that?" Her cold hands are taking hold of his chin, nails digging into his face. She's right in front of him. Her silky dress pooling onto his feet, the edges of her dirty hair grazing his arms. "I have you right where I want you, no one is going to come to save you. I only need one thing from you." She pauses, her fingers snap; there are fires surrounding them in a circle. He struggles against the bonds of rope he didn't realize were tied onto him, but it's of no use.

She’s clearer now, seen better days too. Bags under her crazed eyes, a ragged and torn black gown, a cloak is gracing her hunched back. Frankly, it looks like she hasn’t taken a bath in months. She doesn’t even resemble the Morgana he used to know, the compassionate and cunning one.

This is his creation; he is the reason she is like this. He never should have listened to the fucking dragon, he should have told her about his magic, maybe things would be different then.

"I won't do anything for you,” he hisses. “I would rather die.”

“Oh, you will.” She says it like it’s a fact as if it’s inevitable that he will die soon, and a tremor goes from his head to his toes in a matter of a second. He’s supposed to be immortal, supposed to live for a long, long time. He’s not scared of dying, he supposes. He’s scared of what will happen afterwards. “And it will hurt, I can tell you that, it will hurt so much.” She inches even closer, impossibly so. “But that won’t be the worst part, no. The worst part will be that no one will care . Arthur won’t care. No matter what you have done for him, he won’t even notice you’re gone.”

He’s silent as her words sink in. Sow themselves into his brain, into his heart, tries to convince himself it’s not true.

“Arthur won’t rescue you. You need his help, but he doesn’t have your back. He’s not even looking for you. If you’re drowning, if you’re about to crack, will he even care?” Something on his face makes her look smug like she’s already won. “Face it, Merlin.” That’s the first time she’s called him Merlin and not Emrys since she found out. “You don’t matter to him. He thinks you’re disposable, But I know better.”

Merlin looks up at her. "You're sick," he spits, although it sounds small, unsure. "He would look for me. I know he would." The statement is more for himself than her.

She gives a small, cruel smile as if to convey to him how pathetic he is. “All I need you to do,” she continues, “is to tell me where you are once this ends.”

He's about to ask her what she means, when the fires go out and it all turns dark again.

He stops in the forest, to rest, though he's not sure if Merlin will even survive by the end of it. He lays him down against a rock and lights a fire. He has to make something to feed them, or they'll die of starvation before Morgana's knights get to them. He surveys the clearing they're in, and he's about to walk towards what he is almost sure is an edible plant (emphasis on the almost, kings don't always learn about herbs), when he hears Merlin whispers. He snaps back, his eyes are open, a once tantalizing clear blue now murky and grey.

"Arthur" he murmurs. "Art- I-"

He holds up a hand "I'm here Merlin," he says. "I'm here but don't speak, you need to preserve your energy."

He doesn't listen. "I-I need to tell you something and," he gasps, trying to breathe, "and I need you to listen without interrupting."

Arthur wants to tell him whatever he needs to say probably isn't as important as his life, but the look on his face tells him that it might be.

Merlin shudders, clearly exhausted. "I ha-have magic," he rasps. Arthur's mind goes blank. It's a joke, it has to be. Merlin can't have betrayed him too. He takes a step toward him, to reach out maybe, but thinks better of it.

"Stop being silly," he commands, but it comes out shaky.

Merlin eyes seem wet. When he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes out is a bare whisper, "I ne-needed to tell you. In, in case, I-I, uh, die."

"You can't die." He clasps Merlin shoulder this time, leaning down. "But stop delusioning yourself Merlin. You don't have magic, I would know." It's not real, he would've been able to tell. This can't be true, it can't.

"And I use it for you," he continues, seeing his expression. "Only-only for you."

"Shut up," Arthur whispers. Merlin flinches back. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

"I-," he starts, but he cuts him off.

"Do not speak to me."

Arthur looks at him, something rising in his throat. He thought it would be bile, but it's laughter. Of course, of course, the only person he trusts has magic.

He stands up and walks away, until he's sure Merlin won't be able to see him.

Merlin’s heart sinks as he stares at Arthur’s back, she was right. He told him about his magic, and now he was leaving him to die in a forest, never mind the reason he was dying was that he had taken a sword for Arthur. Never mind that he had spent a decade protecting him, trying to stop hundreds of people from killing someone he himself hadn’t particularly cared for at the beginning. Never mind the fact that he had sacrificed so much, just so he could be comfortable living in a castle built on the sins of his father and the corpses of magic users. Ten years, all down the drain. Merlin wants to laugh, of course, it comes done to this. To Arthur abandoning him because he told him something he didn’t want to hear. Fuck him, fuck the pendragons. Couldn’t let him die in peace.

He stews in it for a while, too tired to cry. Too sick of everything to even care anymore. He won’t tell her though; couldn’t let it all go to waste. She’ll find out anyway, he knows, she has her sources.

Yet, he has more important things to focus on, Arthur will either come back, or he won’t. But his wound stays. The giddiness is gone, replaced with something else. Something warm, like a fire in his stomach.

He presses down on his abdomen. as he sighs sharply through his nose, it helps with the increasing pain, stabbing his bone and overtaking his senses.

His lungs struggle to breathe, it feels as if they’re filling with water as he drowns; his whole body burns as his back arches and writhes. It’s like there’s thousands of needles being pushed into him from everywhere, as if the needles had been pulled out from a fire before being inserted into him- red hot and painful, so painful. He wants to stand up, to run and jump into a lake, but his legs feel like jelly, he can’t move. It hurts so much. He hears distant echoes of screams; they’re probably coming from him. And just like that, it starts to ebb. The needles being pulled out hurts more, but the small burns they leave behind are definitely better than it was before. He slumps down against a tree, numb.

He feels his eyes droop. His pain is still shooting through his body, but at least he has some time before he has to feel it again.

He wakes up again in some time, not sure when. It doesn't hurt as much as it did before. He’s just tired. He lays there for what feels like hours, but the sun hasn’t even set, so it was probably a few minutes.

To his immense surprise, he comes back. Arthur… comes back.

"Come back to finish the job, huh?" Merlin snarls, refusing to believe that maybe he came back to help him because he cared for him. It's too good to be true. Arthur is compassionate and he is kind, but not to magic users. "One stab wound wasn't enough for you?"

Arthur's already been saved from the imminent death of his which has been prophesied for a few centuries already, Merlin no longer has to worry, and he doesn't want to either. If this is his reward, to be called a coward, to be ignored and hut out, what everything had been leading up to, he might as well have died years ago. He used to wake up with only Arthur in mind, He loved him, still does. He’s not going to go out any other way.

He was the reason he lived, and he is the reason Merlin is going to die.

Arthur recoils in shock, his mouth is hanging open a little.

Good , Merlin thinks, he needs a wake-up call.

"What?" He asks.

Merlin hopes his expression can convey his feelings and how unamused he is because his throat is clogged up and he's too exhausted to say a word more. He may be a warlock, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is in unbearable pain.

Arthur looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "You- you thought I was going to kill you?"

There's no reply. Arthur comes forward, stops when he sees how scared the other man becomes. He sits down onto the cold, hard ground. "Merlin," he says softly, "I, I'm angry at you, I'm not going to lie, but I would never, never kill you. I- how could you even-" he trails off, he kicks some dirt glumly. "Just, we’ll talk about this when we're back home, okay? When you're better."

Arthur doesn't know how Merlin could think that. He would never- he didn’t even imagine doing anything other than demoting him, at most. He feels betrayed, and he feels let down. But this is Merlin. If he practiced magic, there must have been a good reason.

Fuck. Has he been that bad of a friend? Has he been so distant that Merlin thought Arthur was going to kill him? He knows he should be angrier, and just a few hours ago, he was. He was ready to yell and to scream and to rage, but then he thought of Morgana. About how he used to love her, and how she changed when he turned her away, He doesn’t want the same to happen to Merlin, doesn’t want him to change too. If Merlin dies because Arthur abandons him, he will never forgive himself.

So, as he snuffs out the fire and tries to cover up his tracks, because he knows Morgana will be looking for them, he doesn’t say anything. When he picks Merlin up and places him on the horse, he tries to be as gentle as he can. When he squeezes Merlin's hand in what he hopes is comforting, he just hopes Merlin doesn’t hate him completely.

Merlin floats in and out of consciousness for what he thinks is a day, but he can’t be sure. When he first wakes up, he’s trotting along on a horse, Arthur behind him, and then he’s in front of a fire, sitting on the ground, then the horse again. Once, he wakes up to strangled screams, but he’s not sure what was going on. He’s too scared to ask. The fifth time he wakes up, however, it’s different. It’s not a coincidence, it’s on purpose, Arthur is shaking him awake. He makes out that they are next to the lake, where he has sent away so many corpses already.

It's calm and serene, obvious to all that is happening around it.

“Wha-” he starts to say blearily, he knows they haven’t reached Camelot yet, so what is going on?

Arthur silences him by placing a hand on his mouth. “We’ve got company,” he whispers. Merlin stiffens up, never a good thing. Not when you’re trekking through the woods, your companion and you both in bad conditions, both starving, one run through with a sword. Not when your companion is the ruler of kingdom which has war being waged against it.

“Arthur,” he says, his voice still sounding heavy and drowsy.

“What?” His mouth feels swollen, and he is incredibly tired, but he can tell he’s agitated, so he doesn't beat around. “Use the sword."

He looks surprised, the expression he hates. The one he uses whenever he realises that he underestimates everyone around him. "I think I know how to use a sword better than you do, Mer lin."

Prat.

"I mean, don't use your old sword, use Excalibur. It can kill anything. " Saying even this much feels like he just ran from Ealdor to Camelot without break, but he manages.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then his eyes widen. "Did you hear that?" His voice is low but urgent. Merlin blinks, he didn't hear anything other than the wind and- oh, he hears it now. There's distant screaming, coming from a woman from what it sounds like. It's barely noticeable, but the sounds of footsteps and something heavy being dragged on the forest floor towards them is much, much louder.

They exchange glances, only for a second. Merlin gestures towards the sword and Arthur nods, not questioning him for once.

Merlin tries to speak, he wants to help, but his throat is becoming clogged, and his vision is becoming blurry and- I am not going to survive. He thinks, before his eyes roll back into his head, and he passes out once more.

Arthur does not dare to say anything, or to do anything, other than stay frozen in his spot, sword in hand.

The noises are coming closer and closer. The screams have subsided now, but the steps have not. He knows he should highball out of there, but he has a feeling that whatever is coming their way cannot be outrun, and 50% of his lessons in swordplay focuses only on telling him to follow his gut.

"Emrys," says a voice. He inhales sharply, he recognizes that voice; knows it better than he has any right too.

"Morgana," he breathes.

She pouts, looking disappointed. "Seems like our Emrys isn't awake. Shame, I wanted him to see you die." She says it casually, as if she tells her once-brother that she’s going to kill him every day.

He reminds himself - this is not his sister, not the woman he grew up with. If he doesn’t kill her, she will kill him. And she will take his kingdom.

But he never meant for them to get caught up in this, he had to control himself. He can’t rush to hug her or stab her. He can see a flicker of what she used to be, the brave, young woman. He needs her to hold onto that. If she doesn’t, he will have to do it. And he really, really doesn’t want to.

But as she lunges at him, the flicker ebbs out. She has slipped through his hands, and she has changed. She has been carried away by the waves of sorcery, and it has ruined her. He remembers her being his hero when they were young, when they used to sneak out of the castle to look at the stars. Her arguing with Uther over whether it was right to commit genocide, the irony of which has stuck with him. Her teaching him to use the sword, having already mastered it herself. Her forcing him to make friends with Gwen, who grew to become his ex-lover and best friend and surrogate queen. The memories keep on coming, and they don't stop. But she, like everyone else, changed. No matter what time, she is different now. It will never come back. He wants to go back, when they were innocent and naive, when everything was left for them to discover.

But he can’t.

So he fights back instead.

It's all he can do to make his hands steady as his blade sinks into her stomach, as he buries it deeper and deeper until it comes out on the other side. She looks surprised, then grim. She'll be alive for a few days, at most, a few minutes, at best.

But he can't bear to leave her suffering, alive but dying, tortured. So, he stabs her again, this time aiming for the heart, and again. And again. And again. When he is sure that she's dead, he stops, sliding onto his knees. He glares at the sword in contempt. He killed her; he killed his sister.

No .

He killed the woman who wanted to burn his kingdom to the ground. He had no other choice.

But what sort of person is he? He's killed both his knight and his former sister on the same day, with the same sword.

He grips it harder, then looks at the lake. He needs to get rid of it, that's what he needs to do. No one can find out what happened today, he can't let them. He raises it and throws it in. He had thought it would land on the banks, considering how heavy it is, but it doesn't. Instead, the sword flies out of his grip, and cuts through the air, towards the lake. He swears he can see a hand reaching out of the water to catch it, but it's probably a trick of the light.

He turns to her body laid on the ground, eyes open and unblinking, mouth looking as if gasping for breath, cloak sprawled around her like wings. She's dead.

Somehow, he knows if he had used the other sword, she would not be; he knows enough about magic to realise that the high priestess cannot be taken down by a normal weapon.

But Excalibur was not normal, was it? Just another thing to add to his list of questions.

It takes him thirty more minutes to dispose of her body in the lake, staring as it sinks deeper into the water. He doesn't look away, no. He deserves this. He has to remember, and he will.

He doesn't move for a long, long time. Only goes so when he realizes that, although she is dead, Merlin is not yet. Arthur intends to keep it that way. He turns his back on her. Every step drains him, but he does it.

He can't be left alone again.

It takes them two more days to arrive in Camelot. All of it passes in awkward silence, with Merlin getting paler and paler with every passing second. Arthur doesn’t say anything out loud, but his mind is racing. He doesn’t think of them. He can’t. So he focuses on magic instead. He’s not sure if he trusts magic fully, even now, but maybe he should be more open-minded. Maybe he should give it a chance. Maybe it'll be different than it was with Morga- her.

When he arrives, it is completely different to what he had expected. There are mourners, of course. People in white, downcast expressions, closed windows, doors painted black. But there are also red banners hanging everywhere, citizens cheering as he rides past, ignoring Merlin behind him. Cries of "she is dead" and "the war is over". People are grieving, and there are those celebrating. He doesn't ask how they know of her death, he doesn't want to know. They tell him anyway. Apparently, the army stopped attacking, all of a sudden. They had cried, and shouted, and had turned back. It is unclear why, but Arthur knows he is the reason. Morgana dying at his hands is the reason.

Some help him get to Gaius', seeing how unamused he looks. They clear out the road, offer them water. Arthur is grateful for them, glad that at least some of his people acknowledged the dying man and had tried to help.

The physician is busy when he throws the door open, Merlin in tow. There are many, many people here. All with varying degrees of injuries. Arthur can’t bear to look at them. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. So he ignores them, marches up to him.

“He’s- he’s been stabbed,” he chokes out.

Gaius’ eyes widen, and he rushes to follow Arthur. He lays Merlin out on one of the few empty beds, his body sprawls out on it. It’s sickening to look at as if he’s dead already.

He sets to work immediately, ordering Arthur to fetch herbs and vials and all sorts of things he doesn’t know the uses of. The people around them stare at him blankly, as if they know he’s the king, but they don’t fully recognise him.

He knows when he is not needed anymore, and backs away to watch. It's odd, and it feels so wrong. It's wrong to watch as Merlin is cut open and healed. Like he's invading his privacy. Merlin deserves better than to be put on a show in front of so many people.

He does try to help. Tries to tell as many people as he can to move to the castle, where he is sure more doctors would be willing to help, but some are in too bad of a condition to be moved as they are tended to by nurses. So he elects to focus on his friend instead.

Gaius' hands have always been steady, for as long had Arthur had known him. He cuts open bodies without worry, without even flinching. Which is not the case today, he notices. No, his hands are shaking. Not much as to be obvious, but he's known the man for far too long to not be able to tell when he's scared.

He thinks Merlin is going to die .

Arthur recoils violently. He doesn't know where the thought came from, because it's not true. It can’t be.

Merlin is going to survive. He tells himself.

Merlin. Is. Going. To. Survive.

Merlinisgoingtosurvive

MerlinisgoingtosurviveMerlinisgoingtosurvuveMerlinisgoingtosurvive

He repeats under his breath, rocking himself back and forth on his heels until he almost believes it. He has to.

He's not sure where the time has passed, because Gaius is in front of him all of a sudden but Arthur remembers him standing over the table just seconds ago.

Gaius shakes his head and it takes a few minutes for it to register in his mind. Arthur can't be looking at him, and his heartbreaking face. Just like him, Gaius' only support was Merlin. Was. Not is, was. Merlin is barely dead, and Arthur is already starting to think of him as a memory.

The physician knows what it feels like, but Arthur doesn't care.

"You should've done better," he hisses. He doesn't regret it. Doesn’t regret causing the shock he’s caused Gaius. But it's his fault too. He's the one Merlin took a sword for. But he needs to blame someone else. Because he doesn't want to think of the implications of Merlin dying at his hands. Gaius looks at him as if he is about to break, so Arthur walks away. From him, towards the corpse. He can't bear to face another person he's hurt.

It can't be true. There's got to be something he can do, something. He can't die, he can’t fucking die. Not when there's not much left to say. Not when they've just won. It's supposed to be a thing to celebrate, a war ending, he can't mourn. He can't give a speech to his kingdom which wasn't written by his best friend. Can't lose him. He doesn't think he'll be able to live without him.

He doesn't want to. He won't.

Merlin looks too much at peace, content in a way Arthur hasn't seen him in a long time. His long lashes casting shadows onto his freckled skin, his lips are twisted into a scowl, but he is at peace. He still looks the same, though. Beautiful and striking. Arthur's rock.

And dead.

Arthur’s hands move at their own accord, to stroke the side of his face. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, pushing through his throat. His people need assurance, and him crying like a bloody fool won't help. But that's the last thing on his mind. All he knows is Merlin is dead.

He isn’t able to stop staring, can't help wondering what he will do now. Whether the body will be burned or buried. He will be given a hero's funeral, it's no less than he deserves. He will be clothed in Camelot’s colours, or maybe his Ealdor's. Hunith would know better.

Oh lord, Hunith. She will have to find out through a letter. No. Arthur will have to go to tell her. He can't let her go through it alone.

He's about to turn away, to tell someone to help him move the body when his lips move.

Merlin's mouth opens, just a little bit, but enough to tell that he's alive.

Arthur feels a shock go through him. It was just an illusion.

Right?

"Merlin?" he asks. It can't be true, no matter how much he wants it to be. It was probably a trick of the light, but that can't be right. Because Merlin's eyes are opening and he's staring at him and some colour is returning to his cheeks and oh-

This the man he loves. And he waking up.

"Ar- Arth," he begins but Arthur shushes him. He’s alive, he’s speaking. He doesn’t know how, but it’s real. It’s actually real.

"I'm here," he assures him "I'm here." He shocks even himself as he leans down to kiss him. He's even more surprised when Merlin kisses him back. It only lasts a second before he pulls back, but he just kissed Merlin. It was rough, it wasn't perfect. But he's breathing. They're both here. He can't ask for more.

"Wha- what was," he exhales through his nose, as if speaking taxes him, "that for?"

"I wanted to," he says, shrugging, still not over the euphoria. He just lost him, he’s never going to again. The least he can do is not hide from the truth. "And, I, I also kind of love you. Like, I’m in love with you."

His eyes widen a fraction, but Arthur can tell he’s too tired to question it further.

He wants to say more, he has so many questions as to how he's still breathing, when he started practicing magic, why, but he doesn’t. He has time, they have all the time in the world.

He turns his back, yelling for Gaius. The physician shows up immediately, face lighting up when he takes in the sight of his son very much not-dead.

"We'll figure it out," he says, though he's not sure he heard him over the noise. "We'll figure it out." He grins. Yeah, they'll figure it out.

He swears, Merlin is beaming right back at him.

51 notes · View notes

ephyla · 4 years ago

Text

March of Dragons ‘21 : Fan content prompt: Flying Free

Flying Free

WARNING: Violence

So, this prompt gave me the idea of how Astrid met Axewing. He’s a dragon that appears in the Rise of Berk game. I find this dragon absolutely beautiful and who doesn’t like a dragon with wings that act like axes? That dragon suits Astrid perfectly, after Stormfly of course.

I couldn’t help myself, I had to add a pinch of Hiccstrid at the end because I love them so much.

Enjoy!

oOo

Astrid was on night patrol duty tonight. It was supposed to be the twins’ turn but Tuffnut has gotten himself injured during their last raid against the dragon hunters. She volunteered to take their place. Unlike Snotlout or Fishlegs, she enjoyed patrols to have some time to herself and would take any opportunity to fly with Stormfly. They were a match made in Valhalla; a pair of warriors with a sense of duty to match.

She scouted all the areas and ticked them off her map, completing her round. Normally, she would be flying back to her hut and get a good night's sleep so she can wake up early and train her stealth skills with Stormfly. Tonight, however, she felt the need to remain in the sky a little while longer. She patted her dragon’s head, gaining her attention. She seemed to be happy gliding through the sky. They were blessed with a warm night, a clear sky, and a full moon; one would be a fool to remain indoors.

“What do you say we take a small detour and enjoy this beautiful night a bit more girl?” Her Nadder squawked in reply, as in to say yes.

Stormfly changed the course of her direction and headed north, opposite from where the Edge was. The gang rarely ventured north, they would’ve but the war against the hunters was most often waging south, not letting them have too much time on their hands to explore much anymore. Saving the dragons and getting rid of the hunters were their main priorities. Occasionally, to save themselves from being overworked and from the constant fear of a new attack, they would go into small groups to explore the nearby islands close to the edge; unless they have a breakthrough with the Dragon Eye, revealing a new species.

The pair were flying over a couple of islands they’ve already discovered before. They practiced some tricks that could be used in battle, but they were also having fun. They started to let their guards down a bit, fully aware that the hunters rarely treaded those waters...Rarely...

Stormfly stiffened, her quills stood upright. Astrid observed the area, fully trusting in her dragon’s instincts. She sensed danger in one of the two islands in proximity.

“What is it, girl?” Before Stormfly could react, a loud roar resounded at the large island to their left. The Nadder waited for her friend’s orders, ready to defend her at a moment’s notice.

Astrid took out her spyglass to observe the island and frowned. She spotted two ships with the hunters’ insignia. She looked back and knew she was too far from the Edge for a distress call. Not only that, but it would also alert the hunters of a rider’s presence. Right now, she had to assess the situation and only had the element of surprise as an advantage.

“Let’s go Stormfly. We need to be as stealthy as possible for now.” She said as she patted her dragon’s shoulder. She made a noise of acknowledgment and flew in the direction of the distressed dragon.

They made sure they weren’t spotted as they landed close to the source of the sound. They moved within the bushes as Astrid counted the number of hunters. The roars were getting louder but were followed by the hunters’ yells, tormenting the poor dragon. Astrid couldn’t identify it by the sound it made, meaning it was either an undiscovered dragon or a dragon she rarely saw. Curiosity took over and signalled Stormfly to stay still and lay low, to which she complied, eyeing her trainer’s surroundings.

Astrid got closer to the last bush coverage and delicately separated the leaves to spy on the little clearing within the thick forest. Her eyes widened at the sight. The dragon wasn’t just an ordinary dragon. It was a titanwing Timberjack. It donned the radiant red and yellow colours of autumn. The moonlight reflecting on those vibrant scales. She couldn’t imagine how mesmerising would that dragon be under the sunlight, flying high above the clouds. It was beautiful.

A whipping sound resonated followed by the Timberjack’s agonising cries. Astrid frowned at the hunters’ cruelty. The dragon had chains wrapped around his snout, neck, and tail, keeping him grounded. She noticed a couple of dragonroot arrows stuck in his side, but it seemed that being a titanwing helped him not succumb completely to its effects in one shot. She reached behind her back and grab her axe’s handle, ready to attack.

Before she was able to do anything, the Timberjack frenziedly struggled, his razor-sharp wings cutting all the trees in proximity, some falling on the hunters. She saw in the corner of her eye Stormfly dashing towards her, projecting her in the clearing. Astrid landed ungraciously in front of the Timberjack, who suddenly stopped to look at the peculiar Viking.

Astrid got up and looked back at Stormfly and saw her crushed under a large tree. The same tree that was going to land on her. Her heart wrenched. Stormfly just saved her life.

“Stormfly!” She ran towards her dragon but was surrounded by some of the hunters. She took a battle stance and gripped her axe as if her life depended on it.

“Kill ‘er!” She heard.

An arrow flew towards her but she managed to parry it with her blade. She launched an attack, slicing her axe across one of the hunter’s chest. A couple of arrows flew towards her again, and used the injured hunter as a shield, killing him. When the hunters at the back had to reload their crossbows, Astrid saw an opportunity to launch herself towards the sword-wielding hunters with a battle cry that made them look at her in fear.

She was trained her whole life to kill dragons, she was always first in her class until Hiccup showed the tribe a brighter future. A couple of hunters wasn’t going to faze her. She was a fearless warrior, while she depended on the rest of the riders to watch her back during their many raids, she was very capable of fighting on her own.

She parried the many swords coming for her, never letting them have the upper hand, and slashed through the mass with ferocious dedication.

The riders did their best to not directly kill unless necessary. They didn’t enjoy having their hands soiled in blood, especially Hiccup and Fishlegs. They were too soft-hearted, always trying to find another solution to their problems. Astrid, however, doesn’t hesitate. If a loved one was in danger, she will not back down from an enemy and isn’t afraid to slice them down with her trusty axe. She is fiercely loyal like that. It doesn’t mean she enjoys it, but she will handle the guilt and nightmares without any qualms if it meant that she doesn’t get to see the people she loves die because of her hesitance.

With some of the hunters out of her way, she managed to create a passage towards Stormfly. She tried to lift the tree, but it was obvious from the start that she needed the strength of ten Vikings to be able to do so.

“Yer not goin’ anywhere little girl.” One of the hunters sneered at her as another wave approached her. “Nice of ye to bring us another dragon though, Viggo will surely be pleased.” He said as he looked at Stormfly.

Astrid wiped some blood off her forehead and stood in front of Stormfly, ready to defend her with her life. She was covered in blood, mostly from those scums, but she could feel the stinging from a couple of shallow cuts. It wasn’t enough to deter her as she glared at the approaching enemy. She quickly stole a glance at the Timberjack, who laid still as a rock. It was observing her with curiosity. It looked like it didn’t associate her with his tormenters. Clever boy. Her eyes went back to the hunters. Some of them released the chains to provide backup as they seemingly couldn’t bring one Viking warrior down.

“Bring it on.” She jeered at them.

They all charged at her. Astrid managed to avoid their attacks and sent a coupled of them to the ground, ending them with an accurate slice to the throat or a classic chop to the skull. The hunters were heavy on their feet and attacked clumsily. While she was alone, Astrid was quick on her feet, all her moves were calculated; she looked like she was dancing on the battlefield, avoiding a sword here and parrying a rogue arrow there. She never let the hunters land a fatal blow. Her focus was impeccable.

It wasn’t until she heard Stormfly’s distressed cried that she lost her focus. She turned around to look at her and saw a hunter approaching the vulnerable Nadder. Astrid was knocked to the ground, dropping her axe in the process. A heavy boot on her chest held her to the ground. She squirmed and tried to pry the leg off, but she wasn’t strong enough. She looked at the hunter and glared at him with all her might. If she was going to die, she will not die with fear written on her face. She was a warrior through and through and stared at Death in the eye, challenging it.

A strident cry distracted her and the hunter above her. Astrid suddenly felt the weight being lifted from her chest, letting her breathe properly again. The Timberjack managed to partially free himself from the chains since less hunters were holding him down. With a quick swipe of his tail, he knocked the men down as well as the large trunk that crushed Stormfly.

Astrid rushed towards her dragon and looked for injuries. Unfortunately, the Nadder seemed to have a broken leg from the impact and she sported a couple of scratches all over her body. Astrid lovingly caressed her beak.

“I’m so sorry girl, I should’ve paid attention.” Stormfly nuzzled her as if to say it wasn’t her fault.

“Thank you for saving my life, I owe you one.” She hugged her tightly, rubbing her nose against her warm scales. The Nadder purred.

A series of yelling brought Astrid back to reality. She looked at the source of the noise and her eyes widened. The hunters have grown in numbers, probably back up from the ships. She desperately looked at the Timberjack struggling to set himself free from the new invasion back to her injured dragon.

“Stormfly, you need to go back to the Edge, get back up.” Stormfly croaked and nuzzled her. She didn’t want to leave her friend here. “Please Stormfly. This is our only chance for all of us to survive. Do you trust me?” Astrid asked as she raised her hand towards her dragon, she felt the gentle touch of her beak. The rider smiled at her Nadder, giving her a quick hug, silently thanking her.

“Go.” Stormfly took off with difficulty, flying back as fast as she could. Astrid thanked the Gods that her dragon didn’t get her wings or tail too injured.

She turned around and dashed towards her axe, avoiding more arrows. She looked at the Timberjack, hoping it would look at her. To get out of here alive, she needed his complete trust. To her luck, his eyes landed back on her. She nodded at him, almost trying to signal him something before dashing towards the hunters holding the chains. She knocked them down one by one, they were easier to kill as their hands were holding the chains.

The Timberjack felt the grip loosen up and checked the Viking warrior’s surroundings. He spotted a line of archers aiming at her. He swiftly swiped his wings at the tree behind the archers, cutting them down in one fell swoop, sending the large trees tumbling down on the helpless archers.

Astrid ran closer to the dragon and beckoned him to lower his head, which he did, trusting the girl to help him. She pried the chains off his snout, hoping he had enough firepower to get rid of the remaining hunters. The dragon noticed some men rushing towards them, he did not hesitate to finally use his fire to burn them and deter the ones reimaging on the side-line. They didn’t look so tough anymore. Losing to a chained dragon and a girl with an axe was a major hit to their egos. They had all the advantages on their side and yet they were helpless. Viggo was not going to be happy.

The Timberjack nudged Astrid with its snout. She looked at him, he didn’t seem to have an aggressive personality, which is probably one of the reasons he was captured in the first place. She raised her hand towards him and let him close the gap between them. She heard him purr.

“You’re absolutely extraordinary.” She said, her eyes filled with wonder. The dragon seemed to like her from the start and hoped he liked her enough to let her climb onto his back.

“Yer not getting away with our prize, girl.” She heard an annoying voice sneer. She rolled her eyes and turned around. The remaining hunters regrouped and were ready for another round. Astrid was already tired after fighting alone and she assumed the Titanwing was too. She glanced back at him and then at his flank where two arrows were sticking out. She hastily grabbed the arrows, looking at the dragon for confirmation. He just stared at her, not doing anything. She considered this enough and pulled. The dragon roared in pain but didn’t attack her. She was surprised at how fast he trusted her despite having a bad time with humans. She just hoped he trusted her enough for her to climb on his back. They were tired and outnumbered and their best option is to fly away from this wretched place.

Astrid placed her hands on his shoulders, ready to jump on, but the Timberjack was a smart one and lowered himself enough for her to climb on with ease. He spread his wings and took off with a bit of difficulty, probably due to his injuries. Astrid held on tight as he cut through the surrounding trees, falling on some unfortunate hunters. With a mighty beat of his broad wings, they flew towards the sky, finally free.

While they enjoyed nesting in forests, Timberjacks were known for flying at a considerably high altitude, to which Astrid wasn’t accustomed to with Stormfly. She felt a colder wind blow through her hair, her cheeks reddened, but she didn’t feel the cold. The dragon produced great heat underneath her as compensation and she felt completely at ease sitting on a wild dragon. It wasn’t often that she rode a dragon that wasn’t her Nadder, it felt strange. While she had to constantly lean forward and keep ahold of her saddle as a Nadder’s back curves downwards, the Timberjack didn’t have legs pulling itself down, keeping a straight back in flight. Astrid had more stability and his gigantic wings, bare of spines provided more room for her to sit. She felt the powerful beat of his wings as they soared majestically through the air. She felt so light. She felt free.

Astrid spread her arms, savouring the cool air, and let out a laugh as the dragon playfully cut through the clouds for fun.

“Oh my Gods, this is amazing! You’re amazing!” She blissfully shouted, giving the dragon a pat. “What I wouldn’t give to have wings acting as axes.” She joked. Her eyes widened, “Hey, that’s what I’ll call you. Axewing! How about that?” Axewing let out a shrill roar, expressing his approval. Astrid laughed again. “A fitting name for a warrior. Gods, for a moment I thought we were done for.” She admitted.

They soared for a while, enjoying their newly found freedom. Despite not knowing each other for very long, Astrid knew that she found a connection with this dragon. Of course, Stormfly will always be her dragon soulmate, her best friend, but she saw a fighting spirit in him that reminded her of Stormfly. She was sure they would get along great.

Suddenly, she heard the familiar strident whistling sound of a fast-approaching Night Fury. Toothless blended with the dark sky, so she was thankful that Hookfang was accompanying him, he was easier to spot thanks to his fire-coated scales illuminating the sky. Astrid beckoned Axewing to fly down and join them as the riders haven’t spotted her from up high.

They blocked their paths, forcing them to abruptly stop. The riders’ eyes widened as they saw who was riding the Titanwing Timberjack.

“What took you so long?” Astrid mused.

“Astrid! You’re okay!” Hiccup exclaimed; relief evident in his voice. “We were so worried something bad happened to you when Stormfly came back without you and a broken leg.”

“How is she?” She asked, a worried look etched on her face.

“Fishlegs is tending to her. He said she’ll be fine as long as we keep an eye on her recovery.” Hiccup answered. Astrid let out a relieved sigh.

“Ugh, by the way, who’s this and why are you covered in blood?” Snotlout pointed at the Timberjack and then back at the bloodstained Viking warrior.

Astrid patted her new friend, “That’s Axewing, and long story short we ran into a large group of hunters capturing this poor fella, I’ll explain more to you once we’re back at the Edge.” She nudged Axewing to resume their flight back home, Hiccup and Snotlout following on their tail.

Astrid turned around and asked, “By the way, how did you find me without Stormfly?”

“I saw you flying north while I was on a flight with Toothless. We’ve flown there a couple of times in the past and there aren’t a lot of islands nearby, so our best bet to find you was to check them all.” Her betrothed responded. Astrid nodded, facing forward again.

“Hey, Astrid?” She saw Hiccup guide Toothless next to her in the corner of her eye. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re safe.” She smiled at him and nodded, still gazing at his beautiful green eyes.

“Ugh, enough eye-fucking already. I’m still here, do you have no sense of decency? Gods!” Snotlout’s voice resonated from behind the couple, who simply ignored him.

oOo

I don’t know if it completely fits the prompt, but that’s the idea I had. Hope you liked it!

#marchofdragons21 #Astrid Hofferson #httyd #rtte #fanfic #hiccstrid #stormfly #axewing #badasstrid #Hiccup Haddock #snotlout #fandom prompts

9 notes · View notes

a-smile-hides · 5 years ago

Text

A WISH FOR FORGIVENESS (P.6) - U.R.

Warnings: descriptions of a storm, imprisonment (and its consequences), wounds, blood, and this is like super long

Series masterlist can be found here

===

Dark clouds blocked the moon’s effort of giving light to the world beneath her. The raging sea climbed higher and higher around them, forming great mountains to conquer. The harsh and cold wind capable of throwing a man overboard made the boat roll from side to side and promised nothing but devastation.

It was as if the sea wanted to emphasize his awful feeling and play with the awful feeling that was eating him up from the inside. Like the sea wanted to be another source of trouble.

But no matter how dangerous the sea was tonight, the boat refused to turn around and find safety. Ubbe was crouching behind the side of the boat, his hand clutching the wood in a desperate way to keep himself from falling into the water. Behind him, he heard the men that agreed to come with him on this journey. Their words blocked by the sounds of the storm, but he knew that they were crying out for help. His name, his splendid reputation as a warrior and the story of his brother’s betrayal had convinced them all to follow him blindly in search of his lost love. All of them eager to be part of history, at the side of Ubbe Ragnarsson. All of them eager to be rewarded once they set foot in Kattegat again.

It appeared that the Gods wanted to punish their greedy motives. And as Thor continued to beat his hammer, the men fought with all their power against the forces of nature around them.

Shivering in his wet clothes, as the waves climbed over the edge of the boat, sat Hvitserk. He was sitting beside his older brother, bound to the side in hope of not losing him to the waves. He was still weakened by the wound on his chest and almost unable to stand up. And although the prince had changed clothes and smeared the best ointment the healers could come up with on his wound, the five cuts refused to heal. The cold sea water stung his eyes, but he kept them wide open, focused on his older brother whose gaze remained in front of him. There where, back when the sun still lightened their way, they saw a coastline.

With the small beads of light that somehow escaped the thick clouds above, Ubbe was able to figure out the shape of houses at the edge of – what he figured must be – the coast. The soft light produces by lanterns that could lead people through the streets flickered on each one of them.

“Do not give up!” His voice boomed out. His eyes remained on the lights as his hands clutched the wooden side of the boat hard. It seemed as if all conscious thought about the storm was erased from his mind. And Hvitserk wondered if his brother wasn’t gambling with their lives. “We are almost there.”

Ubbe’s screams were lost in the storm. No man could hear him. Even if they did, his words could no longer fuel their beliefs. Fear had struck their bodies and turned them one for one in scarred and tiny men. Even Hvitserk, who fought hard to be on this boat was doubting his own sanity at this point. But Ubbe had no fear or doubt inside his body. He simply kept on staring in front of him at the small lights. Confident that he would, somehow, be able to get there.

---

A gentle wind blew over the beach. Together with the sun, it warmed the sand and the small houses that stood at random along the coastline. The day had just begun, but a surprisingly large group of people had been awake already. All of them running around frantically, trying their best to fix the damage to their houses.

One girl, carrying a large basket with her seemed unaware of the frantic state of the people around her. Her long braid danced behind her as she contently hopped over rocks and puddles of mud on her way to the beach. The sun kissed the apples of her cheek and gave them a rosy colour. Just like everyone else in town, the girl had experienced an extremely short night. With every strike of lightning and every thunderstruck, the girl had shot awake, looking around and praying that her house had not lit up in flames, as had happened in her dreams.

The townsfolk watched her with annoying eyes as she passed them, snorting at her cheerful pass. She was lucky to live in a home big and strong enough to withstand a storm without failure. It was the smith’s wife that dared to open her mouth and question the young girl.

“Tove… Dear.” Her tone was as light and gentle as she could get it to be, but even with her best efforts the woman could not hide her anger. “What are you up to today?”

“Why good morning, Hilda. I am off to the beach. The storm that passed might have brought some gifts for me!”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and continued her path. The smith’s wife shook her head at the child, muttering about her ignorance under her breath. Secretly, she hoped that the rumours were untrue, and that the girl’s house was damaged, just like any other home.

Before she realized it, Tove arrived at the beach. Her smile only widened when her eyes fell on some wood.

Maybe I am the one who can find something big today!

It had been a long tradition for Tove and her father to come to beach each time a storm had passed. Her father believed that storms were the way the sea cleansed itself. All kinds of objects could be found scattered over the sand for everyone to find, at least if they looked closely enough. Her father had a gift for working with his hands. He had a keen eye for valuables and made his living as a merchant. Aside from that, he had the gift of somehow coming up with answers to every question he was presented with.

However, the storm that had passed yesterday had been unusually disastrous and the damage to the village could not be ignored. Thus, Tove decided to scout the beach alone as her father walked through the village to see how other people were doing.

The young girl ran eagerly towards the pile of wood in front her. She did not know why, but it called her name. Kneeling beside the pile, she started rummaging through it. The want to prove herself growing stronger now that it was actually happening. Quickly, the young girl became impatient and she started throwing the most broken pieces all around her. Her smile faltered as she saw nothing. She had to find something! She had to return home with a real treasure and make her father proud. As she lifted one of the last pieces of wood, a glimmer made her freeze.

A treasure!

With big eyes, she took the object of the sand. It was wrapped up in a piece of old cloth, but whatever was inside seemed to shine through the fabric. Very carefully, she took out the object. It was grey and long, still it fitted perfectly in her hand.

“Odd. I have never seen something like this…” She mumbled.

The girl narrowed her eyes and held it closer to her eyes. It was a sword! Only a very, very tiny one! With one of her fingers, she brushed lightly over the back of the dragon that slithered around it. It was beautiful.

Tove giggled. She knew that her father would be so proud. Her giggle soon became louder and turned into a fit of laughter. She could not help herself and twirled around. Her skirt waved around her and created a big circle. This was the kind of treasure that she hoped to find.

Her laughter died down once she looked up. Only now did she look around and noticed the wreckage that the sea had left behind on the sand. With one glance at the small object in her hands the girl understood that this must have belonged to someone on that ship.

Curiously, she stepped closer towards the remains. The sand crunched underneath her feet as she slowly got closer. Her heart was pounding against her chest and nervous giggles kept escaping her mouth. As she neared the ship, her eyes fell on four people lying amongst the wooden leftovers. Three men lay underneath pieces of wood. Blood and sand stained their wet, ripped clothes. Their eyes were closed, and their faces relaxed. It looked like they were sleeping peacefully, but the girl knew better. The sea had claimed their lives.

A bit further from them, near the sea lay another man on his back. His eyes were closed as well, but as she walked towards him, she saw how his chest went up and down in time with his breathing.

He was still alive!

The man’s dirty blond locks were filthy due the sand and his braids were loose. His clothes were stained with blood and sand, just like his companions, but his seemed to be more expensive. As Tove hovered above him, she held her breath. Fear and curiosity ran through her body. Never before had she discovered a man that was fortune enough to have survived a storm. She did not know what to do.

She reached out her hand to touch the man’s forehead. She had seen some women to this to their children as they coughed or were in pain, so it must be something that helped. But before her skin could make contact with his, the man coughed loudly. He spat out water and scrunched up his face. Startled, the girl ran away. Not noticing how the blond-haired man fell limp right after she disappeared behind the corner.

---

Hvitserk groaned as his eyes opened and he was met by the blinding light of the sun. Little pained gasps left his mouth as he tried with all his might to push himself upwards. With teary red eyes, Hvitserk looked around. He did not know where he was. He could only hope that this was the place they were looking for. He let out a long breath as his eyes fell on the ship. The four men that had come with him and his brother on this journey lay death in front of him and made him quickly look away again. The sight of their resting bodies made him feel vulnerable.

A light caught his eyes and made him blink. Beside him as if tossed there so he would be the one to find it, was the silver-grey pin Ubbe had found in the forest. This little thing had made his brother decide to jump on the first ship available and find his lost love. Hvitserk’s breathing fastened once he remembered his brother. He was not among the man lying dead in the sand. But as his eyes scanned the whole area, he saw nothing that could lead him to his older brother.

“Brother…” Hvitserk’s low and hoarse voice was almost unintelligible. “Ubbe?”

There was no response. Hvitserk called out again, louder this time. But still, no response.

Slowly, Hvitserk turned towards the sea. His heart hammered against his chest. Until a few seconds ago, the wound on his chest burned with every breath he took, and his muscles ached with every move, but now he felt numb. Their ship had lost its battle against the raging sea. The men that seemed honoured to go with his brother on this mission lay dead on the sand in front of him. And his brother wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hvitserk never felt so lost.

Hvitserk’s arms gave out and he let himself fall down on the sand. His eyes stared up at the clear blue sky above him. The sea was calm, there were no clouds and the wind was nothing but a soft breeze. A perfect time to set sail.

He remembered Ubbe’s dedication. It had taken them days to collect everything to go on this journey. Yet Ubbe never faltered. He wanted to come here and save his mermaid, his friend. On the way to their rushed departure, both men bumped into many obstacles, the biggest one without doubt their own brother Björn, who wanted to warn Ubbe on his ‘impulsive’ ways. Ubbe had still immense respect for all the things his older brother had accomplished, but his words meant nothing to him anymore. He only hoped that one day they would be able to look each other in the eye, without being reminded of the wrongs that were done.

Hvitserk’s bleeding chest did not bother him anymore. The young prince just lay there. His breathing slowed down as he felt himself getting tired. And slowly, he gave in to the darkness that overcame him.

The two arms that sneaked under his woke Hvitserk up. Startled but unable to fight back, he shouted out. The strangled scream echoed around him. He tried kicking his legs, but his movements were weak. The intruder simply laughed tiredly and continued to drag the wounded prince in the direction of the houses. Hvitserk heard his abductor let out a deep breath and then the two arms disappeared. Hvitserk had no idea where he was brought to. He tried to push himself up with his elbows and look around, but the wound on his chest prevented him from doing so.

“Stop it. You’re making it worse”

The words gave new power to Hvitserk who suddenly found himself able to sit up straight. Before him, was his older brother Ubbe.

“Ubbe?”

Ubbe looked up for a second. His clothes were drenched, and his eyes were red. The man looked as if he had not slept in weeks. He had a large gash on his temple, his lip and eyebrow were cut, and a bruise had turned a dark purple on his jaw.

“It seems like after all Björn was right. This journey was cursed.”

Hvitserk frowned at Ubbe’s tone. He sounded broken, defeated. At his younger brother’s silence, Ubbe smiled bitterly. He was going to save you from the hell you got thrown into. And instead, he only condemned others to the exact same fate.

“You cannot hate yourself for all of this, brother.”

Ubbe laughed dryly, not believing one bit of Hvitserk’s words.

Ubbe shook his head. He had failed himself. He had failed those men. And above all, he had failed you. His eyes were cold and dull as he looked back at the place where those poor men lay. Hvitserk followed his gaze and felt that awful feeling in his stomach return. He knew his brother was blaming himself for all of this. He knew that the hope he had parted with was shattered into pieces.

Hvitserk cleared his throat, successfully getting Ubbe’s attention. With a shaky hand, he took something out of his pocket and laid it in the hands of his older brother. Ubbe’s eyebrows shot up as he stared down at the silver pin.

His thumb stroked softly over the dragon’s head. Ubbe thought he had lost it to the sea. Now, here it lay. He had carefully chosen this pin above others. The other pins the old lady sold were all beautiful one by one. But only this one gave Ubbe the right feeling. It was the only one that showed how he felt. Ubbe’s knuckle turned white as he clenched his fingers around the small object. The tail of the dragon slowly cut into his flesh. The stinging pain brought only a short relief from the voices inside his head, but like true monsters they kept repeating how he destroyed your only change at freedom.

The silence was deafening. A cold figure sitting in between them and making Hvitserk feel beaten. Ubbe’s body betrayed himself and a sob passed his lips. His stone-cold expression broke down and Hvitserk watched how his brother turned into a defeated man.

“And… Now?” He said softly, afraid that his words could hurt his brother more.

Hvitserk was lost. He did not know what to do. But the sight of his older and wiser brother sitting there in the sand scared him to death.

“Now… we pray that she will forgive me and that her faith is not what I fear it is. If luck is on our side, we may find a boat leaving this place soon. In that way, we can return home.”

The words passed his lips slowly, as if it burned him to say them out loud. Hvitserk frowned at his brother. Confusion written all over his face. This was not the brother he parted with. The words he just said sounded like a lame and pathetic effort in finding comfort in this situation. Ubbe did not even believe his own words, but for once found it was better to try and live with that lie.

“You’re leaving her behind?” Hvitserk could not wrap his head around it. With pained grunts, he placed his hands behind him and pushed himself until he leaned forward. Ubbe tilted his head at him, a look of concern painted his features.

“Do not give me that look” Hvitserk snarled. “You wanted to be here. We are here now. Look at these,” he panted, pointing at his chest. The moment his hand left the ground, the young prince almost lost his balance, his muscles still too weak to support himself. Ubbe lifted one hand, a gesture to offer some help, but Hvitserk roughly slapped it away. “This is the prove that she is not to be here. She knew what would happen to her. She fought with all her might. She- “Hvitserk looked down, broken as he remembered your screams and pleads.

Ubbe shook his head and shuffled closer to his brother. With both his hands, he supported the young man in front of him. Hvitserk stared up at him, almost forcing him to say something. But Ubbe kept his lips stubbornly shut tight.

“Let me help you fix this. This is also my fault. You are the one she needs now.”

His last words broke the everlasting scowl on Ubbe’s face. The wall that he had put around himself crumbled and Hvitserk saw the light reappear in his brother’s eyes. A ghost of a smile grew on Ubbe’s lips as he pressed his forehead against his brother’s. The two sat there in their brotherly embrace, until Hvitserk broke the moment.

“So… Now?”

“You must rest now. We will break in at sunset.”

---

The dry grass crackled underneath their feet as the two men slowly sneaked their way past the different houses. The sun had set over the small village and most residents had abandoned the streets to find comfort in their homes. Hvitserk’s breathing was harsh and deep, but the man was for once able to stand up tall. The facts that he had been able to encourage his older brother to not lose faith restored some of his energy. His feet often lost their grip on the ground, but thankfully he never fell.

Ubbe’s heart was pounding against his chest while the nerves ran down his body. One by one they passed the houses, trying to get a glimpse inside to see where Sólir may be living. With every house he passed, Ubbe grew more restless. He did not know where he could find you, Björn was uncertain of Sólir’s exact location. And he did not know in what state you would be in. Days had gone by before Ubbe had arrived here. Time and the unknown had always intrigued Ubbe, but now they were his greatest enemy. With every step, the fear of what he would come across became larger. Every peak inside a home that resulted in a beautiful sight of a couple sitting together with their children, made the anger well up in his chest.

At last, Ubbe peeked through a window to be met with the sight of a strange tank made of glass. It rested on a big wooden block and was filled to the brink with water. It was clear the glass cage had not been cleaned ever since it had been made, for the water had turned a filthy shade of grey. Ubbe rumbled in rage as he saw you laying on the bottom of your cage, miserable, and severely injured. Ubbe tried to see if anyone was with you, but nobody seemed to be inside. There wasn’t an evidence of a fire burning and the only light that lit up the room was that from the setting sun. No sounds could be heard around them.

With a simple nod of his head he signalled his younger brother, who stood on the lookout a bit further away.

The door jammed as Ubbe tried to open it. With a hard push with his shoulder it eventually flew open. The door slammed harshly against the wall, making some pots fall of their shelf. The sound echoed through the room. Ubbe bit his lip as his eyes fell on you. Very softly, he called out your name, but the sound did not seem to have reached your ears. You just lay on the bottom of your glass cage, your arms crossed over each other with your eyes shut tight.

Ubbe swallowed and stepped closer. His little brother following him like a shadow. Just like Ubbe, his eyes were only focused on you. Your hair was cut short and it was clear that some pieces were missing. Cuts and burn marks covered your skin and your tail had lost some of its vibrant colour.

Still, you were alive.

Ubbe shook his head, the pin in his pocket felt heavier with the moment. Again, he whispered out your name as he crouched beside you. This time, you opened your eyes.

“Y/N. Why - Oh no…” Ubbe leaned forwards, his forehead resting against the glass as your eyes finally met his blue ones. The white of your eyes had turned a crimson red, together with the dark circles and hollowed cheeks, you looked like death was standing right next to you. Hvitserk watches with widened eyes, his arms remained at his sides as the young man stood there perplexed.

“I am getting you out of this mess I put you in.”

His promise was met by a deafening silence. The only sound heard was the water splashing against something as you moved to lay on your side. The task seemed almost impossible for you. The tank wasn’t very large, only just wide enough to fit you in, leaving barely any room for you to adjust your position. Ubbe pressed his fist against the glass, his eyes pleading with you.

“Please. Do not give up. I am here to help. Truly.”

Again, his pleads were met by silence. Ubbe grew nervous as he looked right into your eyes, but only saw them stare blankly back at him. His heart hammered, and a lump formed in his chest. Ubbe stepped back and raised his hand, letting it glide over his hair. The young man paced around the tank, not knowing what to do. It made him feel dizzy, yet nothing in his brain told him to stop. Hvitserk frowned at the scene in front of him. He had not expected you to be so cold towards him, so unresponsive. As his eyes fell on you again, he peered intently at your hand. You had raised it up as high as you could so now it was pressed against the top of your cage. Hvitserk looked at the fine wooden board that formed the roof of your cage. And only now he took notice of the objects strategically placed on it. Hvitserk inched forward as your eyes followed Ubbe in his pacing, your mouth opening and closing, but no sound left your lips.

“Air… You can’t breathe…” he murmured. “You can’t- She-Ubbe, she can’t breathe!” He yelled out, waving his hand to get his brother’s attention. Ubbe stopped his pacing and looking down at you. Immediately he fell down on his knees, pressing his hand against the glass as if he were able to touch you through it. He narrowed his eyes as he saw too that your captivator left no room for air in your cage. His eyes darted around the tank, looking for a way to help you out.

“Help me!” He screamed towards his brother when he noticed too how the fine wooden board kept you inside. “Help me lift this thing off!”

Together, they threw the objects on the ground. With a loud clatter, they fell on the ground and with your last power you pushed the board away, taking big chunks of air as you resurfaced.

Ubbe came closer to you again, lifting your face in his hands. His smile was large and beautiful. He was breathing unevenly, and small chuckles passed his lips. You could only look back at him woozily, but the sight of his relieved face warmed your heart. After a couple of seconds, he suddenly removed his hands from the side of your face. A faint blush covered his cheeks as he cleared his throat. The small giggle you presented him with filled him with joy and made him look up at you again.

“The Gods are with me… For they have kept you alive. I am so glad to see you once again.”

You simply grinned back at him, resting your head on your arms.

A cough mixed with a painful howl made the both of you look up. Hvitserk was leaning against the tank, his breathing very deep while his eyes were closed. The scowl on his face together with the blood that slowly dripped over his hand into the water told his older brother how the wound had opened once again.

“Please. Help him.” Ubbe’s panting made you turn towards him. Fear was evident in his eyes. Your arms started trembling as your muscles were still too weak to hold you up.

“I cannot. I am far too weak to fully heal him.”

“Then help him the best you can.”

“Why should I even try? He was amongst the men who doomed me with this fate.” You spat out; anger evident in your gaze as you stared up at the man beside the tank.

“I need him. He is my little brother. You do not need to forgive him. You do not need to like him.” Ubbe paused, his hand reaching for the pin in his pocket. You gasped as he presented you with it. You hadn’t seen it ever since you lost it, when Björn’s men took you away from the lake, dragging you through the forest. The small thing still looked as beautiful as the day you got it from him. “We- I have let you down. And now I ask you this… Please, help him. And I promise you will be free again.”

With those words, he carefully brushed some of your hair back and clipped it into place. The familiar feeling of the pin in your hair brought back a feeling of trust. Something you thought you would never feel again.

Sighing out, you looked up towards Hvitserk. His eyes met yours a few times, but every time they did, he cast them down again. Regretful of all that happened, ashamed of asking your help.

“It’s funny.” You began. “When I look into your eyes, it’s almost as if I see regret in them.”

Hvitserk nodded his head frantically. “I do… I do regret it.”

You hummed, raising a hand to lay it on Hvitserk’s. He watched curiously how the webbed fingers wrapped themselves around his hand. The cold touch burned his hand, but he did not retrieve it. The stern look on your face captivated him and for some reason, he trusted you to help him.

“Then forgive yourself. Forgive. And heal from the inside.”

“How… How will that help me?”

“You keep reminding yourself of the wrongs you’ve done, Hvitserk. The pain drains your power to heal. You may not believe me, but I do not have a lot of ways to protect myself.” You paused, looking at the confused man in front of you. “Once scratched you will be weakened more every time you are confronted with the mistake I pained you for. You, Hvitserk, have helped a corrupt man in kidnapping me and you let yourself be fooled by stories that contain lies. You fear being rejected because of your mistakes. You fear to make a choice that ends up being the wrong one. And with those thoughts, you hurt yourself. The scratches show only a physical consequence of your mental pain. Learn to live with the consequences, forgive and heal yourself.”

With that you let your hand fall down in the water. Hvitserk stared down at his hand. The cold sensation disappeared slowly, and he watched perplexed how the water you had left behind dried quickly on his hand, as if his skin was absorbing the greyish liquid.

A tingling feeling went up and down his chest, making him pull down his tunic as much as it let him. The edges of his wounds were still a vibrant red, but they were not bleeding anymore. Hvitserk breathed out, nodding his head at his worried brother, and bowed his head in gratitude at you.

“The wound is now closed, but not healed yet. As I said, you must do that for yourself.”

“And with how much of a crybaby you are, I think that will take a while.”

A low voice chuckled out his words, causing the two men jump up and a shiver run down your back.

Sólir had returned.

----

Thank you for reading xxx

Tag: @fairyofvoid

Tags AWFF: @pieces-by-me

#vikings #vikings imagine #vikings fanfic #ubbe ragnarsson imagine #ubbe ragnarsson imagines #ubbe the wolf #ubbe fanfiction #ubbe x you #ubbe x reader #a wish for forgiveness

43 notes · View notes