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earthlybeam · 8 days ago

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Hi, I was wondering if I could request how Elrond, Glorfindel, and Elrohir would react to a reader who could shapeshift? Like, they discover that the reader can shapeshift by accident and the reader's afraid of what the elves will do. Sorry if this went too long! Thank you!

how would the elves react to this?

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Elrond, glrofindel, elrohir Versions are below.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

✶ When Elrond first discovers that you possess the ability to shapeshift, his reaction is one of cautious curiosity, tempered by the wisdom and experience he has accumulated over the centuries. Elves, with their deep connection to the natural world and their understanding of magic, are not easily surprised. However, shapeshifting is a rare and powerful gift, one that can evoke fear, awe, and uncertainty even among the most knowledgeable of elves.

✶ The discovery would likely occur in an intimate, quiet moment—perhaps during one of your walks through Rivendell, as you and Elrond stroll side by side along a path bordered by ancient trees. Maybe something unexpected happens: a sudden change in your emotions, or perhaps a flurry of movement catches his eye, and before he can fully comprehend what has happened, you have shifted into a different form. It could be something as small as an animal or as grand as a more mystical creature. In that moment, Elrond would freeze, his elven grace allowing him to remain calm, but his sharp, penetrating gaze would be focused on you with quiet intensity.

✶ His first instinct would not be to judge or condemn you. Instead, Elrond’s reaction would be one of deep contemplation. He would study the change, not out of suspicion, but because he is a being of profound understanding of magic and its many facets. His mind would race as he seeks to understand the origins of your ability and what this means for both you and your future together.

✶ Once you return to your true form, he would approach you with a quiet, measured voice, a softness in his words that you might not expect from such a regal and wise figure. He would not be alarmed, but he would certainly want to discuss it.

✶ “My friend, do not fear,” Elrond would say, his tone gentle but firm, filled with the weight of many ages. “This gift you possess is… rare, and I admit, it is not something I have encountered often in my long years. But I know this much—what you are is no less beautiful than the being I have come to cherish.”

✶ He would carefully reach out, his hands warm and steady, offering you comfort and reassurance. He would not want you to feel vulnerable or ashamed, though he would understand that such a secret may weigh heavily on your heart. His deep understanding of elvish lore would give him insight into the history of shapeshifting, and he would likely draw upon ancient knowledge to ease your fears. His empathy for your situation would be immense, as he could sense that this power might feel like both a blessing and a burden to you.

✶ “I am not one to cast judgment upon the strange or the unknown,” he would continue, his voice laced with wisdom. “You are not the first to bear a power such as this. Many ages ago, the Eldar encountered beings of great power, ones who could alter their forms at will. Some did so for noble causes, while others… fell to darkness.”

✶ He would take a step closer, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture both tender and understanding. His gaze would soften as he continued, “But fear not, Mellon nín. I see no darkness in you. You are not bound by the same temptations that once corrupted others. Your heart is pure, and your intentions are guided by love, not by power.”

✶ Despite his calm exterior, Elrond’s mind would remain alert. He would wonder about the potential consequences of your gift, not only for you but also for those around you. He would likely seek counsel from other wise beings in Rivendell, such as Gandalf, to ensure that this power remains under control and is used for good.

✶ However, even as Elrond processes the implications of your shapeshifting, he would be unwavering in his support of you. His deep love for you would prevent him from ever seeing this as a source of fear or danger. Instead, he would approach it as another part of the complex, beautiful person that you are. “My heart is bound to yours, and no power, no matter how great, will change that,” Elrond would say, his voice unwavering. “Together, we will face whatever challenges lie ahead. You are not alone in this, and I will stand by you always.”

✶ In his quiet, stoic way, Elrond would assure you that nothing—be it your shapeshifting or any other secret you might hold—could ever drive a wedge between you. His love is constant, a rock upon which you can lean. In the moments that follow, you would feel his presence as a source of peace, knowing that, with him by your side, you are safe from harm.

✶ Over time, Elrond would continue to support you in mastering and understanding your gift. He would encourage you to explore it, but always with a sense of caution, urging you to balance the power you hold with the wisdom you have gained. Together, you would explore the depths of this mysterious ability, learning from each other and strengthening the bond between you.

✶ Ultimately, Elrond’s reaction would reflect his fundamental nature—one of wisdom, compassion, and unwavering love. He would never see your gift as something to fear but rather as an aspect of who you are, something that makes you all the more remarkable in his eyes.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

𖤓 When Glorfindel discovers your ability to shapeshift, it is not through deliberate revelation, but rather by accident—perhaps during a moment of heightened emotion or an unforeseen situation. You may have hoped to keep this part of yourself hidden, knowing how rare and often misunderstood such abilities are, even among the Eldar. But Glorfindel, with his sharp eyes and keen instincts honed over millennia, notices the shift instantly.

𖤓 The moment is quiet yet charged with tension. Perhaps you had shifted into an animal form to avoid danger or simply let your emotions get the better of you, and before you could stop it, the change overcame you. As you stand before him, his blue gaze locks onto you—not with fear, but with an intense curiosity, as if he is piecing together the threads of an ancient tale. Glorfindel does not speak immediately; instead, he watches, his angelic presence radiating calm, giving you space to return to your true form when you are ready.

𖤓 As you return to yourself, you may fear rejection or judgment, your heart racing as you wait for him to respond. But Glorfindel’s expression is far from harsh or wary. There is no distrust in his eyes, no recoiling in disgust. Instead, his face softens with an unmistakable warmth, the kind of gentle compassion that has made him beloved by so many. He takes a step closer, his movements unhurried and deliberate, careful not to startle you.

𖤓 “Well,” he finally says, a small, boyish grin spreading across his lips, “that was unexpected. But magnificent all the same.” His tone is light, almost teasing, but not in a way that diminishes the gravity of the moment. His words are meant to put you at ease, to let you know that you are not in danger here, not with him.

𖤓 If he senses your unease—your fear of what he might do or think—Glorfindel’s demeanor grows even softer. He kneels slightly, lowering himself to your eye level if necessary, so that you do not feel dwarfed by his presence. “Mellon nín,” he says, his voice laced with the gentle cadence of reassurance, “do not be afraid. I have walked this world for ages, and I have seen much that would confound others. But you? You are nothing to fear.”

𖤓 He reaches out, his hand steady but slow, a silent offer of comfort. Whether you accept or not, his gaze remains steady, a golden warmth in his eyes that feels like the first rays of dawn breaking through a storm. “This is a gift,” he says softly, his voice imbued with awe and reverence. “Rare, yes, but a gift nonetheless. And I think… it speaks of great purpose, a strength that is uniquely yours.”

𖤓 Glorfindel’s understanding of the world runs deep, and his words reflect his long years of wisdom. He does not see your ability as something to be feared, but rather something to be honored. “In the days of old,” he continues, “there were tales of those who could shift their form, beings who were blessed with a connection to the very fabric of creation. You may carry such a connection within you, and that… that is extraordinary.”

𖤓 His voice softens further, becoming almost a whisper, as if he is sharing a secret meant only for you. “I see no shadow in you, no ill intent. If anything, this makes you even more remarkable than I already thought you to be.”

𖤓 Should you confess your fears—that others might reject you, or that your gift might bring harm—Glorfindel’s reaction is immediate. His hand moves to your shoulder or cheek, a gesture of steadfast reassurance. “Do not let fear guide you,” he says, his tone firm yet gentle. “You are more than your ability. And anyone who cannot see that is blind to the beauty of your spirit.”

𖤓 He steps back slightly, giving you the space to process his words, but his radiant energy continues to envelop you like a protective shield. “You are not alone,” he adds, his voice strong and unwavering. “You will never be alone. Not while I am here. Whatever this means—whatever challenges it may bring—you have my support, my loyalty, and my strength.”

𖤓 Over time, Glorfindel’s reaction does not waver. If anything, his fascination with your gift grows. He does not pry or press you to demonstrate it, respecting your boundaries, but his curiosity is undeniable. “Do you feel it when you change?” he might ask one evening as you sit together by the fire. “Does it hurt? Or does it feel like… freedom?”

𖤓 His questions are never intrusive; instead, they are filled with genuine wonder, as if your ability is a puzzle he is honored to help you solve. And when you feel ready to explore your gift, Glorfindel is there, a steady and unwavering presence by your side. “Let us see what this power can do,” he says with a grin, his golden hair catching the light like a halo. “But no pressure. Only when you’re ready.”

𖤓 He would undoubtedly defend you if anyone dared to question or belittle your gift, his legendary courage shining through. “This one,” he would say firmly, gesturing to you with pride, “has a strength most of us cannot even fathom. Do not mistake the unfamiliar for something lesser.”

𖤓 Ultimately, Glorfindel sees your shapeshifting as just another facet of who you are—one more reason to cherish and admire you. To him, it is not something that sets you apart in a negative way, but rather something that makes you uniquely you. “You are remarkable, and nothing—nothing—will change the way I see you,” he says one evening, his voice as steady and sure as the foundations of Gondolin itself.

𖤓 In Glorfindel, you find not only an unwavering protector but also an endless wellspring of kindness, wisdom, and love. With him by your side, you know that your gift, no matter how rare or misunderstood, is something to be embraced rather than feared. And in his presence, you feel safe, accepted, and seen for who you truly are.

⭐️𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓱𝓲𝓻

✧ When Elrohir first discovers that you possess the ability to shapeshift, his reaction is an intricate balance of surprise, intrigue, and protectiveness. Unlike some elves who may view such an ability with wary reverence or fear, Elrohir—hardened by years of battle and tempered by his sense of humor—reacts with an innate calm, though his sharp gaze betrays his fascination.

✧ The discovery would likely occur during one of your shared moments of quiet solitude. Perhaps while scouting a wooded glen together or on the outskirts of Rivendell, you inadvertently shift into another form. It might be a defensive reaction—an instinct to protect yourself from a perceived threat—or simply a moment where your emotions overwhelmed you. In that fleeting moment, Elrohir halts in his tracks, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. Not out of hostility, but readiness to defend, should the situation require it.

✧ “Well,” he remarks in a low, even tone, though his smirk is unmistakable, “that is not what I expected today.” His dry humor surfaces immediately, as it often does when he’s faced with the unexpected. However, the lightness of his words is tempered by the intensity in his gaze, his keen elven eyes studying you with both curiosity and wariness.

✧ As you shift back to your true form, your apprehension is palpable, and Elrohir’s demeanor softens. He notices the tremor in your voice as you stammer an apology or explanation, and his innate protectiveness surges to the forefront. He steps closer to you, his hand falling from his sword to rest on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

✧ “Peace, mellon nín,” he says gently, his voice unusually soft for one so often fierce in battle. “You have no reason to fear me.” His tone carries the weight of sincerity, but his sharp mind is already working through what this ability means for you—and for him.

✧ Unlike his father, Elrohir is not one to dwell on the ancient histories or deeper metaphysical implications of such powers. His first thoughts are of you—your safety, your fears, and how this gift might affect your life. He knows well how the world can twist something rare and beautiful into a source of scorn or danger.

✧ “You think I would cast you aside for this?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly as he tilts his head to meet your gaze. There’s a faint edge to his voice, as though offended by the very idea. “Do you not know me better by now?”

✧ Despite his outward calm, there is an undeniable protectiveness in his tone. He steps closer, lowering his voice as though to shield your secret from the trees themselves. “This world is not kind to those who are different,” he continues, his expression darkening slightly. “But you are not alone in this. Whatever you face, I will stand by your side.”

✧ Though Elrohir does not often voice his emotions in flowery terms, his actions speak louder than any words could. He stays close to you for the rest of the day, his usual playfulness muted as he watches over you with quiet vigilance. He is determined to show you, not just through words but through unwavering loyalty, that your gift changes nothing between you.

✧ Later, when the two of you are alone and the tension has eased somewhat, his curiosity finally gets the better of him. “How long have you carried this secret?” he asks, his tone gentler now, though his eyes gleam with intrigue. “And why would you hide it from me? Did you think I would fear you?”

✧ His dry humor returns as he smirks faintly, attempting to lighten the mood. “Or perhaps you thought I’d mistake you for an orc and try to run you through?” The jest is paired with a teasing glint in his eye, but the underlying message is clear: nothing about you could ever frighten or alienate him.

✧ Over time, Elrohir would not only accept your ability but come to see it as an extraordinary gift. He would marvel at your transformations, his sharp mind quick to find practical applications for your shapeshifting in both scouting and combat. However, his protectiveness would also deepen. The thought of someone discovering your secret and seeking to harm or exploit you would fill him with a quiet but fierce determination to keep you safe.

✧ “This gift of yours,” he would say one evening, as the two of you sit beneath the stars, “it does not make you strange or unnatural. If anything, it makes you more wondrous. But…” He pauses, his expression darkening slightly. “It is a dangerous world, and there are those who would not see it as I do.”

✧ His hand brushes yours, a rare gesture of open vulnerability from one so guarded. “But you have me. Whatever comes, I will protect you, with my life if need be.”

✧ Elrohir’s reaction to your shapeshifting would reflect his unique blend of playfulness, protectiveness, and fierce loyalty. Where others might see your gift as something to fear, he would see it as yet another facet of the person he loves—something extraordinary, yes, but not something that changes the bond between you. And though he may tease you about it from time to time, it would only be to see you smile, knowing that, with him, you are safe to be exactly who you are.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Black Light 12

Warnings: noncon, namecalling, violence, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Thank you for waiting! Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You feel a bit dreamy. Well, you always do. You sit in your bed, freshly made, fragrant with fabric softener, as you cut through the pages of old catalogues. Your fingers are sticky with glue as you arrange the images just so.

You can hear your mom downstairs, the bluetooth speaker playing Hall and Oates to her content. Your dad's outside trying to fix the fence post. You can hear him swearing through the crack of your window.

You hold out the scrapbook. You just need that globe right in that little space. Oh, the leather sofa is perfect.

You leave the book open on your bed to dry so the pages don't stick. You put on your dress with the daisies on white and spin in the mirror. Your yellow beret will go perfect. You put the hat on and a pair of matching clunky maryjanes.

You go downstairs and find your mother scavenging in the tupperware container you left on the counter. You squeal as she quickly closes the lid and covers her mouth guiltily. She backs away and giggles.

“I couldn't resist,” she says through a full mouth.

“Mom!” You stick your tongue out as you snatch up the container of cookies.

“You don't need all those,” she accuses.

“They're not for you.”

“I know, so… who are they for?” She tilts her head coyly.

“Someone,” you roll your eyes.

“A boy.”

You harrumph, “he's too old to be a boy.”

“Oh my gosh! That's so cute! Do we get to meet him?”

“No,” you pout and turn your chin up, “it's new.”

“Well, be safe. Don't get into too much trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you drag your feet and stop in the doorway, “mom, can you not tell dad?”

She laughs again, “sure, sweetie, our little secret.”

You smile, cheeks twitching. You don't need your parents nosing around. You're still figuring this all out.

🍪

You wait outside the club. It's almost seven. You thought he'd be there by now. The other bouncer is. Lee, that's his name.

You're not weird or anything. You've just been watching from across the street for an hour or two. Not your fault he didn't leave his number.

You cross the road as you see Lee come back out. He sees you and smiles. He's so friendly, you wish August would try that.

“Hi,” you hop over the curb, “is Auggy here yet?”

“Auggy? Nah, he's taking his time,” he eyes the container in your hands, “what's this?”

“Oh, just a surprise. You want one?”

“Depends. What's the surprise?”

You balance the container against the scrapbook beneath it and pop the corner of the lid up. You offer him one of the jelly cookies. They took you hours as you baked and waited to cool before adding the layer of jam and custard.

“Wow, you're a big baker,” he muses.

“Sometimes,” you preen.

He takes one and admires your craftsmanship, “my wife ain't so good about it. But she tries, bless her heart.”

“Oh, you have a wife?”

“Sweetest gal in the world,” he grins, “she's at home with the baby.”

“Baby?”

“Ah, just a cat, but she treats him like a child,” he chortles and takes a bite, letting out a hum.

��Ooh, I love kitties! What's his name?”

He swallows, “Hickory. He likes her better'n me.”

“Aw, adorable.”

“Maybe you can come meet em one day. You and Auggy. Like a double date?”

“Really!?” You snap the lid shut, “oh, I'd love that so much.”

You hear grumbles and the tramp of soles as a shadowy figure appears from the alley. Lee turns and throws a hand put derisively, “bout time.”

August stops short as he looks between you and Lee, his expression limned in the early hue of evening. His brows draw together as he coughs. He crosses his arms and glowers.

“What is she doin’ here?”

“Ask her,” Lee says before he tosses back the rest of the cookie and turns on his heel.

He pulls open the front door and disappears as you stand watching August. He drops his arms and marches towards you, past you as he goes to follow his fellow bouncer. You quickly get between him and the door.

“Sweetie, I brought you cookies!”

“What?” He reaches past you as you put your back to the door.

“I haven't heard from you in…. Like three days.”

He glares at you. You open the container and show your wares. He only pulls on the door, jarring you but not dislodging you.

“I got work–”

“And I brought you a surprise! So eat a cookie.”

He narrows his eyes. You stay locked in a stalemate as he tries to pull the door again. You lean into it and plant your heels.

“I'm being real nice here, sweetie, so take a damn cookie,” you feel a surge in your chest.

“Can't you take a hint?”

“Can't you?”

“What– look, I told you, this isn't a relationship or whatever you think it is.”

“I'm not stupid. This is real,” you insist, “get it? Me and you, Auggy Bear, together forever.”

“What are you–”

“Here,” you shove the container at him.

He doesn't move but you jam it into his chest and he finally relents and supports it.

You slide the book from beneath it and open it up, “this is our future. You see? Our home,” you show him the little touches of colour amid the neutral hues, a perfect melding of your personalities, “and our honeymoon. I'm open to change but I was thinking a cottage–”

“Are you insane?” He breathes scratchily.

“Insane?” You repeat and bat your lashes, “don't call me that.”

“We fucked. Once. There's nothing else between us–”

“There is!” You holler and slam the book shut, “and you know it. You would never have followed me home if you didn't mean it–”

“Shhh, shhh,” he waves you down, “hey, lower your voice.”

“That's what you did. You stalked me, sir, so… you want me too. You want me or you wouldn't have done what you did.”

“Please, just… calm down.”

“You won't even eat a cookie!” You accuse.

“Be quiet,” he hisses.

“Eat a cookie!”

“Would you listen, girl?”

“No! No, you will eat a cookie. I spent all day making them and– and– I'm not crazy. I'm not,” you clutch the book tight.

He sighs, his blue eyes gleaming as he slowly lifts the lid. He takes out a cookie, showing it to you before he takes a nibble. He swallows without chewing.

“There, happy? Now go home.”

You scrunch your nose at him, frustrated, “you could at least tell me you love me.”

“Love you?!?” He chokes and nearly drops the cookie.

“Yes, I know you do, because I would never give my virginity to someone who doesn't love me.”

He blanches and glimpses down at the cookie. His throat bobs. He raises his eyes and takes another deep breath, “I didn't realise…”

“That you love me, right?” You sneer as you step closer, “say it.”

“If I do, will you go?” He growls.

You nod and smile up at him, “I'll do whatever you want, pookie.”

‘Pookie… jesus, alright, I love you. Go home.” He nudges you out of his way and grabs the door with his free hand.

“Don't eat those all at once,” you call as you turn to peek inside the club, “oh, and you have crumbs in your mustache–”

The door slams between you and you pout, “love ya too…” you trail off. It's okay, it seems like it's new for him too.

#august walker #dark august walker #dark!august walker #august walker x reader #au #the club #series #drabble #mission impossible: fallout #black light

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saturnznct · 2 years ago

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finding out you’re pregnant again | ldh

➸ request from anon; heyy i luv all ur works!! it's exactly what im looking for, so cute! also if you still take requests? could i request reader finding out she's pregnant which she didn't expect and announcing it to husband haechan? him being lovey-dovey with reader all excited about the baby, kissing the whole fluff 😁

➸ note; aw bless you anon tysm! hope this is what you were looking for <33

➸ word count; 1223 words

➸ dalgun; aged 8, kyungah; aged 3, sunhee; in the womb lol

➸ warning(s); none

nct masterlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You felt awful. Donghyuck never showed you any signs of stress. His life was so busy, even at his older age, he worked hard as a singer and member of NCT, and even harder as a father to your two young children, Dalgun and Kyungah, who were eight and three years old. He loved his life, he had everything he could possibly want, but you knew things were a lot for him to deal with. The two of you had already tried to take a breather when your daughter Kyungah was born, moving back to Donghyuck’s home of Jeju for a short time. It was beautiful, life was quiet and idyllic, having picnics on the beach and playing in the fields of pink muhly together. But, Donghyuck was constantly called back to Seoul for work, so it was decided that Seoul was the best place for your family to be together. Donghyuck worked so hard to provide for your family, schedules took up large amounts of his day. He would only ever occasionally reveal his worries, telling you that he wanted to be there for your children more and how guilty he felt at his own absence. So now, when you’re staring down at a positive pregnancy test, another type of sick feeling settles in your stomach. Surely this would add so much more weight to Donghyuck’s stress.

‘Mummy/mommy?’ Kyungah knocks on the bathroom door, interrupting your train of thought. You quickly shove the test under a stack of flannels.

‘Hi sweetheart,’ you open the door, ‘sorry I went away for a few minutes.’

Kyungah doesn’t seem to mind, ‘will daddy be home soon?’

‘I don’t know, angel, why don’t we give him a call?’

‘Please!’ Kyungah crawls onto your bed, sitting up against the headboard, you sitting down beside her and pulling up FaceTime on your phone.

‘Hi baby,’ Donghyuck picks up after a few rings. He’s hunched over his phone, black North Face puffer almost swallowing him whole, black mask pulled up around his face. His eyes look heavy and worn, clearly from his long day.

‘Hi daddy, someone wanted to say hi,’ you pan the camera to Kyungah, whose head is resting on your shoulder. Donghyuck’s eyes brighten at the sight of your daughter.

‘Hi Kyungie,’ you can’t see his mouth, but you can tell how widely he’s smiling.

‘Daddy, are you nearly finished?’ she asks, you stroke her hair as she cuddles you.

��I’m nearly done, sweetheart,’ he confirms, ‘I took my makeup off, look.’

He pulls his mask down slightly, showing a red spot on his face that would usually be covered with concealer, making Kyungah giggle.

‘Just wrapping up, then daddy will come straight home.’

‘Okay,’ Kyungah smiles, ‘I made you a drawing today.’

Donghyuck’s eyes widen, ‘ah, thank you angel, I can’t wait to see it.’

‘Kyungah, honey, why don’t you go make sure it’s all ready to give to daddy?’ you suggest, wanting to speak to Donghyuck alone for a minute.

‘Okay!’ Kyungah shuffles off the bed, toddling away towards the shared playroom.

‘Are you alright?’ Donghyuck suddenly looks concerned, wondering why you’d had Kyungah leave.

‘I don’t know,’ you answer truthfully, ‘had a super long day.’

‘You look exhausted,’ he sighs, and you laugh dryly.

‘I am. I- can we talk when you come home?’

‘Are you sure everything’s okay?’

‘I just want to talk,’ you know you’re likely worrying him further, but you don’t have the will to say that things are okay.

‘Alright, we’ll talk,’ he hums, ‘I love you, I’ll be home soon.’

‘I love you too,’ you smile weakly, ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Donghyuck arrives home less than an hour later, both of your children running to meet him at the door.

‘Hey, you guys should be in bed! It’s too late to be this excited,’ Donghyuck takes the both of them into his arms regardless, squeezing them and pinching their sides.

‘Come on, you two, let daddy breathe.’

The kids remove themselves from Donghyuck, but are still excitable.

‘I think it’s your bedtimes,’ Donghyuck announces, the two kids groaning.

‘But you just got here,’ Dalgun whines.

‘Bedtime doesn’t change,’ Donghyuck shakes his head, motioning up the stairs, ‘lets get ready for bed, Lees.’

The kids go through their bedtime routine, you and Donghyuck supervising as they brush their teeth and wash their faces, each sleepily wandering to their bedrooms.

You both read a story to Kyungah first, with her being the youngest, Donghyuck kissing her forehead and murmuring a ‘good night, angel’ before flicking on her nightlight and leaving her to sleep.

Dalgun, being older, only takes a kiss and a cuddle as a goodnight, before you and Donghyuck are left alone.

‘Hey,’ Donghyuck wraps his arms around your waist from behind, ‘you okay?’

‘I have to tell you something,’ you mumble, ‘sit down.’

Donghyuck removes himself from you, sitting down on your bed.

‘I- I didn’t feel too well, the other day,’ you begin, standing in front of him, fidgeting with your fingers.

‘I know,’ Donghyuck nods, ‘do you still feel unwell? Do you need me to stay at home with you and the kids? Because I can-‘

‘Hyuck, I thought I might be pregnant.’

Donghyuck’s eyes widen, ‘you think you’re pregnant?’

His expression is hard to read, he looks equally shocked and unnerved.

‘Hyuck, I know I’m pregnant.’

His face grows softer, but he still doesn’t react much.

‘I’m sorry,’ you begin to ramble, his head snapping up, ‘you’re so busy. You work so hard for us and you have so much on your plate, even without the children, I mean, we already had to leave Jeju, I should’ve been more careful and-‘

‘Hey, don’t say that,’ he’s grinning, arms reaching out to hold your waist, ‘come here.’ You hide your face in his neck, feeling some slight reassurance as he reaches a hand to your hair and begins running it through his fingers.

’This is good,’ he’s smiling widely into your head, ‘this is a good thing.’

You sniff, tears swimming in your eyes, ‘but-‘

‘No, stop that,’ Donghyuck gently pulls you down onto his lap, ’I know it may feel like I’m so busy all the time, and I’m sorry. I have honestly been thinking recently that I need to cut down, I miss the three of you and I miss Jeju. I’ve enjoyed my career.. but I want to be with my family even more.’

You pull away, reaching into the pocket of you hoodie to show Donghyuck the positive test.

‘Wow,’ he sighs in disbelief, breaking into the widest most genuine smile you’d seen from him in a long time, ‘we really made another baby.’ He presses a long kiss to your cheek, arms still secure around your waist.

‘I’ll start cutting down,’ he declares, ‘before it’s too late, we’ll move back down to Jeju. Give our children the life we’ve always wanted to give them.’

‘You love your work..’

‘I love you, Dalgun, Kyungah and this baby so much more.’

‘We love you too,’ you smile tiredly, lifting your shirt a little.

Donghyuck practically melts, despite the fact there’s no change to you yet.

‘Oh, angel, I would do anything for you,’ he tilts your head down, kissing you deeply, before sinking down and kissing your stomach, ‘and all of our babies.’

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myfairkatiecat · 9 months ago

Text

Voice - a Keefe Sencen Poem

@justmossyall @phtalogreenpoison @justalunaticfangirl @fandom-mind-dump @whentheleavesfallfromtheoak-blog @lilliesandlight @permanently-stressed

I use my voice.

I use it for more than speaking.

“He’s a good kid,” they say,

“A smart kid—I wonder why he’s acting out”

I don’t want them to wonder

so I talk.

Joke, mock, quip, disrupt—

they don’t wonder

the expectations evaporate.

I feel lighter.

That is the power of my voice.

I use my voice

because if I make people listen

then they won’t look.

If I give them enough to hear

they won’t feel the need to see

and so I hide in plain sight.

I talk to cover what I want to be overlooked

I draw attention to myself

in the ways I want it

to avert attention

from the things I don’t want to be seen.

That is the power of my voice.

But sometimes my voice doesn’t work

Because sometimes, people care

And when people care

they look even when they can listen

and no matter how much they’ve heard

they still want to see

and what could be a worse time

than now?

when my defenses are weakest

quietest

and my feelings are loudest

and I know your feelings

and I can tell

somehow

you know mine.

When nothing that I know is true

it all comes back to you

and wide brown eyes

and a far from easy life

and a kind of sympathy

no one has ever had

And I wonder

is there something about humanity

that is truly beautiful in that way?

Something more of us

would be blessed to experience

and never will?

The gaze of a person

who understands

having lost every role model

or even every person I ever told myself

I didn’t care about

(even when I did)

and without having lost all those things

the understanding gaze

is not empty

but full of understanding

The understanding is warm

but terrifying

because

it isn’t something I chose

my voice won’t work

why won’t it work?

where are my defenses?

if I can’t hide

I have no choice

but

to run.

I know that you hate me.

Please don’t be afraid of me.

I hope that I’m right.

I know that I’m wrong.

You don’t think you can forgive me.

You shouldn’t forgive me.

You will forgive me.

I know you will forgive me

and I want you to forgive me.

You shouldn’t forgive me.

I use my voice

but things are different now

and so much has changed

and so much has happened

and I have been forgiven too many times

but when I am hurting, I hurt

without even wanting to.

I talk

I talk myself out

I talk and talk and talk

until my vocal chords hurt

I crack jokes

whenever I can

to prove I haven’t changed.

That is the power of my voice.

Until I have changed.

The world is dark.

Just for a bit.

I don’t use my voice.

Every whisper that builds inside of me

is proof that I have irrevocably changed

It was my actions that caused hurt

and my words that brought me back.

But if my voice can cause hurt

and my actions are what they always are

(the awful things I cannot seem to stop doing)

then what is there

left to me

that is worth loving?

(I wish you wouldn’t look at me

like I deserve the world

when no one knows better than you

how little I deserve.)

I feel powerless to stop myself

from causing the worst kind of hurt.

Pain helps.

A little.

But not enough.

That is the power of my voice.

I don’t use my voice

but I still am surrounded

by the people my voice could hurt.

Without my voice

every semblance of normalcy

is gone.

I have changed.

(She changed me.)

I have no defenses

everything has fallen

and I can’t hide

even from myself

and I certainly can’t hide behind my voice

and I know how much you’ll hate me

and I know I’m so redundant

and I know that this point

I’m almost painfully predictable—

but I have no choice

but

to run.

That is the power of my voice.

#I sincerely hope this hurt #because it hurt me while I was writing it #:)#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #keefe sencen #kotlc poetry #poetry

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clarkeyhill · 2 months ago

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☁️baby fever | George Clarke pt2

[you've been for your first scan since finding out, checking everything is okay. You get the all clear and now it's time to tell your friends and family]

You and George decide to announce it with your friends together, you were going to visit family to do it in person. It's a Friday and you've just left the hospital after seeing your midwife, with your baby pics in clutch.

"I'm so excited to tell everyone" George says looking at you with so much love in his eyes, "me too, shall we call to the supermarket on the way home and get nibbles?" You ask, you've decided to get everyone round to the flat to host a "games" night. "Yeah that's a good idea, I think we already have some left over drinks so we just need mixer for everyone" George replies back, you walk to Waitrose and grab a shopping trolley. Your feet feeling a little tender as you plod around the shop, grabbing picky bits to make a charcuterie board. Picking up things to give off slight hints, pink and blue cups & napkins and plates. George spots an item of baby clothing on your way to pay, "we need this" you turn around as he holds up a white sleep suit with nothing on, you look at him confused. "It's plain baby?" You say to him, "yeah we can go to the printing shop next door and get someone to customise it for us" he says with a massive smile on his face, you can't help but smile ear to ear back at him in awe "alright, put it in the trolley" you say laughing.

You pay for the shopping as George packs it into the bags, carrying it out the store. You decide to take the shopping home and George would nip to the printing store whilst you made the boards for tonight. Even though you were 12 weeks along you were showing a lot, you opted for a flowy grey dress to hide the bump, until you needed to reveal it. You begin to make the boards as George plants a kiss on your forehead, on his way to the print store his idea is to get "Baby Clarke est 2025" printed on the front, simple but effective. You place a cloth over the kitchen table as you set out the nibbles for later, completing 2 boards and placing the coloured cups on the table beside. You take a minute to smile as you look down at your bump, you're in awe at how your life has panned out and you start to tear up.

George returns and you wipe your eyes, "woah, what's wrong?" He says concerned, "oh nothing baby, I'm just happy" you sniffle "and probably hormonal" you chuckle as he walks over to you embracing you in a soft warm hug, you both just take a minute to hold eachother before he reveals the sleep suit he got printed, he pulls it out of the bag and holds it up like the proud father to be with the biggest smile on his face "do you like it" he says as he looks at you, you say nothing as tears stream back down your face, you're choked up from the emotions you're feeling "aw baby, don't cry" he says looking at you "I'm just so happy George, in the beginning I was nervous, I didn't know how you'd take it and I was scared it would affect your career, but it's the exact opposite and I can't Thankyou enough for being supportive and just loving me and our baby unconditionally, I'm so glad I chose you Geo, you're my rock" you say holding back more tears as George's eyes start to water "I would've never been disappointed or angry about moving into a new chapter of life with you, this is a blessing in disguise and I'm thankful I get to share it with you; my whole life I've awaited for a life partner and that's exactly what you are, Thankyou for giving me a chance and loving my silly self, I love you baby" he walks over as he says those words and hugs you again. Time drawing short your wipe your eyes and get ready, you touch up your makeup where the tears had run and throw on your flowy dress. The times now 7pm and your friends start to turn up.

First up, Chris, Hill, Tv and Bach arrive, with beer on clutch as they hand you a bottle of rose they bought for you, even though now you can't drink it but George suspected they would fetch you something so he got a bottle of no alc rose whilst he was out, trying not to spoil the suprise before you announce it. "Hey guys thanks for coming" you embrace them all on a hug as you let them in. "I see y/n's been on the snack prep, George can't do hosting this good" hill says laughing. "Yeah can you tell?" You say closing the door, as you shuffle over to the kitchen, you let out a small groan as feet are still hurting slightly. You make the boys a drink as you have some fruit left over so you decide to make strawberry daiquiris from scratch, awaiting a few other friends to arrive. You pour out the cocktails as they boys set up a game of quiplash on the tv.

"Right I want you to try these and tell me what they're like, it's just left over strawberries I've blended into a daiquiri so nothing major" you take the tray of cocktails over and place it on the table. Chris takes a sip first "this is really nice y/n, are you not having one?" He questions as George looks up to you nervously "I thought I'd wait to see how they were before I tried one, you're my little guinea pigs" you laugh hiding the truth for the last time. The door knocks again and George answers it to save your feet, it's Will, Simon, Chip, Freezy and Becky. "Finally I'm not just going to be surrounded by testosterone all night!" You slide yourself off the sofa, struggling to get to your feet. The boys notice "you okay y/n?" Tv asks looking concerned "yeah I'm fine my feet are just a little sore from walking around today and preparing snacks" you like softly to him as you walk over to give everyone a hug. You hand them all the cocktail you made as you get ready to play your first game.

You all set your names, you spot George's in the corner of your eye as Daddy Clarke, you give him a subtle glare not to ruin the surprise as you begin the game. You finish playing after around an hour as you all snack on your charcuterie boards. It's around 9pm and you decide it's about time you announce it, you pull George to one side as everyone talks and listen to music and collect the sleep suit. The plan is to get everyone to close their eyes, and George will hold up the sleep suit and you will reveal your baby bump. George a little tipsy at this point, you emerge from the bedroom as he ticket it into the back of his jeans. He grabs a glass from the table and starts clinking on it, you sit down to not give a suspicion.

"Right everyone I just want to ask you all to do something for me, not in a weird way and I promise I'm not gonna do anything bad" everyone looks at him confused as do you to try and disguise it. "I want you to all close your eyes and I strictly mean no peeking" "why?" Everyone says in unison as they look confused "just do it and you'll see it's worth it" you wait for everyone to close their eyes before you stand up and join George, he pulls the sleep suit of of his jeans and holds it up with a smile ear to ear, you lift up your dress and slightly lower your leggings to un veil the bump, you look to him and smile as your heart races.

"Right okay, open your eyes in 3,2,1" everyone's eyes shoot open as you stand there holding your bump and George with the sleep suit. You start to tear up "we're pregnant!" You say nervously giggling "oh my god" everyone says in unison as they rush to hug you both, tears streaming down your face as the congratulations come flooding in. "So this is the reason you had to leave early the other day" Chris says as he looks over to George "yeah mate, sorry we lied to you down the phone we wanted to wait until we were in the clear at the scan" George replies to him "congrats mate,mom happy for you both, can't wait for a little clarkey to be bunning around the place" Chris laughs

You still watery eyed look at your boyfriend in awe as the boys rally round him, you sit down on the sofa as your feet feel like jelly. You heart feels warm as the nerves seep away, you even more excited for the next chapter because you have all the support from your friends. George walks over to sit beside you as you all prepare to play another game. "I love you" you say to him as you rest your head on his shoulder. "I love you too baby" he plants a kiss on your head.

🫶🏻pt 3 (last part) soon!

#george clarkey #george clarke #youtube

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jade-green-butterfly · 10 months ago

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Today’s a very important and special day, folks...~🌟Today is the awesome Ron Funches’ birthday, which means it’s my special darling boi, Cooper’s birthday too!!🎊🥳🎂✨😍

Preparing for the special occasion, I started thinking up of what I could draw for him and Ron this year...🤔And then I thought, ‘I know! I could draw an AU where I am a well-loved pop idol, just like BroZone and I am performing specially for Cooper on his birthday, whilst he totally yet adorably fanboys over me!’ 💡😀 I did just that and...WOW!!😲It turned out even more amazing and eye-catching as I hoped and planned~!💖🤩💖I am so pleased of how I got me and Cooper's poses spot on from what I had in mind~💗😍And yep! Before anyone asks...that IS a BroZone-inspired jacket I've got on!😆(Peach colour~✨🍑) I just had to add that for my Pop Idol AU look, along with singing the Spice Girls' 'Spice Up Your Life'~ (a late 90's hit from my childhood)🎶🎤😚 I feel my style here was a cute combination of the Trolls movies and TrollsTopia, whilst I aimed to combine the background of my performance on stage with Cooper's dreamy vision as he's truly awe(love)struck over me, bless him~💗🥰Hehe~!🤭And of course, I gave our darling birthday prince a 'Cupcake King' theme to his party hat, because he is one - my Cupcake King~🩷♛🧁😉 Hope you all like too, dears!💕✨😊👍🏻I really enjoyed making this piece, especially for Ron and my beloved sweet jellybean, Cooper~💗🫶🏻U//w//U💘

🎉🎈🌈🎊~A very Happy Birthday to you, Cooper a.k.a Ron Funches!~🎊🌈🎈🎉 =^o^=🥳🎂✨🎁 I love you with all my heart and thank-you so, so much for all the happiness and love you have brought me~💗🌈💖🥰💝🫂xoxo.

*~Reblogs are also deeply appreciated as well, so please do reblog as well as like! Thank-you kindly!~*

Cooper (c) DreamWorks Trolls/DreamWorks Animation Trollsona Jussy/Justina Butterfly (c) @jade-green-butterfly (Me~!)

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vosh-rakh · 11 months ago

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3e634, chapter 1

"I'm sorry, the Temple of Dibella is closed,” the priestess said. “You can receive your blessing, if you wish, but the other sisters are in seclusion."

Malekaiah frowned. She looked around anxiously at the alien masonry of the temple’s interior. The four statues of nude Dibella resting against the pillars kept their gazes resolutely forward, ignoring Malekaiah’s plight. She pressed her fingertip hard against the point of her tusk, a bad anxious habit she’d long ago acquired. The tusk was too dull to draw blood, but one could hope.

Finally, her eyes alighted on the shrine against the wall, its points rising like flower petals towards a central space, and she was given the courage to look back at the priestess. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice quavering, but somehow she pushed on. “I’ve been an acolyte of Dibella all my life. I’m on an important mission to spread her love to those who have never known it.”

“I’m sorry, sister.” The priestess offered a small smile as compensation. “The sisters cannot be disturbed.”

Malekaiah looked up at the brass chandelier on the ceiling, and closed her eyes briefly. “Okay,” she said, nodding, but avoided the priestess’s pitying gaze.

The priestess nodded, and returned to her cleaning.

Malekaiah approached the shrine to Dibella. She gently placed a hand on one of its dull red wings, trying to feel for Dibella’s energies. Then she knelt, clasped her hands, bowed her head, and prayed.

Please, sweet Dibella, I beseech thee: grant me the power and wisdom to see thy love and beauty in every facet of this world, so that I may spread the knowing to those who know only sorrow and ugliness. Let thy kiss become my kiss, lips sweet enough to embrace the world.

Malekaiah couldn’t remember how the prayer was supposed to end, so awkwardly she cut it short there. Unclasping her hands, she rubbed her face, trying to bring some heat to her cheeks, and rub some wakefulness into her eyes. It was so cold here, in Skyrim, and she had barely slept on the long carriage ride from Anvil to Markarth. She had a long journey ahead of her, and she needed to be prepared.

Almost on instinct she quickly felt for the short steel hiding under her ochre robes. Yes, Da’s dagger was still there. Even in this foreign place, it brought her a strange sense of safety.

Malekaiah rose and walked out the temple door. She was immediately faced with the western mountain enclosing the city, waterfalls cascading down the cliff with a deafening roar, flowing into the waterways that ran down the city’s streets. Behind those falls stood proud and ancient the bizarre stone-and-brass architecture of the dwarves, yet as ordinary to the people here as timber and brick.

After a moment of awe, Malekaiah drifted left along the stone walkway, skirting south around the pillar which the temple of Dibella crowned. Down a level of the city, straddling one of the rivulets, was a small smithy, jarringly built of wood. Over the roar of the waterfalls rang out the sharp clang of hammer on metal, and a woman shouting at her apprentice with very colorful language. Turning her head to the left, Malekaiah saw the distant silver mines, crawling with hard-at-work miners, seeming from this far away like ants carrying their burdens of ore.

Malekaiah descended the stairs, making her way down from the temple. They led her closer to the smithy, where she caught a glimpse of the smith. She was an Orc, which stopped Malekaiah in her tracks. There were very few Orcs in Anvil; most had left for bustling Orsinium about a decade or two ago. Despite going to their homeland to proselytize, she didn’t know much about her race. She had read as much as she could about them and their history and ways before leaving, but most of the sources she was able to get her hands on were outdated and often very bigoted.

The smith must have felt Malekaiah’s gaze, and she looked up at her with a scowl. She waved her off with a hand holding an unfinished sword.

Malekaiah quickly turned to continue on her way, but in so doing she ran straight into one of the city guards. He reached for the sword on his hip. “Watch where you’re going, outsider!” he shouted.

“Sorry,” Malekaiah quickly mumbled. The guard, seemingly dissatisfied but uninterested in an actual confrontation, pushed Malekaiah aside and continued on his way.

Malekaiah rubbed her shoulder where the guard had pushed her and looked again at the smith, who had apparently seen the whole thing. She shook her head at Malekaiah and went back to her work.

A bit shaken, Malekaiah continued descending the stairs, following one of the rivulets. She reached for the talismans around her neck. First, the amulet of Dibella: she rubbed the violet stone in the center of the metal flower. It was cold, but it gave her some comfort, anyway. Her hand roamed across her neck to the other talisman, the strange icon left in her swaddling cloth when her parents abandoned her in Cyrodiil. She could feel its rageful face, teeth and tusks bared, and a fuming heat flooded her face. She let go, shook her head, and tried to forget about the encounter with the guard.

Malekaiah continued along the stone path through the city, hoping to find an inn where she could stay the night. Instead, she found herself at the front gate again, faced with the small market situated there.

The square was bustling with activity, a dense crowd - surely half the city - swarming from stall to stall, gawking at and haggling for the goods on display. The few children who could pry themselves from their mothers’ watchful eyes ran through the forest of legs, squealing like pigs.

Something caught Malekaiah’s eye. A gleam of silver, or steel. Her vision snapped to the stall on the far end of the market, selling jewelry. A woman was trying on a prospective purchase.

But there was something else, a man pushing through the crowd, the sun shining in his hand.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The woman removed the necklace. The man grabbed her mouth from behind. He raised his shining hand and jerked it across her neck, right where the necklace was a moment ago. Blood sprayed on the silver on the stall’s counter. The woman behind it, her face also spattered with red, covered her mouth and screamed.

Just as the crowd began to react to the shriek, the assassin turned around, still holding up the now-mute and struggling woman by her chin. Her head was nearly severed, so vicious and deep was the spurting gash.

“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!”

The throng devolved into chaos, women and children screaming, men shouting and shoving to escape. There was only one guard nearby, somehow, and he was slow to react, ineffectually trying to push his way through the crowd.

Malekaiah was frozen, staring at the gore of the wound. The man dropped the woman after she stopped moving, and turned back to the stall. The jeweler had fallen to the ground in shock. The assassin vaulted the counter, sending rings and necklaces and torcs to the ground with a tinkling sound that Malekaiah shouldn’t have been able to hear over the din, but could have sworn she did.

He advanced upon the jeweler, dagger in hand, blade under fist. She extended an arm to protect herself, and the assassin’s blade pierced her hand, stabbing all the way through. Her pained scream pierced the sky. The assassin inverted his grip, blade over fist, and began slashing. The jeweler took a cut to the stomach before raising her arms to defend again. The steel tore through the sleeves of her dress as well as the flesh of her forearms.

A fire ignited in Malekaiah’s throat, melting her freeze and compelling her move. She hiked up her robes and withdrew her dagger from the sheath fastened around her thigh, and she advanced through the dissipating crowd. She vaulted over the counter, knocking off yet more jewelry, and approached the assassin’s back.

Firmly gripping the dagger’s hilt, in one simple motion, she thrust the blade deep into his back, sliding effortlessly between two ribs.

Poppies bloomed around the wound, soaking into his shirt.

The assassin exhaled sharply as his lung collapsed, and stopped attacking the jeweler. His weapon clattered to the ground, and he slowly turned to face Malekaiah. With shaky breath, and through bloody coughs, he mustered, “I die for my people,” and then collapsed, dead.

Slowly, shakily, Malekaiah bent down to pull the dagger from the assassin’s back. Once the blade was free of his flesh, there was an upwelling of blood, painting his tunic a deeper black.

She looked across at the jeweler, who stared at her, frightened, tears streaking down her face. Malekaiah took a step forward, causing the jeweler to squirm backwards with a squeal.

“P-please…don’t…” mumbled the jeweler.

Malekaiah glanced at the bloody blade in her hand. Some portions were untouched, clean steel, and she could see her reflection clearly in it. But in the bloody bits, the wet gore reflected a demented distortion of her face. She screamed, too, and tried to wipe the blood from the blade with her cuff. But all she accomplished was staining her sleeve.

Malekaiah returned the dagger to its sheath on her thigh, struggling to keep her hand steady. She tried to approach the jeweler again, with open hands. “I won’t hurt you,” she assured. “I’m a healer.”

The jeweler hesitated, but nodded, letting Malekaiah come forward. Malekaiah knelt next to her and channeled Dibella’s grace to her hands, which glowed with a golden light. She began to hover them over the jeweler’s wounds, slowly bidding them close.

Suddenly, something cold and sharp lifted Malekaiah’s head by the chin. Forcibly she looked up to see one of Markarth’s guards pointing a sword at her throat.

“What are you doing, murderer?” the guard spat from beneath his helmet.

“I…” Malekaiah quavered, blinking rapidly.

“You idiot,” shouted the jeweler at the guard. “She saved my life!”

The guard seemed to finally take full stock of the situation, seeing the woman’s slit-throat corpse, the assassin’s face-down body, and his bloody blade discarded at his side.

In the meanwhile, Malekaiah continued healing the jeweler, starting with the slashes on her arms and the thankfully superficial cut on her abdomen. Malekaiah looked at the stab-wound through the jeweler’s hand with dismay. “I can’t heal this on my own,” she told the jeweler, who had mostly calmed down.

Malekaiah turned to the corpse and dagger behind her. She wiped as much blood from the blade as she could, and used it as a tool to cut a relatively clean strip of the assassin’s tunic. She turned back to the jeweler and apologized. “This will hurt.” The jeweler nodded and offered her injured hand. Malekaiah delicately wrapped the strip of cloth around her palm, tying it tightly. The jeweler groaned at the final tug but otherwise didn’t complain.

“She needs a more experienced healer for her hand,” Malekaiah said, looking up at the guard, who had withdrawn his sword to its sheath.

“I’ll take her to the temple,” the guard growled. Taking her unhurt hand, he helped the jeweler stand. As they began to walk off, he turned his head and said, “Keep your nose clean, orc.”

Malekaiah knelt there numbly for a moment. But eventually her close proximity to two corpses and so much blood became too much, and she forced herself to stand. She examined her robes, and found them surprisingly spared, save for the cuff she used to wipe the blades clean.

The market was almost completely empty now, save for a few late-arriving guards come to gather the bodies. But there was another man, fast approaching Malekaiah. His smile did nothing to disarm her anxiety after the preceding harrowing events, and she reached instinctively for the dagger through her robes.

“Easy there, friend,” said the stranger. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He glanced at the dead woman being carried off by a couple of guards. “Gods. A woman attacked, right in the streets.” He seemed to notice the blood on Malekaiah’s cuffs, and asked, “Are you alright? Did you see what happened?”

“I was right there,” Malekaiah answered. She ran her hand across her bare scalp and looked away. “He killed that woman, and then…tried to kill the jeweler.” Her words felt like lead dropping from her tongue, seeming to almost hang from her lips, not wishing to be said. Her voice didn’t feel her own. “So I…I…I killed him.” She covered her face so the stranger wouldn’t see the unbidden tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger said. “I hope the Nine give you more peace in the future.” Malekaiah lowered her hands to look at him, just as his expression suddenly changed. He quickly reached out his hand, shoving something into Malekaiah’s. “Oh, by the way, I think you dropped this.”

Malekaiah jumped at the sudden movement, but calmed a bit when she realized it was just a piece of folded paper. “Is this…yours?” she asked, confused.

“Mine? No, yours. Must have fallen out of your pocket in the commotion.” He offered a little wave and then turned to leave.

Malekaiah was positive she didn’t have any parchment on her before this man gave her this note. She unfolded and read the brief note scrawled in an uneven hand: “Meet me at the Shrine of Talos.”

Malekaiah looked back up at the man, who was now halfway across the square. “Shrine of Talos?” she hollered. “Where’s that?”

He stopped in his tracks and half turned towards her. “Huh?” He scratched his chin. “Not sure. I don’t worship Talos, myself. I think I heard someone mention it was underneath the Temple of Dibella, in the big crag in the center of the city.” Then he turned and walked away.

Malekaiah’s eyes followed him until he was out of sight. Then she glanced at the note again, and sighed. She folded the paper back up and slipped it into a pocket in her robes.

She looked up toward the center of town, at the crag where she had just come from the Temple. It truly was an enormous feature, dominating the city’s skyline.

She checked for her dagger again, and against her better judgment, she made her way towards the Shrine of Talos.

-----

It took some walking around the crag to find the correct path to the shrine, as well as walking past its unmarked doors on accident several times. The doors were large and notable: huge brass double doors twice her height, surrounded by ornate ancient masonry. But there was no indication they belonged to the shrine of a Cyrodiilic war god.

Malekaiah pushed open the heavy doors with some effort, and stepped into the dark corridor, faintly candlelit and sloping downwards. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, but her Orcish vision quickly acclimated. At the bottom of the slope she could make out two figures: one, surely a statue of Tiber Septim, stoically leaning on a sword; the other, a man kneeling before the altar, head bowed.

Malekaiah slowly descended the corridor towards the shrine’s sanctum. She tried to be quiet so as not to disturb the man’s prayer, but despite her best efforts he still somehow noticed her approach as she neared the end of the ramp.

The stranger from the market quickly stood and turned to face Malekaiah. “You came,” he whispered. “Thank you. I’m sorry to drag you into Markarth’s problems, but after that attack in the market, I’m running out of time.”

Malekaiah blinked rapidly. “What?”

Breathlessly, the stranger continued, “You want answers? Well, so do I. So does everyone in the city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he’s a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

Unbidden, images flash into Malekaiah’s mind: a torn open throat, poppies, and a demon staring back at her in the bloody blade.

It was as if her head detached from her neck, and began to float away. She responded numbly to the stranger in an automatic process seemingly devoid of any conscious intention. Her conscious attention was no longer in the room.

The entire conversation grazed past her like a breeze. She may have agreed to something, but the memory of precisely what was slippery. She was vaguely aware that at some point, the man - suddenly she remembered he called himself Eltrys - left the shrine. But she remained, standing before the altar, invisible to herself.

Malekaiah returned to her body, and found herself kneeling at the altar, hands clasped, muttering an unintelligible half-prayer to - presumably - Talos. She stopped herself. She had never worshiped Talos; it struck her as odd that Skyrim had shrines at all, as he was chiefly a Cyrod’s god. She felt nothing stirring in her heart from the attempt. Oddly enough, though, she felt something stirring in her gut.

Oh. She was hungry. She stood, dusted off her knees, and left the shrine.

———

Not even the warmth of the inn could take the chill from Malekaiah’s bones. She shuffled into the threshold, and suddenly all of the many eyes of the crowded tavern were on her. Whispers accompanied them:

“Is that…”

“Did she really…”

“She really is a…”

Malekaiah pressed her thumb into her tusk hard as she shambled towards the bar. She vaguely recognized that she was falling into her old bad habit, but it seemed to keep her head screwed onto her neck, so she allowed it this time.

She clambered onto a stool at the far end of the bar. She knew she needed to order dinner, and rent a room for the night, but she was an immobile statue, unable to speak. So she folded her arms on the counter and buried her face in them.

After a moment, a gentle male voice reverberated, “Hey, lass.”

Malekaiah lifted her head to see the barkeep looking at her.

“You’re the Orc who killed Weylin, right? Saved Kerah’s life?” He didn’t look angry, but it felt like an accusation to Malekaiah nonetheless.

Without speaking, Malekaiah nodded slowly.

The barkeep reached underneath his side of the counter and placed something on top of it. Malekaiah recoiled immediately, but her alarm softened as she saw what it was: a tray filled with food. A bowl of steaming potato cabbage soup; a thick rye-bread trencher, topped with a hefty slice of goat cheese and an entire roasted goat shank; on the side, some kind of dark-berried pie, and a large mug of what smelled like mead.

“You did good, lass,” said the barkeep with a smile. “Food’s on the house. Bed too, if you need one for the night.”

A holler went up through the room, all the whispering mouths turned to joyous raucous. A nearby Nord reached over with his mug. It took a moment, but Malekaiah realized she needed to lift her own and clank it against his. Both cups overflowed, and the coolness of the splashed mead felt good on Malekaiah’s hand.

Malekaiah was afraid to eat at first, not sure her appetite would be up to the massive challenge. But she didn’t miss a bite. She even drank the whole mug of mead, despite never having had alcohol in her life. The barkeep, whose name was Kleppr, led her to her room after the festivities became too much for her. It wasn’t long after her head hit the pillow that she fell into a deep sleep.

-----

It was early morning, and the sun was yet to peek through the window into their home. All that lit the room was a small candle on the table between them. Its flame flickered across her father’s dark face, dancing across his features: his round spectacles and the dull brown eyes behind; his large, bulbous nose, a mountain dividing his face into two separate landmasses; and underneath, the thick mustache covering his upper lip completely, a dense dark broom of hair. His clean-shaven scalp even caught the light, casting vague orange smears across his head.

She admired his looks. He looked like a father ought, she thought. She pitied her childhood friends and their imperfectly paternal fathers.

Sometimes, at night when she couldn’t sleep, she tried to imagine what her “true” father looked like. Would he measure up at all? Surely he was greener, and with prominent tusks, but what of the mustache? The spectacles? It was usually at this stage that she began to feel intensely ashamed for considering it at all. Da was her father, and that was that…

Da slapped her hand away from her mouth – she had been pressing her fingertip into her tusk again. “Stop that,” he muttered sternly.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Lost in thought, again.”

Da huffed. “Don’t think so much.” Pivoting quickly, he said, “Don’t be afraid.” From the satchel leaning against the legs of his chair he pulled out two items. She squinted to make them out in the darkness: one seemed to be metal, gleaming in the candlelight; the other was some loose assemblage of leather strips.

“A parting gift?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, Kaiah.” (She loved it when he called her that.) “Nine forbid you ever need to use this.” He delicately handed her the objects; as the metal one passed nearer to the flame, she recognized it as a dagger.

“What is this?” she asked, startled.

“I said don’t be afraid,” he rebuked. “It’s protection. You go alone into dangerous lands. Nine forbid you ever need it, but…just in case.”

She slowly reached for the blade’s grip, her hand shaking ever so slightly. As her fingers wrapped around the hilt, Da let go. She was surprised by the lightness of it; she had expected heavier.

“And this,” Da said, holding up the tied leather strips, “is your sheath. It will tie around your thigh. Keep it concealed beneath your robes.”

She nodded numbly as he gave her the sheath. The leather was soft under her fingertips.

“How will I know when to use it?” she asked.

“You’re a grown woman now, Kaiah,” answered Da. He began to rise from his chair. “I trust your judgment.”

She began to rise as well, expecting an embrace. But he turned his back to her, and approached the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire in the furnace. There he stood, quiet, hands clasped behind his back.

She wanted to hug Da, for him to tell her she was doing the right thing, that she would be okay. She started to slowly shuffle up behind him –

But the dagger was still in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it. She surged forward, blade first.

His lungs deflated with a sudden gasp, and poppies welled around the wound in his back, piercing right between his ribs.

She cried out, “Da!” She let go of the dagger and tried to back away from this murder.

But his hands unclasped themselves, and reached up to grab her arms – joints popped and bones cracked from the unnatural extension required. He began to turn his head back, further and further, vertebrae shattering as it swiveled to face her. But it wasn’t his face.

The candle on the table behind her seemed to roar into a conflagration, fully illuminating his hideous visage, a demented ashen demon, teeth glistening with gore, lips spread wide with malice and rage. It shouted, “Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer! Killer!”

-----

She woke up screaming, “I’m sorry!”

She grabbed the burning hot talisman hanging from her throat and, through her tears, saw Da’s twisted, angry face in the icon. She ripped it from her neck and threw it across the rented room, and wept.

-----

Blessedly, the ancient stone walls of the inn seemed to be thick enough to stifle her screaming and sobbing. At least, no one came knocking on her door to get her to shut up.

Malekaiah knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep; she was too afraid of further nightmares. She decided to get dressed and go for a walk.

Before she left the room, she glanced back at its dark corner. A faint gleam caught her eye; the demon talisman from her swaddling cloth. She approached it and retrieved it; it was still slightly warm. She reasoned she couldn’t blame it entirely for the dream, and after all, it could prove useful in Wrothgar - it could open some doors. She tied it back around her neck.

Malekaiah quietly left her room and passed through the stone corridor into the inn’s main chamber. Although packed and active last night, in these early hours before dawn it was dead. Everyone had retired to their beds, except for a single drunkard passed out in the corner.

In the lingering light from the fires, she caught a glimpse of the bloodstains on her cuffs. She decided on where her walk would take her.

The air outside was near freezing. Malekaiah wished she’d packed a pair of gloves. She pulled up the hood on her robes in an effort to protect her cheeks from the chill.

It seemed the guards of Markarth kept the streets lit overnight; she saw one a ways down who was tending to a brazier with her torch. Malekaiah considered asking the guard if she had a torch to spare, but she wasn’t brave enough. So she carried on by the occasional light of braziers, hoping she remembered her way back to her destination.

After some searching, Malekaiah arrived: the small stream by the blacksmith’s. (The old Orc woman didn’t seem to be there yet.) She wasted no time undoing the red sash around her waist, and then pulling her ochre robes off and over her head. All that remained was her woolen underclothes, but they still covered her neck-to-ankle.

“Pretty wiry for an Orc, aren’t you?”

Malekaiah jumped and dropped her robes into the stream. She tried to snatch them out, but the flow was too strong. She turned to try to make out who had addressed her in the dark.

“Sorry,” the voice said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t alone, so you didn’t strip all the way down.”

Malekaiah strained to focus her eyes. The woman a ways down the stream had a crate of objects that glimmered in the moonslight, and a bandage wrapped around her waving hand.

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. “You’re…”

“My name’s Kerah,” answered the woman in the darkness. “I figure the least I owe you for saving my life is my name.” She waved her hand again. “Can I have yours?”

“Malekaiah.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Kerah said. She reached out with her uninjured hand and grabbed Malekaiah’s robes as they passed by her in the stream. “Come here, Malekaiah. You might want these.”

Malekaiah slowly obliged, drawing closer to Kerah. As she did, she noticed the box was filled with blood-spattered silver jewelry.

“Cleaning the merchandise before we open,” smiled Kerah as she handed Malekaiah the robes. “It needs to be presentable, of course.

Malekaiah knelt beside Kerah and furrowed her brow. “Are you okay?”

Kerah tilted her head slightly. “Oh, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said with a light wave of her bandaged hand.

“No,” Malekaiah said, “I mean…” She gestured vaguely at her own shaved head.

Kerah’s face hardened a bit. “It’s fine. Such is life in Skyrim. Especially the Reach.” She pointed at the bloodstains on Malekaiah’s robes. “Not the first time blood’s been shed in this city, and it won’t be the last.”

“Oh,” Malekaiah said. Attention having been drawn to the bloodstains, she began to scrub futilely at them in the stream.

Kerah idly watched Malekaiah’s attempts to clean her robes while fiddling with a necklace from her crate. Finally she said, “That’s not going to work. Here.” She reached beside her and offered Malekaiah a small round object.

Malekaiah took it gently, and her fingers brushed against Kerah’s. She had expected them to be soft, but the tips were rough and calloused. Malekaiah realized Kerah wasn’t just a jeweler - she was a silversmith. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine.

It took a moment for Malekaiah to return to her senses. She examined the smooth object in her hand. It was yellowish-white, with darker flecks throughout. “What is -”

“Soap,” Kerah interjected. “Goat tallow, potash, and a little lavender imported from Whiterun for the scent.” She waved towards the robes. “Give it a try.”

Malekaiah gave the bar of soap a sniff - it did smell faintly of lavender. She began to scrub at the blood stains with it, and gradually they began to fade until all that was left were patches of slightly darker ochre.

“Thank you,” Malekaiah whispered when she was done. She tried to hand back the soap, but Kerah pushed it away.

“No, keep it,” Kerah said. “I have plenty. Margret taught me how to make it a while back.”

“Margret?” Malekaiah asked.

Kerah winced. “She is…was…a customer of mine. She was…the one at my stall this morning. When you were there.”

It took Malekaiah a moment to piece it together. Then the image of the woman’s bleeding throat flashed before her eyes, and she quickly shut them tight. But it didn’t help.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

Kerah wiped a moonslit tear from her eye. “It’s okay.” She sighed, her entire body shuddering. “I don’t know about where you’re from, but in Skyrim, we celebrate our dead. Even when they’re taken from us.”

“Anvil,” whispered Malekaiah.

“Hm?” replied Kerah, tilting her head.

“I’m from Anvil. In Cyrodiil.”

“Oh. So was Margret. From Cyrodiil, I mean. Not Anvil.” Kerah smiled. “She was here to buy a pendant for her sister in the Imperial City. Have you ever been there?”

Malekaiah shook her head. “Never left Anvil county. Not until I came here.”

Kerah reached out her hands. Malekaiah accepted the offer with some hesitation, placing her hands in Kerah’s. They certainly weren’t the pampered hands of a merchant; this woman worked a forge. And judging by the quality of her wares, she was good at it.

“So what brings you to Markarth, Malekaiah?” asked Kerah.

“I’m an acolyte of Dibella,” Malekaiah answered. “I’m on my way to Orsinium to proselytize.”

“Hm,” Kerah said. “That must be a tough crowd.” Malekaiah’s face fell a bit, so Kerah added, “But maybe they’ll listen to you, since you’re an Orc and all.”

Malekaiah smiled slightly. “Maybe.”

The sun was beginning to rise now, Kerah’s crate of silver dazzling in the early dawn light. “Damn,” she blurted, pulling her hands away from Malekaiah’s and burying them in the assorted jewelry. “Sorry, I really need to finish this and get ready to open.” She smiled again, wide and sparkling in the sun’s golden glow. “It was lovely getting to know you, Malekaiah. Be safe in your travels, and good luck.”

Without the warmth of Kerah’s hands, Malekaiah’s fingers felt lonely in the cold Skyrim air. “Thank you for the soap,” Malekaiah said as she gathered her wet robes and began to stand.

“You saved my life,” Kerah said as she scraped hard blood from a sapphire. “It’s the least I can do.”

Malekaiah waved awkwardly with the hand holding the soap, but Kerah was now fully engrossed in cleaning her merchandise. Malekaiah nodded and walked away.

The robes tucked under Malekaiah’s arm were dripping wet. Looking up the stream, she saw the blacksmith’s forge again, situated on an island in the center of the flow. She squinted at it in the dull morning light, and could just make out a couple of aprons hanging from a line strung between two of the hut’s posts. She still didn’t see the Orc there, so she approached.

Malekaiah had to ascend a level of the tiered city to find the stone bridge crossing the stream. At the smithy, she glanced around. On a table near the anvil she found a pair of small iron clamps. She took them and used them to hang up her robes on the line with the aprons.

Exhausted from her short sleep that night, she sat at the stool by the table. She pulled her hands in her sleeves to keep them warm, and laid down her head on the table…

-----

Malekaiah was pulled awake by a firm hand wrapping around the back of her neck and yanking up her head. She yelped and reached up her hands, but her assailant slapped them down.

“What are you doing in my workshop, whelp?”

Malekaiah was just barely able to turn her head to see the fuming Orc smith gripping her nape. “I…I…I…” Malekaiah’s sudden rip from sleep kept her from forming a sentence.

“Not thieving, I hope?” continued the Orc woman. “You know what we do to thieves in the strongholds? We take their hands, whelp.” Suddenly, Malekaiah noticed a flash of light on the steel axe in the woman’s other hand.

“Uh, Ghorza?” It was a man’s voice, albeit a timid one, coming from behind the furious woman.

“Not the time, Tacitus,” growled the woman, presumably Ghorza.

“Look,” Tacitus continued anyway. He must have pointed, because Ghorza turned. She moved her whole body to look, letting Malekaiah see Tacitus was gesturing at her hanging robes. “She’s just drying her clothes,” Tacitus laughed.

Ghorza dropped Malekaiah and moved over to the robes. Malekaiah scurried into the corner.

Ghorza plucked the clamps from the line, causing the mostly-dry robes to fall to the floor. “These aren’t clothespins, girl,” she growled. “I’ll have your hide if these rust.”

Tacitus, a soot-faced young Cyrod, bent down to look at Malekaiah - he seemed to take notice of the sheath on her thigh. “Wait, Ghorza. I know this one! She was the one at the market yesterday, who killed the Forsworn!”

Ghorza huffed wordlessly. “Stand up and let me have a look at you, girl.”

Malekaiah felt heat rush to her cheeks as she slowly obeyed, keeping a hand hovering near the sheath just in case. Ghorza towered over her, but Tacitus in the corner was about Malekaiah’s height. Malekaiah began to wonder if she was short for an Orc.

Ghorza placed her rough smith’s hands on Malekaiah’s shoulders, squeezing as she moved down to feel her biceps. “Pretty scrawny,” she said before grabbing Malekaiah’s chin and tilting her head this way and that. “And maybe not so bright - no common sense, at least - but you know how to kill. A decent sign.” She let go and turned around. She pulled something from a rack and turned back to brandish it before Malekaiah. “Here. See how this feels.”

It was a sword - Malekaiah guessed it was made of iron. She took it by the offered handle from Ghorza and waggled it around a bit. It was lighter than it looked.

Ghorza stepped back. “Give it a few swings.”

Malekaiah looked up at Ghorza’s eyes, anxious. But she did as she was told, and swung at the air a few times. They were clumsy swipes, and the sword nearly fell from her hand at the end of the last.

“Stop,” ordered Ghorza. “No training. Shouldn’t be surprised.”

Malekaiah laid the blade across both hands and inspected it. The metal was dull, without the sharp gleam of her Da’s dagger. She asked, “Is this…a gift?”

“No. It wasn’t going to be free, at least.” Ghorza retrieved the sword from Malekaiah with a delicate touch that betrayed a great respect for the iron. “But it wouldn’t do you any good without any skill. Swinging it wildly is ineffective, at best. Get you killed, at worst.” She pointed the sword at Malekaiah’s sheathed dagger. “Better off with something smaller. And staying out of trouble in the first place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Malekaiah as she watched Ghorza return the sword to its rack. She took the opportunity to retrieve her robes from the floor.

Ghorza turned back and looked Malekaiah up and down for a moment, arms crossed. Finally she said, “You did good in the market yesterday. Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Malekaiah said.

“Get out of my sight.”

“Yes m-” Malekaiah began, but Ghorza’s eyes flared up, and so she hurried away, nearly tripping over her dangling robes in the process.

-----

Unlike in Anvil, the sun in Skyrim never seemed to rise very high in the sky, even by midday. But Malekaiah knew she’d be mostly keeping to this same northerly latitude for her journey, so she figured she’d have to get used to it.

Malekaiah had stocked up on food and supplies this morning, spending almost all of her remaining gold, before leaving the city about an hour ago. She followed the main road west as it faded from paved to dirt to cleared to tracks to footprints to complete obscurity. Now she and Magnus faced the same direction, the latter sure of his path over the mountains, but Malekaiah much less so. She knelt in the dirt and puzzled.

When overwhelmed, Da always taught her to take things one step at a time. She scanned the jagged horizon of slate-gray peaks, and looked for low passages between the rising slopes and cliffs. She followed a trail of them closer and closer until a nearby path emerged.

She stood and dusted off her knees. She was ready to keep walking, but then she heard footsteps behind her. She turned back to see a woman there she hadn’t noticed before. She was a dark elf, a Dunmer, wearing shiny brass armor and a deep black cloak with red trim. Her hood shrouded her face in darkness, but two locks of white hair spilled out from underneath onto her shoulders.

“Muthsera?” croaked the Dunmer, betraying what Malekaiah understood as the accent natural to residents of the volcanic island of Vvardenfell, in the Ebonheart Pact.

Tentatively, Malekaiah responded, “Yes? How can I help you?”

The dark elf said, “I’m lost. Which way to Solstheim?”

“Oh, I’m not from here,” Malekaiah said with an apologetic smile. But she wracked her brain for memories from her geography lessons. “Solstheim…that’s an island, isn’t it? In the Sea of Ghosts?” She pointed east, behind the Dunmer.

The dark elf didn’t so much as turn her head to acknowledge the gesture. “Oh,” she said, staring exclusively at Malekaiah. “Thank you.” She broke eye contact briefly to glance up at the skies as she asked, “Seen any dragons lately?”

“Sorry? Malekaiah said, looking up where the dark elf did. She didn’t see anything, so she looked back down. “Dragons aren’t real, are they?”

The Dunmer’s lips spread open wide, revealing two rows of yellow, viciously sharp teeth in a wicked grin. “Oh, yes,” she said, her teeth not separating as she spoke, “Of course they’re real.” Her red-nailed fingers wrapped around the corners of her hood and peeled it from her face, the shadows receding to reveal her eyes, blood-red and wide, and the third, tattooed on her forehead, crimson ink glowing brightly. “You’ve just met one.” She rushed forward, grabbing Malekaiah by the face and pressing her thumb into her forehead.

“Praan.”

And nothing but thick blackness remained.

#tes #tesblr #my writing #skyrim #dibella #talos #oc: malekaiah #oc: dagoth valer #markarth #dunmer #orc #orsimer #nord #breton #forsworn #imperial #cyrod #cyrodiil #redguard

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blackjackkent · 6 months ago

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The first thing I notice on returning to the main floor of Moonrise Towers is that Minthara is forcibly yanked out of the party and is now sitting on Ketheric's throne. Jaheira is standing in front of her.

"Is it true you were a member of the Absolute cult, drow?"

"Do you mean to judge me if I were, darthiir?"

"No. I mean to learn from you."

'Atta girl, Jaheira.

Minthara looks up with a self-satisfied smirk as Rakha approaches. "I will never tire of sitting on dead men's thrones," she says dryly.

Rakha lacks the energy for anything more than a soft snort. But she can understand Minthara's satisfaction. This was the vow they forged together when Rakha pulled her from Moonrise's prisons - that they would destroy Ketheric. Now the pledge is fulfilled. "It suits you."

"Power always has," Minthara says with a low chuckle. "But I shall not get too comfortable here."

She pushes herself abruptly to her feet and paces a short sequence back and forth in front of Rakha. "We must be free if we are to rule," she mutters. "And to be free, we must destroy this cult, and Ketheric's co-conspirators along with it."

Rakha shrugs slightly. This was already the plan; she has nothing to add to it. Minthara's next words, though, draw her attention much more sharply.

"I know one of them all too well," she says, coming to an abrupt halt. "Bhaal's blood-letter. Orin." She scowls bitterly. "To think I thought her to be speaking for the Absolute. I worshiped that woman."

Orin. The Bhaalist. The woman in red with the knife-edge smile. Rakha's head twinges sharply at the memory. "So it's personal?" she asks in a low voice.(*)

Minthara smiles bitterly. "You make it sound so simple," she says. "She is the Chosen of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, and one of the cult's founders." Her smile twists with a sudden undercurrent of rage. "Indeed - she is the one who indoctrinated me with the Absolute's lies."

Rakha tilts her head slightly with a flicker of curiosity. This is the first Minthara has spoken of the events that led her into the cult in the first place. "What do you remember of your indoctrination?" she asks slowly, half-expecting the question to be slapped away.

Indeed, for a moment Minthara withdraws into herself and looks at Rakha guardedly. Then she deliberately relaxes again, moving past Rakha and staring at the symbol of the Absolute engraved into the heavy metal door of the throne room.

"When I first visited Moonrise," she says in a low voice, "I stood before the Absolute in awe. It was more of an idea than an entity. Pure love. Total power. Orin was by my side. She told me that god had chosen me to be a True Soul. Blessed and adored."

She has been smiling sardonically through this whole speech - but as she turns back towards Rakha her whole face suddenly hardens like steel. "Now I know that those memories are lies," she says harshly. "There was no god. Orin held me down in a cocoon of flesh, while a mind flayer forced a parasite into my brain. And she laughed at my fear."

Her voice does not crack. Only her eyes show the slightest hint of that fear she must have felt - the terror as the tadpole tore her apart. Her mouth draws into a thin line, so tightly that her lips turn pale.

"I will find her. I will murder her. And I will smile."

Again that brutal twinge of pain in Rakha's head. Some memory just on the edge of reach. She shies away from it, fearful for the first time of what it might reveal.

But she nods, because Minthara is right anyway. Just as they swore together to end Ketheric, for the fall of the cult and for their own vengeance, they will swear the same for Orin.

That will keep her focused - directed. It is a killing with purpose, as Ketheric's was. It will help her friends. It will help Wyll. "We'll be heroes," she says cautiously, thinking of Wyll's guise as the Blade of Frontiers. "The saviors of... Baldur's Gate." The unfamiliar name of the equally unfamiliar city still feels strange in her mouth.

Minthara's smile takes on a cool, savage tinge. "Let them think that," she says sharply. "There is a short path from savior to ruler - a short and bloody path. I know it well, and we will walk it together. But Baldur's Gate is a mere bauble. We have the chance to seize something much greater. Surely you see it." She leans forward, her eyes focused on Rakha's. "In killing Ketheric, we fractured the cult's leadership. When we break the other Chosen and claim their Netherstones, *we* can take control."

Rakha stares at her, utterly thrown by this statement. Surely you see it. Minthara speaks as if this is obvious, but Rakha has not considered this for even a moment. Her concern has been with a single question - to kill or not to kill. Or rather - who to kill and who not to kill.

To take control of the cult, to rule it herself... does she want that? The question gives her some pause.

Wyll wouldn't; she is certain of that. Lae'zel... might. Minthara clearly does. For Rakha's own part... her thoughts are less clear.

"What would we do with that power?" she asks slowly.

Minthara's eyes light up eagerly. "The power of the enslaved elder brain could reshape the world. *We* could reshape the world."

Rakha squeezes her eyes shut, letting out a heavy breath through her nose. The beast has risen in her head at these words and is growling eagerly. Yes. Take control. Bend them to your will. Prey for the slaughter. The innocent and the damned. They would all bleed so beautifully...

The feeling makes her shudder. She and Minthara are alike, to a point... but not in this. Minthara's corruption by the Absolute did not give her bloodlust; that was hers already, and she does not seek to escape it, as Rakha does hers.

"The future you propose..." Rakha says haltingly, struggling to form the words around the force of the urges in her mind, "...is shaped by... violence. I'd-- prefer to find another way."

(A/N: INTERESTING! Minthara's disapproval here is expected, but the Lae'zel approval is a surprise! Complex one, our gith friend. <3 )

Minthara snorts sardonically. "There is violence in your future regardless," she says. "With me, you can at least be sure the violence will lead to glory." She shrugs. "You are not stupid. When we reach Baldur's Gate and face the Chosen, you will see that my way is the right one."

Rakha mimics the shrug, feeling troubled for reasons she struggles to articulate. "You may be right," she says at last. "I'll... keep an open mind."

Minthara smiles faintly. "That is all I ask - and remember, I *know* when your mind is closed." She huffs out a breath, suddenly all business. "We are bound, then, to travel together, even if we do not yet agree on our ultimate purpose."

A pause; she raises an eyebrow at Rakha thoughtfully. "There is yet one thing about you that troubles me, though. Something I need you to explain. Why come to Moonrise, where the cult's power is strongest? Why not walk away?"

There are many answers to that question. Rakha tries to order them in her mind enough to explain them.

I don't know who I am. I had nowhere else to go. The beast sensed prey here, and blood to be spilled. I love Wyll and I follow his guidance. Lae'zel's creche failed and we had no other plan for the worm. Halsin said we should seek the towers. The magic here is wrong and it burns and the curse must be ended...

In the end, though, she gives the answer that is simplest, and the only one she is certain Minthara will understand. "I want revenge on those who did this to me," she says - quietly, but with an edge.

Minthara visibly relaxes, and her eyes glint again with that satisfied air, like the cat at Last Light drawing itself into a proud, puffed ball. "Good," she says. "That is as it should be. Now - I am ready to leave this damned place whenever you give the word. The city awaits."

----

(*) Slight shortening of the full line ("So it's personal? Good - let's take her down.") to be a bit more Rakha-ish.

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #well that turned out to be a more complex discussion than i expected :P #a bit of a sour note in rakha and minthara's relationship for the first time #they are very similar but they are not the same

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eilinelsghost · 1 year ago

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An Anchor Incarnate

A septet of double-drabbles for @searchingforserendipity25. Seren, you're an absolute gem of a person and I'm so glad to have gotten to know you this year. I hope you enjoy this horseshoe fic of the Tragedy Brothers!

He is nearly weightless.

Gelmir expected his arms to strain under the weight of this soul new-wrought, to feel in his body the same gravity that sang within him; for he had known the moment his brother first breathed of Arda—presence rippled along his spirit like daybreak. He had rushed back from the orchards at a sprint, reaching the gates just as his cousin passed in search of him.

But the bundle Guilin sets in his arms is feather-light, wrinkled as a mole-rat, and snuffled grunts rise from the woolen wrapping as the infant settles in against his brother’s chest. He is not even the length of his forearm.

Gelmir holds him like glass.

“Speak, onya,”[1] Guilin urges, then laughs as the tiny face turns to root against Gelmir’s arm. “Speak, that he might know thy voice.”

He draws a finger along Gwindor’s cheek. It is impossibly soft—like freshly risen dough, he thinks in quick amusement, the loaves his mother kneads each enquië[2]—then he shifts to trace his finger along the tiny row of fingers. “Gwinig,”[3] he murmurs as they fold around his knuckle and he too laughs, delighted. “Take my hand, little one. I am here.”

When he shoves the barrel aside, Gwindor is already shaking, his breath coming in gasps and fingertips bloodied from scrabbling against the rock and wood. Gelmir swears under his breath and pulls him free of the crevice. Foolish children…he must have been wedged there an hour or more, alone in the back wall of the wine cellar.

“Hold thine eyes to the far wall.” Gelmir’s arms are about him as he collapses against the stone. The boy has ever feared the dark, the many small, constrained places within the caverns that lurk sightless and breathless amid the stone—the other children have learned of it. “Match thy breathing to mine. Slower, honeg, steady and full.” The child’s hands tremble as they clutch his brother’s tunic and Gelmir runs a hand over the matted hair, slowing the rhythm of his own breathing. “Number the gems of the sky, gwinig. Can you say them with me? Twenty stars in Heaven’s Hunter.”

Faint and shaking, Gwindor’s voice joins the rhyme, “Seven in the Sickle bright.”

He rests his head against his brother’s shoulder and Gelmir feels the drumming pulse begin to steady.

“Thirteen stars crown Anarríma.”

“A thousand weave the netted light.”

Gelmir kneels. The air of Tol Sirion is crisp with the bite of early spring, the river full and singing. It is fitting, he feels, cohesive in some way to join the King’s Guard here on the watchful isle, the waters rushing past in chorus with his own spirit.

“Hold my oath bound in love and fealty,” Gelmir recites while the king grasps the proffered hilt, “my service in steadfast faith.”

Gwindor watches at their father’s side, his face eager amid the gathered crowd. His features have begun shedding the roundness of childhood and Gelmir feels a pang at the shift.

“All my days I pledge in service to my king. Bond of word made bond of heart, unto death defending with blade and body.”

His brother had held the new sword in awe when Gelmir dressed for the ceremony, his fingers tracing the signet of the Guard.

When I am of age, I shall follow after thee.

Gelmir shivers again. A foreboding arose at Gwindor’s words that had nearly turned him from this rite. But still he kneels, still he binds his oath, still he bows under the blessing and takes the sword the king returns to his hand.

The gates open to admit two shrouded figures—Atani men, the both of them. Dark-eyed and sharp-featured, they linger in the arched passage and ask for the lord of the tower.

“Gorlim!” Edrahil’s voice carries through the courtyard, broken and hoarse from the battle, half-choked by the smoke as his sprint outpaces Orodreth’s. “Arthad!” He is beside them in an instant and catches the foremost by the arms.

Guilin cannot hear the words that pass between them, but he watches the desperation carve lines upon the captain’s face.

They are lost, then.

He is not dead. Gwindor was adamant when Edrahil returned in the night, haggard and wounded, empty handed. The host had been swept in two and the king ambushed with the remainder of his guard. He could not reach them. My brother is not dead. I would have felt in my own if his spirit had gone.

Would Gelmir’s brother be adamant still? Guilin strains his ears as Orodreth reaches the passage and the message is delivered. He cannot hear a word. With an effort, he draws his eyes from the gate and turns them to Gwindor in a hopeless query. His son’s face is a mask, expressionless.

Edrahil kneels. The air in the great hall is taut like the aftertaste of lightning. It is fitting, Gwindor feels, a recompense in some way that they share the same fall—his king who led them to ambush, the captain who returned without his brother.

No oaths of faith has he broken this night, Gwindor reflects as Edrahil returns the crown to the king’s hand. His own were broken upon Tol Sirion when the messengers came. He had looked upon the king’s prostrate form and foresworn any fealty the moment they bore him to the healers while Gelmir was forsaken in the Fen. And Barahir’s men said the prisoners were blinded.

“You remain my king,” the captain’s voice rings out, “and theirs, whatever betide.”

Gwindor feels himself tense at the words. Somewhere within him a child’s outrage clamors, for they have turned on Felagund like wildcats, toying and wearying before the kill.

All my days I pledge in service to my king. Gelmir had sworn it so. Gelmir had wished it so.

Yet still Gwindor stands in silence.

Finduilas shifts from his side and for the first time he knows her anger, cold and sharp, and their mingled thought fractures.

Gwindor’s breathing is frantic. His fingers claw at the rock and his palms slip on blood, on the sludge that seeps through the mine shafts.

He should never have attempted it. The stone scrapes each shoulder, it keeps his head bowed nearly to his wrists. He can hardly draw a breath.

A scream presses at the back of his throat.

Close thine eyes, gwinig. The memory of his brother’s voice is precise. Number the gems of the sky.

“Twenty stars in Heaven’s Hunter,” he whispers in a shaking sob, dragging himself forward. “Seven in the Sickle bright.”

The Talath Dirnen opens around him, the vast canopy of sky soaring beyond sight. He breathes deep of that imagined air and remembers his hair trailing through the wind. He had clung to his brother’s waist against the speed of their father’s stallion and Gelmir’s hand rested over his wrists in reassurance.

Gwindor fills his lungs and forces himself forward as wind brushes his face in tandem with memory and he shivers.

Wind brushes his face.

His eyes fly open and a sliver of sky blazes through the slag, Elbereth’s jewels fierce and brilliant, welcoming as he pulls himself free of the mines.

He is nearly weightless.

The fëa is present, tangible and steady, but the hröa is an afterthought. It hovers, insubstantial yet beneath the hoary yews, an uncertain companion in the spirit’s venture.

Gwindor knew the moment his brother’s decision was made—warmth rippled along his spirit, presence he had not felt since the horror of Anfauglith—and he passed Námo’s messenger as a blur upon the plains, galloping north ere the summons arrived.

The fëantarwa’s[4] stillness is disorienting after the mad rush. But the figure that stands before him is whole, achingly familiar, his spirit as vibrant and fierce as the hour he rode north from the guarded isle.

Gwindor steps forward as one in a dream.

He will not see you, the Maia at the gate had advised. The body is capable, but oft we find the soul carries forward its wounds till the healing is complete. Speak early that he might know your voice and find an anchor incarnate in the memory.

“Mírenya.” Gwindor’s voice trembles through the silent grove as he reaches out, his own sight fumbling through his tears, and he grasps his brother’s fingers within his own. “Take my hand, dear one. I am here.”

1. onya: son 2. enquië: Eldarin six-day week 3. gwinig: baby, little one (Elvish play-name for the little finger, used by and taught to children) 4. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

#gelmir #gwindor #drabbles #my first attempt at short forms #the silmarillion #everything goes in a circle basically #my fic

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imogenkol · 1 year ago

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— WIP WHENEVER

tagged by @adelaidedrubman @socially-awkward-skeleton @kyber-infinitygems @inafieldofdaisies @jillvalentinesday @marivenah thank you lovelies 💕💕💕

no pressure tags as always: @sstewyhosseini @jinfromyarikawa @voidika @shegetsburned @jackiesarch @corvosattano @florbelles @aceghosts @shallow-gravy @shellibisshe @roofgeese @theelderhazelnut @shadowglens + anyone else who might want to share!

Got blessed with a short burst of writing for the morning after these two finally give in and decide to become official

Everything felt so… calm and peaceful. In the same way the sky looks before a storm. Imogen should be fleeing for her life or at the very least preparing herself for the inevitable destruction. But she didn’t – she couldn’t. All she managed was to lie in bed beside the woman she fought so hard not to love. The warmth of her body half draped over Imogen’s after a passionate night. It was such a simple thing, to have her beloved’s head rest against her chest and feel their breaths as one, yet she could not recall ever experiencing such contentment.

Destruction might just be worth it.

Bix trailed her fingertips along her bare collarbone which caused Imogen to smile. Her own caress lightly traveled up and down the mechanic’s spine in aimless patterns. It even felt extraordinary to touch her just for the sake of it.

“I’m starting to believe you actually like waking up next to me,” Bix said in a lighthearted tone.

“I have always desired this,” Imogen admitted softly, tilting her head enough to nuzzle against hers.

“Meaning you’ve always been afraid of this.”

Imogen tensed. The hard-wired urge to pull away and fiercely deny such an accusation threatened to overcome her, but there was no sense in refuting the truth any longer. Not from Bix. Gradually, the bounty hunter willed her muscles to ease. She wondered how long it would take to train these instincts out of her. “If we… truly commit to one another –”

Bix’s fingers twitched into a fist against Imogen’s skin. “If?”

“No,” Imogen quickly corrected herself. “No more ifs. What I mean to say is… Well, I have a lot to learn.”

“So do I. So does everyone,” Bix stated matter-of-factly. She leaned up on her elbow and met the other woman’s apprehensive expression. “You’re here. You’re trying. That’s all that really matters to me.”

A strand of dark hair dangled over the mechanic’s cheek. Imogen reached out and delicately tucked it behind her ear. She took in the unobscured beauty of her beloved for a few prolonged beats, her thumb tracing some of those features that left her in awe.

“I am quite certain there is one thing in this galaxy that I would not be able to bear,” Imogen muttered under her breath – almost to herself.

Bix moistened her lips as she inched closer. “And what’s that?”

A rhythmic knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Along with a gruff voice that called, “Bix? It’s me.”

Imogen hoped her glare would burn right through the durasteel to strike Cassian down.

“Hang on!” Bix called back. With an exasperated sigh, she slumped down and hid her face in the crook of Imogen’s neck for a beat before she forced herself up. At the sight of the bounty hunter’s less than pleased expression, Bix said “Don’t start anything.”

“He still draws breath, does he not? That is the extent of my manners,” Imogen replied curtly as Bix hastily dressed herself. She, too, summoned a great effort to follow her out of bed and do the same. “Unless he wishes to apologize for aiming a blaster at my heart.”

“You held your lightsaber at his throat.”

“He drew on me first.”

Bix rolled her eyes, though Imogen caught the upturn at the corner of her mouth before she turned towards the door. “Come in.”

The both of them hadn’t quite finished dressing. Cassian entered as Bix fastened the waistband of her pants and Imogen pulled a shirt over her head. He halted mid-step, his gaze shifting between the two women as if a complicated equation did not add up. Though, the scene before him must have been fairly obvious.

“What is it, Cass?” Bix urged.

“I just… wanted to talk to you.” Cassian’s answer came out distracted. His eyes lingered on the bounty hunter.

Imogen looked to Bix expectantly and received a nod. A part of her had hoped that she would have been allowed to remain in the room, but she understood why Bix dismissed her. Without another word, Imogen collected her coat in one hand and intended to make her exit when an impulse emerged. She would not have Cassian misinterpret the signs, not if she had any say in it.

In a few strides, Imogen went to Bix and pulled her in by the back of her neck. While their lips met with intention, it was no less soft or passionate than the kisses they shared in private. Imogen indulged in a few strokes and had to fight not to get lost in the sensations, nearly forgetting the witness she intended to show for.

Once Imogen pulled away, she gave Bix a parting caress and said “I will come find you later.”

The mechanic had a knowing glint in her eye, but she nodded again. “Alright.”

Cassian had not moved and the nature of his continued gaze turned from dumbfounded to outright suspicion. Imogen glared right back at him as she made her way towards the door. He stood far enough into the room that she could have easily maneuvered around him, but she instead shoved her shoulder into his as she walked past. Just to make sure her point came across clearly.

#oc insp: imogen kol #ship insp: if i had a heart #Bix is like: if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all #Imogen: bet.#cass ain’t jealous he’s just in the five stages of grief wondering WHY Bix chose HER of all people lmao #cass: r u ok? did you suffer brain damage?#also i really need to make one of those tag list posts cause every time i feel like i miss someone and/or add ppl who don't wanna be #i'll probably post one tomorrow morning

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rose-sophia-isabella-rogers · 2 years ago

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A Tale of Stolen Hearts: Chapter X - Stealing More Than One Invention

Chapter Summary: How are you going to steal the device from Fjerdans?

Pairing: Aleksander Kirigan/Reader, Ivan/Fedyor Kaminsky

Characters: Aleksander Kirigan, Reader, Fedyor Kaminsky, Ivan, David Kostyk, Zoya Nazyalensky, Pavel, Polina

Word Count: 3740

A/N: Smut alert. If you don't like it or are underage, don't read from: "Before you can protest or ask him what's wrong, he takes your lips with his again." to: "But an hour later you're sleeping on his chest." Enjoy! Inspired by prompt: https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089571735/

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed):

@budugu

@intothesoul

@mizelophsun11

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy

@zeeader

You finally cross the border and find yourself in Fjerda. You need to be more alert now. You're also more nervous, since your big job is about to start soon. You're already just outside Halmhend and watch it from a hideout.

'How are we going to do this?' Zoya asks. 'We know nothing of this settlement and where the device can be held.'

'That's why, dear Zoya, you brought me, remember?' you ask. 'Time for me to dress up and play my part.'

'"Dress up"?' David repeats, confused. Sweet, innocent, darling Durast.

'David, I'm a woman,' you say. 'And we all know that men are calling the shots in Fjerda. And would they refuse a little flirt with an unknown woman, who is admiring their… strengths?'

David's mouth forms an 'o'. You look at Kirigan and see him clenching his jaw. It puzzles you.

'Not liking my methods, General?' you ask. Kirigan exhales slowly, as if trying to calm down.

'I'm not going to tell you how to do your job,' he says.

'Much appreciated,' you say, nodding your head.

'What's your plan?' Ivan asks.

'I'm going to get into the loudest pub with the drunkest men,' you say. 'Then, I'm going to use my charm to get information about the device from them.'

'I thought you're as seductive as a cabbage,' Kirigan reminds you.

'Yes, I did say "charm" not "flirting abilities",' you say, annoyed. 'And that I'm going to the pub with the drunkest men.'

Fedyor snorts. You ignore him.

'Besides, women in Fjerda apparently don't flirt,' you say. 'I'd just pretend I'm looking for my brother who was rejected by a girl he loves and went to drink his sorrows.'

'Not a bad plan,' Polina says. 'What then?'

'That depends where the device is held,' you answer.

'What are we to do in the meantime?' Zoya asks. Oh, it feels so sweet they are ready to take orders from you now. However…

'Sit tight and wait for me,' you answer. 'When it comes to gathering information like that, it's best when I work alone.'

'What if you're in need of assistance?' Kirigan asks. You look at him. Is there worry in his eyes? Nah, you're seeing things.

'I'll give my signal,' you answer.

'Then we will be nearby,' David says. 'So we could hear it and jump into action if needed.'

Aw. Bless him.

'Even a few strangers would draw attention,' Kirigan disagrees, shaking his head. 'I'll go alone.'

'You remember they already caught you once?' you remind him. He glares at you.

'I will be fine,' he snaps. 'They won't catch me another time.'

'Well, they still may realise you're the Darkling,' you say, eyeing his black clothes. 'You're pretty characteristic.'

'I will disguise myself,' Kirigan insists stubbornly. You open your mouth to retort, but Zoya's grunt stops you.

'Oh, for all Saints!' she scoffs. 'I'll go! I can manage with a few drunk Fjerdans if needed.'

Silence falls over you. Everyone seems to be surprised by Zoya's offer. Your relationship with Zoya is not what one would call a perfect friendship. Or friendship at all.

'Okay,' you agree, surprising everyone even more. They all look at Kirigan. He sighs, defeated.

'Very well,' he agrees. 'But if you're both gone for too long, we all step in.'

'Fair enough,' you say, shrugging. 'Now, excuse me, but I have to change. I hardly imagine they would treat me friendly if I showed up dressed like that.'

You point at your shirt and tight pants. David nods, thoughtfully.

'Be quick,' Kirigan says.

'Now I'm going to take really long, just to spite you,' you say and show him your tongue. You turn around and march away.

'I really hate that girl,' Kirigan says, frustrated, after a moment of silence. Fedyor and Ivan exchange a knowing look.

You return ten minutes later. Men look at you with wide eyes. You're dressed in clothes of a typical Fjerdan girl. Your hair is braided and if they didn't know better, they would assume you're just a simple girl from Fjerda, looking for an entertainment this evening.

'Close your mouths, boys, or flies will fly into them,' you say, amused. They quickly get a hold of themselves.

'Really impressive, [Y/N],' Fedyor praises you. You grin at him.

'Thank you, kind sir,' you say, curtsying. You look at Kirigan. He looks you with that intense stare of his.

'What do you think?' you ask him. You have no idea why do you seek his approval. But for some reason it is important to you.

'That we're going to save the world,' he answers. 'Thanks to your help.'

You can't help but smile slightly at him. You see his look softening slightly. But in a second his mask is back on and he clears his throat.

'Good luck,' he says. You nod and smile at others. They wish you luck as well. You take in a deep breath… and head to Halmhend.

Zoya waits patiently in an inn opposite to the pub you have entered some time earlier. She tries to think about the fact you're close to your goal and she's going to be back in the Little Palace soon. But that leads to the thought that you're going to be gone, away from them all, especially General Kirigan. Which leads to the thoughts she was trying to avoid. You and General Kirigan and how close you seem to be.

She shakes her head and drinks her drink. That's when she sees you exiting the pub. You're a bit ruffled but not worse for the wear. Zoya quickly pays for her drink and leaves. She catches up to you.

'How did it go?' she asks.

'Very well,' you answer and wince. 'But let me tell you, they're not as pious as they pretend to be. Almost every man there tried to grope me. Disgusting.'

'Where's the invention?' Zoya asks. You stop walking. She stops as well and turns to you, annoyed.

'You really don't like me, do you?' you ask. Zoya tenses.

'Look, I don't have anything against you personally,' she says. 'Sometimes your company is even… pleasant.'

'Wow, that must be the kindest words you ever said to me,' you say, grinning. Zoya glares at you.

'Don't worry, you still make me want to strangle you most of the times,' she says. 'But. The problem here is that…'

'You're jealous,' you say when she trails off. Zoya looks at you sharply. You snort.

'Come on, Zoya,' you say. 'I see how you're killing me with your eyes every time him and I are bickering. You're afraid I'm going to take him away from you.'

'There is nothing between me and the General,' Zoya says stiffly.

'Oh, there is something,' you argue. 'But you wish there was more.'

Zoya looks away. But you still see the flash of pain in her eyes.

'Relax,' you say softly. 'We despise each other. There's no way there could be something romantic between us.'

Zoya looks at you. Her gaze causes you to shiver.

'If you really think that, then you're blind,' she says. You look at her, puzzled. She clears her throat.

'The device?' she asks, letting you know the conversation about Kirigan is over.

'It's in the basement of one of the houses,' you answer after a moment. 'I know which one. Apparently, it's very well secured but, well, they haven't seen what I can do.'

You grin at Zoya. She rolls her eyes.

'What's our next move?' she asks.

'You are going to the others and tell them I'm going to steal that thing,' you answer and hide in the shadows behind a building. Zoya's eyes go wide when you start to undress yourself. But instead of your naked body, she sees black tight clothes. You grab your braid and make a bun of it.

'You're going to get it alone?' Zoya asks, waking up from her shock.

'Yes,' you answer and point at one building. 'But if it makes you feel better, this is that building over there. Ah, yes, tell me one more thing. Would General mind if I blow something out?'

Zoya's eyes go wide. To her horror you seem to be actually serious.

'I think you should ask him about it yourself,' she finally says. You shake your head.

'Too much time,' you say. 'The men are going to realise sooner or later that I left without "my brother" and that I asked too many questions about that device. I have to go now.'

'[Y/N]-' Zoya starts. But you turn on your heal and rush off toward the building. 'Damn it!'

She runs out of the settlement, not caring if someone sees her. She gets to the place others are waiting. She's panting by the time she reaches them.

'Where's [Y/N]?' Kirigan demands, at once noticing your absence. Zoya can't help but feel pain in her heart because of it.

'Stealing the device,' she answers. Everyone looks at her, stunned. Kirigan feels anger boiling in him.

'On her own?' he growls.

'She claimed there's no time to wait for us,' Zoya says. 'She also mentioned something about making an explosion.'

Colour drains from everyone's faces. Kirigan curses and without waiting for others, rushes toward Halmhend. But his companions follow him at once. Once there, Zoya leads them to the building you pointed to her.

'What now?' Pavel asks. 'People are soon going to realise we're not from here.'

Before anyone can answer him, there's a loud explosion and the building in front of them goes up in flames. Kirigan looks at it with dread.

'No…' he whispers. At once many different scenarios cross his mind. You failed. You commended a suicide, sacrificing yourself to destroy the invention. You miscalculated and the explosion happened to soon.

He almost doesn't see people panicking and rushing to stop the fire. He almost doesn't feel hands pulling him back. He almost doesn't realise he starts to rush into the building.

But then a lonely figure comes out of the smoke and fire, coughing. Relief surges through him at once. He bolts forward and reaches you just in time to catch you in his arms. It's so sudden you both collapse on your knees.

'Kiri? What are you doing here?' you ask and cough again.

'Rescuing you, of course,' Kirigan answers.

'Not even protesting against the nickname?' you murmur, your eyelids fluttering.

'That's the least of my concerns at the moment,' he answers.

'And what is more important now?'

'You, idiot. I thought you… We need to take you to the safety.'

'Nice plan. I approve. Do so.'

'I'm glad you agree.'

Your eyes flutter close. Kirigan takes you in his arms and stands up. Her turns to others, who look at you two, anxious.

'Let's go,' he says and heads toward the exit of Halmhend. Others leave after him.

You open your eyes and see an unfamiliar ceiling. You blink a few times, trying to remember the last events. Ah. Yes. Boom. Big boom.

'How are you feeling?' you hear. You lift your head and see Kirigan sitting in a chair, staring at you.

'Much better before I collapsed right in front of you,' you say. 'I suppose I should call you my hero now?'

Kirigan says nothing to that. He stands up and picks up a glass of water. He hands it to you. You manage to sit up and take it from him. You drink it all in one gulp.

'Thanks,' you say, giving him back the glass. Kirigan nods and puts the glass away. He watches you, as you put your feet on the ground and stretch a bit.

'Where are we?' you ask, looking around.

'In a village close to border in Ravka,' Kirigan answers. 'A party of First Army is settled here. There's going to be a battle soon on the border.'

'Because of what happened?' you ask.

'It was supposed to happen anyway,' Kirigan answers. 'You just sped things up. But that brings me to a question… Why did you blow everything up?'

'Not everything. Just one house.'

'And two next to it caught fire and burnt.'

'Oh. Should I send Fjerdans an apology basket?'

'[Y/N]. Stop it. Why did you do it?'

'… So they would think the invention is destroyed.'

'And it's not?'

'Hey, you "hired" me to steal that thing, not destroy it, remember?'

You reach into the pocket of your trousers. You take a small bracelet from it. Kirigan takes it from you. He looks at it with a frown.

'That's it?' he asks dubiously.

'Yeah, you put it on your wrist, twist that little gems and Grisha gets a headache,' you say and wince. 'I do not recommend that.'

'You tried it on yourself?' Kirigan asks, his eyes snapping to yours. You feel a sudden urge to defend your actions.

'Hey, I had to make sure it's the real thing,' you say. 'Ah, the gems also control how far it works. I set it on small distance, hence why you didn't feel anything. But it could reach the whole battlefield. But it can no more, since we have it. Well, you do. Do as you please with it. Personally, I recommend destroying it.'

'It will be,' Kirigan says, putting the bracelet in his pocket. 'After David will test it, so we would know how it works and how to make sure something like that never is created again.'

You shrug, not really convinced to that idea. You would burn it if it were up to you. But he didn't tell you how to do your job, so you're not going to do the same.

'Why did you go there alone?' Kirigan asks.

'I work better on my own,' you answer. Kirigan scoff.

'That's a lie and we both know it,' he says. You glare at him.

'Oh, yeah?' you ask, annoyed, and stand up to face him. 'Then tell me, why did I go alone?'

Kirigan stares at you for a moment. He takes a step forward. You have to look up now, great.

'Because you didn't want us to see you as you as a thief,' he says, causing you to freeze.

'What's that supposed to mean?' you ask.

'You give out pieces of yourself to people but never let them see the whole picture,' Kirigan answers and leans toward you. 'I've seen it. I know who you are.'

'And who that may be?' you ask after a moment of silence. Kirigan takes a step back. By instinct you, do the same.

'A lost girl, looking for someone who will finally understand her and see her for who she is,' he answers. You stare at him. You feel your eyes beginning to sting.

'Get out,' you say. 'Get, the hell, out of my room.'

'Truth hurts, doesn't it?' Kirigan asks, not at all bothered by the tone of your voice. 'But it's not all who you are. There's so much more. But you refuse to see it.'

'What else then am I?' you ask against your better judgement. Kirigan's hand lifts itself up, only to fall back down.

'A very powerful Grisha,' he says. 'With proper training you could achieve wonders. Miracles, even. People would respect you. And you wouldn't have to worry about getting money for food.'

'No, just about many other things,' you say and shake your head. 'I don't want people to respect me. I want… peace. Live in peace. But I'm a Grisha. A thief. I don't get that luxury.'

'Let me help you,' Kirigan says. 'I-'

'Why do you care?' you interrupt him. 'Why do you suddenly want me to have a "better" life?'

Kirigan stares at you in silence. His eyes become cold. He stiffens.

'You're right,' he says. 'I have no business in your life anymore. Our agreement is concluded. While you were asleep, we managed to find your friend and save her. She's in another room with-'

'And you're telling me this now?!' you ask, furious, and head to the door.

'- your sister,' Kirigan finishes. You stop dead in your tracks. You turn to him, shocked.

'Apparently she was tailing us all the time,' Kirigan explains and sighs. 'She was afraid we would actually kill each other.'

'If anyone's going to be killed, it's her,' you growl, furious, and sigh. 'So, maybe I should wait a bit before going to see her.'

'That may be wise,' Kirigan agrees, nodding. He passes you on his way to the door. He pauses.

'The King's nephew is leading this party,' he says. 'He's not… a person you would like to meet. I would recommend staying away from him. Until his cousin arrives, at least.'

'Thanks for the advice,' you murmur. Kirigan nods curtly and is about to leave when you grab his hand. He looks at you, his eyebrows raised.

'I'm sorry,' you say quietly.

'I'm sorry, too,' Kirigan says after a moment. You look at each other. Kirigan lifts his hand and caresses your cheek.

'You have to stop making me think you're going to die,' he says.

'You do the same thing to me,' you retort. 'Besides, since when do you care?'

'I honestly don't know,' Kirigan answers and suddenly becomes serious, as a thought occurs to him. 'The men in the pub… did they hurt you?'

'No, but they did grope me a bit,' you answer, wincing. Kirigan's look becomes dark. You shiver against your will.

'They dared to touch you?' he growls. You raise your eyebrows.

'Are you… getting territorial?' you ask. 'Because… we're not really together, so you-'

Kirigan interrupts you with a kiss. You gasp, startled, but quickly respond.

'Why is it so hard for you to accept that someone may be worried about you?' Kirigan asks.

'We're supposed to hate each other, remember?' you ask. 'Arguing during the day, sleeping with each other at night. That was the agreement.'

Once again Kirigan's eyes become distant and cold. He undresses himself.

'If that's your wish,' he says and undresses you. 'Then I shall comply.'

Before you can protest or ask him what's wrong, he takes your lips with his again. It's very passionate and aggressive. You can't help but moan. Kirigan picks you up and lays you on the bed. He starts massaging your sensitive parts, causing you to gasp and moan.

'Kirigan… please…' you groan after a few minutes of that.

'Aleksander,' he says. It seems to startle both of you. He looks at you, tensed. As if not sure why did he say it. But then he relaxes.

'Call me "Aleksander", when we…' he says. You nod in understanding. You cup his face and kiss it gently.

'Aleksander…' you whisper. Kirigan groans and kisses you like a starved man. His fingers continue to prepare you. You whine when he takes them away. But it quickly turns into a moan, when he pushes himself in one go.

'Saints! Aleksander!' you gasp, throwing your head back. Your eyes are closed, so you don't see the look of awe Kirigan gives you.

'[Y/N],' he says softly, quietly. You don't even hear it. He clenches his teeth and starts moving. His thrusts are hard, fast and deep. It feels to you as if he was angry at something and tried to vent in this way. Not that you mind. It feels heavenly.

'Aleksander… Aleksander… Aleksander…' you pant. The more you say his name, the more it seems to spur him on. At one point he grabs your leg and puts it on his shoulder. It allows him to push even deeper. You almost scream from pleasure. And a bit of pain, as no one has been this deep inside you before.

'Aleksander… please…' you moan. Kirigan clenches his jaw. His thrusts start to become erratic after a moment.

'Come for me,' he says, his voice strained. 'Come first. I want to see you when you…'

He doesn't finish the thought. In the next moment you come undone before him, moaning his name. He watches your blissed out face for a moment, before he reaches peak himself.

'[Y/N]!' he groans, throwing his head back. You gasp, feeling him filling you. You both breathe heavily. You're about to ask what was this all about, but then he starts moving again. You're not complaining. You love when you two have more than one round.

But an hour later you're sleeping on his chest. The sex and the whole they left you exhausted. As soon as your head was laid down, you were out.

Kirigan isn't, though. He stares at you with a troubled expression. He tries to understand his feelings when it comes to you. How he felt when he thought you're dead. Or when you told him the Fjerdans had been touching you… Realisation dawns on him, making him stiffen and his eyes widen.

'Fuck,' he curses under his breath. 'How did you-?'

His thought is interrupted by a soft knock. Carefully, so not to wake you, Kirigan lays you on your bed. He dresses himself quickly and walks to the door. He opens it and finds Fedyor waiting patiently for him.

'How is she?' the Heartrender asks.

'Asleep,' Kirigan answers. 'And alright.'

'I can see,' Fedyor says, raising his eyebrows meaningly at the state of Kirigan's clothes. General glares at him. Fedyor barely holds his chuckle.

'Everyone is anxious to know if she succeeded,' he says, serious again.

'Yes,' Kirigan answers and glances behind his back at you. 'Our little thief was very much successful in stealing.'

Fedyor smiles, but Kirigan doesn't see it. He looks past Kirigan at you as well.

'Are you going to tell her?' he asks. Kirigan whirls to him.

'What?' he snaps. Fedyor gives him a meaningful look. Kirigan feels as if he was splattered with cold water. He knows. He probably knew even before he realised it.

'No,' he finally says, back to his cold demeanour. 'There's no point. Our paths are to part soon.'

'And you're sure you want this, General?' Fedyor asks.

'Yes,' Kirigan answers without hesitation and leaves the room. 'That's what I've wanted from the beginning, isn't it? To get rid of her.'

He walks away, without waiting for a response. Fedyor stays put for a moment. Finally, he sighs.

'I swear, those two are such idiots,' he groans and walks away, fully intending to annoy his lover with his complains.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know your thoughts! Reblog, like and comment if you could.

This can also be found on Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47256868/chapters/120170749

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