#that moment when youre the spitting image of your father and the warrior of light was *not* aware of that fact

[fatedroses]

Chance encounters in Costa del Sol.

[seakicker]

M-maybe pierro with fertility goddess...? Pls hear me out! Since he's from khaen'riah he propably didn't believe in gods too, but after the cataclysm that left his country a ruin and killed his people, pierro found himself to be completely alone for centuries with no one to turn to

He was already old and he felt that the weariness of endless travel was getting the best of him, he wasn't the young warrior anymore that could endure everything that was thrown at him, he knew that if he continued on like this he'd die an honorless death by the hands of cold, some beast or even a bandit

And so he continued onwards until finally strength left him and he collapsed under a strangely green tree, almost heavy with its fruit but he was too weak already to even reach out to it before finally accepting his embarrassing fate

Except that when he woke up there wasn't the endless darkness he expected, there wasn't cries and flames of the abyss, no, there he was laying on something soft and warm, somethijg that was caressing his beard and sickly pale face as he groggily took everything in; he saw a bountiful lush green garden, filled with exotic greenery and animals, the soft glow of multiple candles and floating orbs of light giving the place an eternal glow in the starry night, and pierro finally looked up to see you, the most beautiful girl he ever saw and he quickly realised that the warm soft thing he was laying in was your fluffy warm lap and you were caressing his face with a soft smile on your full lips

Pierro swore that he died and this is afterlife he most certainly didn't deserve but your lovely voice assured him that no, he didn't die but when you found him under one of your shrines, the tree, he was close to it so you, as the goddess of fertility and life took the dying man in and nursed him back to health

I'm sorry for this monster but just the thought of a most revered and loved fertility goddess reader taking in cold, stoic old man pierro and saving him from death and the jester himself warming up to you and your kindness and eventually deciding that if he really was to spend eternity as an immortal there was no better place than with you, the most beautiful softest being, and even he couldn't help but desire you, eventually desperately wanting to father your babies and be the best husband/protector of his new family💕💔

I’M HEARING YOU LOUD AND CLEAR I ADOREEEE THIS OMFG don't apologize for the length of ur asks, i loooove long asks i analyze them like a school textbook fr. oh this is so good...

fem reader, reader is described as busty, curvy, and chubby, breeding, pregnancy, and lactation below! let me know if i missed a warning.

word count: 2.2K

i like to imagine fertility archon as the spitting image of so many things— aside from the obvious, of course. i feel like she just has this certain air about her that encourages comfort and absolves you of all your worries and anxieties, y'know? being around her is like sitting in front of a fireplace or wrapping a blanket around yourself; it's instant comfort and safety and it just feels like... home. you all know the phrase "they feel like home"— that's the kind of vibe i want for fertility archon reader. she just feels like home.

nobody can attest to that fact more than a man who has, quite literally, lost his home— sure, you could make the claim that a man who has no home would consider just about anything a suitable replacement, but it's not like that. it's not about clinging to a semblance of safety and security after wandering aimlessly for so long, it's not about the ol' "taking what you can get" nor is it about beggars not being able to be choosers, and it's not about desperation. amidst all his exhaustion, dehydration, starvation, and delirium, there's one thought that stands out clear as day in pierro's mind— that you're home.

that's what he felt the moment he first looked up at you from your lap, and it's what he's felt ever since. to be met with the sight of a sweet, almost... angelic (which is very high praise coming from someone from khaenri'ah, mind you) being looking down at him rather than the sight of destruction, ruin, and war came as a great relief for pierro. better yet, it's like all the pain he previously felt in his weary body has completely vanished... his joints were no longer stiff, his back no longer aching, and his head no longer pounding upon waking up again after passing out. fascinating... did you perhaps administer some first aid while he was out?

no, that doesn't seem right— there'd certainly be a bitter, medicinal taste in his mouth if that were the case, and not just from dehydration following his aimless travels and days spent with very little water available to quench his thirst. nor does he feel the stiffness of any splints supporting his weary joints— it's like he suddenly magically recovered despite being so miserable before.

well. this certainly beats being killed and looted by some common treasure hoarder taking advantage of his weary, sickly state.

most soothing and reassuring of all, however, is not the feeling of a body freed from injury and sickness, it's the hand gently caressing his face paired with the gentle humming filling his ears. a sweet lullaby, he'd imagine— though it's not one he's ever heard before, the sudden sleepiness it stirs in him (yes, despite the fact that he just woke up again) inclines him to believe it's meant to calm racing thoughts and soothe weary bodies.

"it's okay," a voice gently interrupts that humming from before. "get some more rest; i'll still be here when you wake up."

without so much as a "who are you?" mumbled from pierro, he falls asleep once more, your soft, thick thighs serving as his pillow while your deft fingers gently untangle the knots in his long, gray hair and brush softly against his cheeks. he almost seemed to be running a fever when you first found him collapsed under a tree... heatstroke, perhaps? infection? all it took was a gentle wave of your hand to free him from any and all potential diseases— such an act is child's play for the archon of fertility, prosperity, and new life. you took it upon yourself to carefully, carefully slip sips of water past his dry lips as he looked up at you deliriously, clearly on the verge of passing right out... it's a good thing your lap was there to serve as a pillow and your body as a support, otherwise he would have fallen backwards into the trunk of the tree behind him.

his broad, strong build made you hesitant to pity him as one would pity a wounded animal—clearly this man was a seasoned warrior and a veteran fighter, he doesn't need your pity even if he has seem to fallen on hard times— but even then... you couldn't stop your heart from twisting at the way he immediately melted into your lap and surrendered himself to your care. how horrible... how long has he been alone, you wondered? how long without anyone to provide him with care and love? you're thankful you found him before it proved to be too late for this mysterious man.

when pierro comes to (again), he feels even better than the first time he had awoken on your lap. as promised, you didn't move an inch, waiting for him to wake up while you continued to hum to him in his sleep and gently caress his face.

"good morning," you whisper sweetly, giggling slightly. "how do you feel?"

speech comes surprisingly easy— he would have thought that his throat would be too hoarse to speak properly, but he has no issues. "i feel well," pierro replies, glancing up at his mysterious... protector? doctor? caretaker? "and you are...?"

when you tell him your name, he's instantly reminded of all the tales he's heard of teyvat's many archons— and what a relief it would be to anyone to get discovered by the archon of fertility and not any of the rest of them... the majority of them aren't exactly known for being kind, graceful people, but you? the stories putting you as the protagonist depict you as nothing but generous, loving, and doting, providing bountiful harvests for your people, ensuring the health of families and their newborns, and staving off plague and famine with your own divine protection.

hm. it seems khaenri'ah was wrong about gods... or maybe you're the exception that proves the rule; the reason your kindness stands out so fiercely is simply because the rest of the archons just aren't kind themselves.

"—and i'll take care of you until i feel confident that you've recovered fully," you finish your introduction, smiling at him and offering him a piece of fruit from the tree above— the very same fruit he was too weak to reach up and grab at when he first stumbled upon the tree. it was so delicious and rich that it nearly caught him off guard... is this the power of the fertility archon?

days became weeks and weeks became months. sure, you believed he was well enough to venture out on his own again ages ago, but he didn't seem too concerned with leaving— where would he even go? look at where wandering around aimlessly for years on end got him last time... he would have died were it not for you, and now he's in your debt. helping out around the fields and keeping you company was the least he could do... and, if he's being honest with himself (a rarity indeed), he's come to enjoy your company. you tell fascinating stories and sing beautiful tunes he's never heard before, you prepare the most delicious food anyone alive has ever laid a lip to, and you've done so much for him out of the goodness of your heart... what a welcome change from the centuries of isolation and pain.

one thing you've noticed about pierro is that he doesn't seem to be much of a talker. you're not the type to pry into one's past or private life to begin with, but when he stiffens and presses his lips into a thin line whenever you try to ask about how he found himself collapsed and nearly on the verge of death beneath one of your trees, you drop the conversation there. it's better to mind your own business than attempt to tear up the floorboards hiding someone else's pain. all that matters is that he's safe now... and he won't have to experience that overwhelming loneliness again.

however, it seems he's stumbled upon a new conflict. no, this isn't necessarily related to the aforementioned loneliness, but perhaps that's just the point— this new conflict comes as damage control to ensure that he'll never experience that again. somewhere along the line, pierro began to view you a little less as a savior and a little more as... a woman. he knows you're an archon, truly, but to finally be in the company of someone else after so long, and someone as loving and kind as you... well. no man alive would be able to resist developing feelings. the way you sing to yourself as you stir a pot of soup cooking over a fire, the way you bring him a bowl while smiling and encouraging him to enjoy as much as he'd like, the way your hips swish so invitingly as you walk, and the memory of the way you helped him wash up when you first rescued him, too worried about his safety to leave him alone by a body of water... it's no wonder he began to desire you.

how fitting is it, then, that he first makes a move on you one day while you two are taking a walk by the very tree you first found him by? that was decades ago now; time passes so quickly for immortals... what feels like a single year the immortal is surely a century in mortal's time. the intensity of his gaze nearly made you shrink back into yourself, something no other partner you were with prior to pierro has been able to achieve. wordlessly, pierro cornered you back against the tree with a serious, sincere expression on his face— making an archon his lover? how ambitious. well, it's not like he'd be willing to let anyone else have you; in a world as vile and cruel as this one— and he's witnesses his fair share of evil and cruelty— anyone else may just take your kindness for granted. what if you saved a wandering bandit instead and he attempted to hurt you? sure, he wouldn't actually stand a chance against a literal archon, but it's about the principle of someone failing to appreciate your kindness.

and who better to appreciate it than a man who you gave everything to when he had nothing?

you instantly melt against pierro when he steals your lips in a searing kiss, gently-but-firmly pinning your wrists above your head with one of his large hands. your voice sounds just as sweet as a breathless moan of his name than it does while you're singing to him or humming a little tune to yourself— you pant and moan against his lips so invitingly it makes him wish he took you for himself sooner so he could have been hearing those sounds all this time. when he moves to lick hot lines down your neck, you gasp and press yourself harder against him— it's been a long, long time since you've had a lover; you haven't been with anyone since meeting pierro... maybe it's because you found it hard to find the time for external relationships between all the time you spent with pierro, showing him how to tend to the fields and how to prepare food, maybe it's because you didn't need anyone else, maybe it's because you knew deep down he was the perfect lover all along.

who's to say?

his hand loses its grip on your wrists as his mouth continues to travel southwards, his fingers instead finding a use by tugging the front of your dress down to expose your soft, full tits— ripe and luscious like the very fruit hanging just overhead, they fill his palms and then some just perfectly as he nips along your collarbone. even your skin tastes sweet like fresh fruit...

speaking of taste, absolutely nothing could have prepared pierro for the taste that filled his mouth once he closed his lips around one of your nipples. milk, it's milk— and it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. he would never say this out of concern of upsetting you, but your milk is even tastier than your cooking... which is absolutely saying a lot. you whimper and moan as he continues to drink and drink and drink from your ample breasts, periodically switching between the two to show both nipples equal amount of attention. he's not even sure why he's so surprised that you lactate— you're the archon of fertility, isn't such a thing to be expected?

the only thing that would further your image as the most beautiful and perfect depiction of fertility in all of teyvat would be the sight of you pregnant, belly round and swollen with a child while your ample, milky breasts rest on your tummy like a shelf. luckily for him, that's exactly what pierro's new plan is... to put his baby in you and finally, finally have a family of his own again. you already gave him a home, so the next logical step is to provide him a few children to help fill up the spare bedrooms, right?

you've already taken such good care of him. allow him to return the favor by taking care of you and the family you two created together.

[aureentuluva70]

Pertaining to the "Gil-Galad son of Fingon" theory, I really love the possible connections it makes to Maedhros, and in extension to Elrond and Elros.

Maedhros is Fingon's best friend, and there's no way in all of Ea that Fingon wouldn't want his favorite cousin to be one of the first to know that he's going to be a father.

Maedhros's eyes widen to the size of saucers when he receives and reads Fingon's letter, nearly spitting his wine all over the paper. For the next few months the residents of Himring noted their Lord Maedhros's unusually cheerful attitude and the almost youthful grin on his usually stoic face.

When the baby is finally born, Maedhros is quick to ride to Mithrim to congratulate Fingon and his wife on their son's successful birth, and finally gets to meet the person Fingon had utterly refused to shut up about for months. As Fingon carefully settles his tiny son into Maedhros's arms, something about Maedhros's eyes just light up in a way Fingon had not seen in a long time, and it fills Fingon with joy to see his dear friend so happy. For a few moments, as Maedhros holds tiny Ereinion in his arms, it is like he is young again, with a smile of joy that reaches his eyes.

Maedhros stays at Mithrim for about a week before he rides back to Himring, but before he goes he decides to give his dear old friend a gift: The Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin, forged by the Dwarves.

Though Maedhros departs to Himring shortly thereafter, he makes sure to visit Mithrim whenever he can, and his frequent visits to Fingon and his family are enough for Gil-Galad to eventually take a liking to his father's best friend, and soon enough adores Maedhros like an uncle, or even like a father.

It's Maedhros who, after learning of Gil Galad's fascination with the lands outside Mithrim, starts bringing his "nephew" little gifts and trinkets from the places he's been, and is the one who tells Gil-Galad stories before bed when his parents are too tired to. The tales he spun were always something Gil-Galad looked forward to, not just of fairy-stories and myths and legends, but of Valinor as well, and of the time before Gil-Galad was born. (He always spoke of Valinor in a bittersweet tone, something which Gil-Galad himself did not fully comprehend until he was much older. Those memories of Maedhros at his bedside would only become more poignant as the years went by, as he grew older and learned more fully of the things that Maedhros had gone through, and realizing that many of his dear uncle's stories had always hinted at something hidden deeper within him, though disguised they were as fairy-stories) Gil-Galad loved his uncle Maedhros and nothing could ever change that.

And then Morgoth struck again.

---------------------------------------------------------

It was then that Gil-Galad learned the truth about a lot of things. He learned what it felt like to lose your grandfather. What it felt like to be seperated from your parents for your own safety. He learned what it felt like to lose your father. He learned of the terror of the shadow of war and the tyranny of Morgoth.

He would never forget the haunting image of his mother sobbing in his father's arms one night, when he was up late when he should not have; remembering the awful feeling of knowing he was going to be seperated from his parents after his grandfather's death; and the memory of looking back as he left with Cirdan and seeing his mother and father staring back at him, tears dripping down their pale faces.

There was indeed many things he saw that he wished he hadn't.

But one of the things that hurt the most was arriving to the Havens of Sirion too late and seeing the carnage and death and knowing that it was Maedhros-his childhood hero and second father to him-who had caused it.

Gone was the nighttime storyteller, the gift-giver, the man who would play tag with him with a smile on his face; replaced by a terrifying warrior with grief in his eyes and blood on his hands, and an unbreakable Oath to fulfill.

And yet, even as he stared into Maedhros' eyes for the first time in decades after the Sack of Sirion, he is surprised to find all his anger and loathing and grief is suddenly washed away in a single moment as his eyes lock with Maedhros's.

He does not see the eyes of a merciless killer, or a savage monster of Morgoth, but a broken man with a terrible burden and a Doom laid upon him far too heavy to bear. He sees suffering and unimaginable pain in that pale face and those sunken eyes.

He wishes he could have been there, when Maedhros jumped. Perhaps he could have stopped him-done anything-that was his father. Yes, he had done terrible things, but he was not a wicked man.

He was still his father.

‐---‐----------------------------------------------------

"You knew Maedhros Feanorian?"

Gil-Galad looks up from his work. It is Elrond. It takes a moment for him to respond. "I did," he says, his voice somber. They both know it was not just a mere acquaintance, what they both shared with Maedhros. "I knew him as a child. He was my father's closest friend."

Elrond sat in the chair across from him. It was a moment before either spoke. "When my brother and I were taken captive after the Sack of Sirion, it was Maglor who spared us, and cared for us. He was like our father."

Gil galad could only nod. He understood perfectly where this was going.

"Maedhros was not as involved in our lives as Maglor was, but I know he cared for us. He still protected us. He was a protector, a caretaker, sometimes even like..."

"A father?" Gil galad finished. Elrond nodded.

"Tell me more about him."

[today-only-happens-once]

clarity

Word count: 5463

Summary:  Hakoda had been hearing rumors about the Fire Lord's son for years. That doesn't mean he is ready when the truth finally comes to light... especially when the truth only confirms the worst. Companion piece to “out of focus” but can be read separately. 

Warnings: injury/burns, angst, some mentions of trauma and PTSD, canonical child abuse/mutilation, Sokka gets angry protective and yells a little, blink-and-you-miss-it mention of nausea, please let me know if I missed anything. 

A/N: Turns out, I really wanted to explore Hakoda’s POV of the events in “out of focus”. So much so that not only did I write this, but’s longer than the original. Woops. Hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3.

...

His son is good at many things, Hakoda thinks, but his poker face is not one of them. 

He’d had never been particularly good at it, if Hakoda is being honest. He’d usually been able to tell with one glance when Sokka was at fault for something breaking and would blame Katara, and Kya had been even better at reading the micro-expressions of their son. Sokka is older now—and in more ways that Hakoda is comfortable with, he carries those extra years around like a weight on his shoulders—but he still hasn’t quite mastered the art of subtlety. It was something he’d need to work on if he wanted to be chief of the Southern Water Tribe one day. 

Sokka shifts in his seat across from him, his brows pinched slightly in evident annoyance. Hakoda sees the shared glance between his son and the Fire Lord. Zuko’s mouth twitches in something like amusement. 

“I want immediate release of all war prisoners,” the Earth Kingdom ambassador, Bashi, beside Sokka demands.

Hakoda inclines his head. “I second that. I have men in those prisons that haven’t seen their family in a decade.”

Hakoda couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Two years apart from his children had caused him to feel like he’d already missed out on so much of their lives. The idea of going five times that without any news from the outside… Suffice it to say that Hakoda did not envy those men.

“Of course,” the Fire Lord says, but his voice is nearly swallowed by the loud demand down the table, “Absolutely not!”

The hard glare that Fire Lord Zuko sends down the table at the Fire Nation Admiral makes Hakoda grateful that he is not on the receiving end of it. “Admiral, people who were arrested as prisoners of war have no need to remain so after the war has ended.” Zuko meets Hakoda’s gaze, the heat in his glare lifting at the redirection of attention. “I’ll draft that mandate tonight and will ensure its circulation as soon as possible.”

The Fire Lord—dressed in the traditional royal robes and his hair pulled into a top knot—is a stark contrast to the first time Hakoda had met him back in Boiling Rock. At the time, Zuko had been Fire Nation public enemy number 2 behind Aang. The tattered red tunic of Fire Nation prison uniforms had hung off his thin, borderline-malnourished frame. He looks better now, a little. Zuko is still lean, but not quite as gaunt as he’d looked in the Fire Nation prison. Hakoda’s biggest concern when it came to the Fire Lord’s well-being these days was the dark circles around his eyes that, though he tries to hide it, indicate too many sleepless nights.

“This is an outrage!” The admiral slams his fist against the table, leaping to his feet.

Hakoda feels his jaw clench in frustration. He has little patience for men who try to assert themselves through aggression and yelling rather than calm rationality. Even so, it doesn’t surprise him, exactly. Hakoda had been around long enough to know that Fire Nation men had long been taught there was power through anger, and to wield it as they see fit.

Zuko rises to meet his feet, slowly and deliberately. “Admiral--”

“Where is the justice for the Fire Nation families whose sons and daughters were slaughtered by those criminals?”

Hakoda presses his hands together to keep them from curling into fists. Did the Admiral not realize just how many Fire Nation soldiers walked free after slaughtering  innocent people, let alone soldiers? Even the person who killed Kya--

“Admiral.”

“I remember a time when you cared about Fire Nation soldiers! And it’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten, seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you so much as look in the mirror--”

Hakoda frowns. The comment rings vague bells in his head, though he can’t remember why…

“Enough!” Zuko snaps sharply. “You will watch your tongue or you will be escorted out. You approach insubordination.”

“You are a child,” the admiral says, spitting the word child like it disgusts him, “though one that ought to know a thing or two about insubordination, given your father’s attempts to brand you with a permanent reminder of its consequences--”

“Warriors!”

“Then again, he always was twice the leader you never will be. Long live the Phoenix King!” 

Sokka is suddenly on his feet. “Zuko—!”

“Sokka—!”

Hakoda leaps up just as the admiral punches a fireball at the space between his son and the Fire Lord. His heart jumps to his throat, but Zuko is fast. He shoves Sokka’s shoulder down with one hand and dispels the fireball with the other. Hakoda leaps over his chair as he sees the glint of his son’s boomerang hook through the air. 

The admiral’s gaze locks onto him for a moment and Hakoda instinctively ducks, diving underneath a bolt of scorching flames. He feels the ground tremble, hears the roar of dying flames above him. Hakoda risks a glance towards his son just in time to see Zuko step in front of him, bending the burst of flames to split on either side of them, rather than hit Sokka straight on. 

The door ricochets open. Two Kyoshi Warriors spill into the room, and in a flurry of quick strikes, the admiral drops to the floor. Limp.

Bashi unbinds his feet with the bending from earlier—it’s only now that Hakoda realizes that tremble in the ground a moment ago had been earthbending—and the admiral hurls insults at Zuko as he’s dragged unceremoniously through the doors. 

The silence that follows echoes in the room. 

Hakoda takes a quick, calculating sweep of the room. Kovrik, the Northern Water Tribe ambassador, is wide-eyed but appears unharmed. Bashi is panting but standing upright. Sokka is hidden behind Zuko who shifts awkwardly in the silence.

He clears his throat. “Apologies for the, uh, disruption. It won’t happen again.” He looks, for all the world, genuinely apologetic. Embarrassed, even.

Which is foolish, Hakoda thinks. Zuko couldn’t reasonably be expected to have weeded out all of the Ozai sympathizers in a month. Ozai may have been one person but there was an entire ideology and system that allowed his tyranny in the first place. A sixteen-year-old couldn’t be asked to single-handedly dismantle it all, and certainly not so quickly. 

“It’s not your fault, Fire Lord Zuko,” he tells him. 

“I appreciate that, Chief Hakoda,” Zuko says. Behind him, Sokka sucks in a breath through his teeth and Hakoda feels his chest twinge in concern. He had fought in a war long enough to hear the pain laced through the noise. Zuko turns around to look at him, then turns back around sharply to address the room. “We will adjourn the meeting for today. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

Zuko hides it well, Hakoda thinks, but there’s an urgency to his words hidden behind a carefully constructed mask of stoicism that leaves no room for doubt in Hakoda’s mind. Sokka is hurt.

“But Fire Lord Zuko—”

“I think we could all use a breather, Kovrik,” Hakoda jumps in, not eager for another argument to break out. “Coming back tomorrow with a clear head is a good decision.” Besides, the sooner he can clear the room of other people, the sooner he could check on Sokka who Zuko was—almost protectively—keeping from view. 

“Yes,” Kovrick acquiesces, though Hakoda can tell he’s still not pleased. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Zuko nods his appreciation. Kovrik, Bashi, and the few other dignitaries that had been in the room bustle out the door. Hakoda waits until it’s latched shut behind them before he turns his full attention towards his son. Zuko has already turned his full attention to him, saying something in a low voice. 

Hakoda can sees the clench of his son’s jaw and the slight wince as he places his hand in Zuko’s. Hakoda steps up behind the Fire Lord, peering over his shoulder. His chest tightens a little in sympathy when he sees the blistering, angry red skin on the back of his son’s hand.

“Do you have anything that can help?” he asks of the Fire Lord, frowning. He thinks briefly of calling Kovrik back in before he remembers that the Northern Water Tribe’s men, even when benders, didn’t typically learn its healing abilities. 

“Yes, sir,” Zuko replies, not taking his gaze from Sokka’s hand as if he could heal it by staring at it hard enough. “Though it’s not quite as immediate as waterbending healers. But it should help with the pain and prevent infection. Follow me.”

Hakoda follows as Zuko guides Sokka by the elbow out the door of the meeting room and through a network of hallways. There’s something almost jarring about it to Hakoda. The image of the Fire Lord leading his Water Tribe son through the palace to get him help, rather than as a prisoner, has a part of Hakoda’s mind reeling. Sokka’s blue clothing stands out against the dark reds and blacks that adorn the walls and pillars around them.

How quickly times had changed.

Hakoda thinks back to the conversation in the meeting a few moments ago as he watches the back of Zuko’s head, moving quickly down the corridor with Sokka in tow. Rumors and propaganda about the Fire Nation, and especially about its leader, flew quickly amongst the ranks of soldiers in the war. It had been difficult to know fact from fiction, especially as it related to the royal family. 

A year ago—the memory comes crystal clear to Hakoda now—one of the men on his crew named Horrak had told him what he’d been certain was an exaggerated, hyperbolic story. Something about the Fire Lord and his thirteen-year-old son. On Tui and La, I swear it’s true. Heard it from the mouth of a Fire Nation soldier myself who was actually there.

He’s a tyrant and cruel, Hakoda had said, rolling his eyes because the idea was just… incomprehensible, but there’s no way Ozai would do that to his own flesh and blood. He’s too proud of his bloodline anyway. 

Zuko glances over his shoulder at Sokka, and Hakoda sees the angry scar across half of his face. The words of the admiral in the meeting whisper in the back of Hakoda’s mind in a way that makes his stomach turn. Your father’s attempts to brand you… Hakoda had thought that surely, surely, even Ozai had a line in the sand when it came to his own family. 

He’s less confident of that now.

Zuko says something to two of the guards stationed at the set of double doors that Hakoda doesn’t quite catch, and then slips through the door. Hakoda follows close behind. 

“Wait here,” Zuko says, and then vanishes through a door on the far side of the room.

Hakoda glances around the room. It was a bedroom, but Hakoda had a hard time believing it was Zuko’s. It seemed too simple of a room to belong to the Fire Lord. Then again, Zuko had been full of surprises from the very first time Hakoda had met him. 

He looks to his son, noticing the tight grimace to his face and the very slight sway and grabs the chair beside the bed to get his son to sit before he falls face first into the floor. 

“You had good reflexes in there,” Hakoda says. He’d dealt enough with injured Water Tribesmen to know that distraction was usually the best way to help them deal with the pain of a burn. He had no doubt that his son was no exception to that. 

“Lots of practice,” Sokka replies, obediently taking a seat. He hisses out another breath as his grip around the arms of the chair stretches the skin across the back of his hand. He swears under his breath.

“Easy,” Hakoda says softly, bracing a hand on his son’s back. 

The comment from his son makes his chest twist, but he can’t very well deny it. His son had seen more combat in the past year than he’d hoped he’d have to in his lifetime. Hakoda knows that it was an unreasonable expectation for his son to somehow be the exception to generations of pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sokka would be able to handle the fight—Sokka always been able to hold his own—but could you blame a father for wanting to spare his son the experience of waking up from nightmares, haunted by the people he couldn’t save?

Hakoda dealt with that enough for the both of them.

“Wish Katara was here,” Sokka says. 

“I know,” Hakoda tells him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s coming to Caldera for a while. She’s still in Ba Sing Se with Aang.” She and Aang were working on their own negotiations of reparations and treatises. Caldera was only one location of many that were in the middle of such conversations.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sokka sighs. “Her magic water comes in handy, though… Get it? Hand-y?”

Hakoda snorts. That’s the kind of joke he used to make to get Kya to smile.

The door across the room opens again. Zuko emerges with his arms wrapped around a giant tub of water, several vials and rags gripped in his hands. He’d also pulled his hair out of the top knot so that it falls into his face, shaggy and unbrushed. It makes him look younger somehow. 

Spirits, he really is only sixteen, isn’t he?

The Fire Lord seems to be studiously avoiding both his and his son’s gaze as he crosses back to him and sets the washbasin at Sokka’s feet. The realization twists uncomfortably in Hakoda’s stomach. 

“Can I see your hand?” Zuko says in what is perhaps the softest voice Hakoda has ever heard come from the teen’s mouth. 

Sokka blinks. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Hakoda crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Zuko examines his son’s hand. The Fire Lord handles it with care, mindful of the injury even as he inspects closely. His brow is furrowed in concentration and there’s a long beat of silence. Sokka is almost uncharacteristically quiet, but Hakoda doesn’t miss the very slight way his shoulders seem to ease. There’s a familiarity between them, Hakoda realizes, and it makes him wonder in the back of his mind if maybe this wasn’t the first time they helped each other. 

“I don’t think it’ll have permanent damage,” Zuko says eventually. “But I still need to treat it so it doesn’t get infected. It… might hurt a little. But then it should feel better.”

Hakoda sees his son swallow. “No permanent damage. That’s good.” He nods, evidently steeling himself. “Okay.”

Zuko looks for a moment like he’s about to say something else, but seems to change his mind. Instead, he busies himself with wringing a cloth in the basin of water, into which he had emptied the contents of the vials. Hakoda’s gaze flickers again to the scar on his face and wonders if he might be so intimately familiar with the care of burns from his own experience. 

Hakoda wonders if there was someone else to help him and teach him. Perhaps that uncle that he and Sokka had mentioned. Iroh, Hakoda thinks his name is, though that would mean the uncle was General Iroh, as in the Dragon of the West. That seemed unlikely to the chief. No way this “wise old guy” who apparently spent his free time giving advice and making tea was also the same person who laid siege to Ba Sing Se for six-hundred days.

He watches Zuko press the rag gingerly to the back of Sokka’s hand and Sokka yelps, yanking his hand back. 

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says immediately with a bit of a grimace. “This part is painful, but it’ll stop hurting in a minute.”

Hakoda listens to the strained breathing of his son, taking a step towards him before Sokka manages, “Right. Right, sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Zuko tells him. “I know it hurts.”

Hakoda watches from behind Sokka as his son places his hand back in Zuko’s, who slowly but gingerly presses the rag back to his hand. There’s a casual intimacy to the way that Sokka willingly gives over his injury to the Fire Lord. An assured immediacy to Sokka’s movement combined with the extraordinarily careful way in which Zuko handles it that surprises him. He’d known, intellectually, that his children had become close with the Fire Lord. But the moments in which Hakoda got to be witness to that friendship sometimes still caught him off guard, even all these months later. 

It even folded into the way they fought beside each other. Hakoda had gotten very fleeting glimpses of it back in Boiling Rock, but he’d seen it more clearly in the meeting room a few minutes ago. They watched each other’s back, protecting one another without getting in each other’s way, like it was a rehearsed dance. Hakoda had watched the way Zuko stepped in front of flames to protect his son and had seen the way Sokka had timed his boomerang through to ensure the next fireball directed at Zuko would be kicked wide. 

For a long moment, the only sound heard in the room is the quiet splash of water as Zuko submerges the rag again and wrings it out. Hakoda glances at the Fire Lord’s face and wonders if Zuko had always had a habit of facing flames head-on. 

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out suddenly, breaking the silence, “when he talked about insubordination?”

Hakoda’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering briefly to his son before flitting back to Zuko. Zuko’s eyes had gone wide, the rag in his hand frozen half-out of the bowl. He blinks. “What--uh. I, uh.” Hakoda sees his hand clench around the rag and the way he takes a careful, intentional breath. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Zuko busies himself back to tending to Sokka’s hand. Hakoda, however, feels something sink like an anchor in his stomach. He goes very, very still.

“After the stuff at Ba Sing Se? When you went home?” Sokka asks, and Hakoda realizes that he hasn’t heard the same rumors he had. Rumors that were at least a little bit true, but surely not all of it. Surely--

“No, I uh.” Zuko coughs a bit. “Before that. Before… yeah. Earlier.” 

“What happened?”

Hakoda stays quiet but he keeps his eyes on Zuko, who looks for all the world like a wild snow leopard caribou that had been cornered. His shoulders tense and Hakoda wonders, very briefly, if he might make a run for it. His jaw clenches, and he shifts to the balls of his feet.

Zuko doesn’t run.

Instead, he seems to focus even more on the administrations he’s giving to Sokka’s injury, as if healing something else might be able to protect him from his own old wounds coming under scrutiny.

“My uncle allowed me to attend a war meeting,” Zuko begins after a long beat as he wraps a fresh bandage around Sokka’s hand, “where they were talking about some battle strategies to use against an Earth Kingdom battalion. There was a general that wanted our newest fleet to serve as a distraction while we mounted an attack from the rear.”

Hakoda feels for a moment like he’s standing on cracking ice. He heard about that attack. The few members of that battalion spoke of how victorious they’d felt, decimating an entire fleet of rookie Fire Nation soldiers only to be attacked from the rear. Hakoda had spoken two years ago with one of the Earth Kingdom soldiers that had escaped, had listened as she recounted the bloodbath it had been. 

They must have known, she’d been saying with a haunted, far-away look to her eyes, that we’d win against a bunch of newbie soldiers. It was like they were served up as goat-dogs for slaughter. Just a… distraction. Ozai doesn’t even care about his own people. 

That conversation had been two years ago. Which meant—

“That’s not fair,” Sokka says. “Your newest recruits? They’d be slaughtered by an experienced battalion like that.” Hakoda feels a brief flicker of pride through the growing tightness in his chest. His son is far smarter than he gave himself credit for. 

“Exactly,” Zuko sighs, bitterness dripping from his voice like venom. “And that’s what I told them. I wasn’t thinking. I just… yelled at him.” Zuko secures the end of the bandage to Sokka’s palm slowly, as if reluctant to be done with the process. “My father didn’t… take it well. I was challenged to an Agni Kai, and I thought I would be facing the general in it, so I accepted.”

The steadily growing tightness in Hakoda’s chest snaps around his lungs like a steel band. So even the worst rumors—the ones he’d been certain couldn’t possibly be true, not about that, not even Ozai—had been true. And it was all because he tried to save people’s lives. 

Hakoda does not have a weak stomach, but it rolls with the lead weight of realization. 

Zuko still doesn’t look at either one of them. Unable to keep his attention on helping Sokka’s injury, he turns his attention instead to gathering the basin of water and the empty vials and used rags. Something to keep his hands—his attention—busy. Hakoda had seen some of the men he fought with do the same thing when talking about stories they mostly tried to forget. 

“No…” Sokka says in a low voice, and Hakoda knows from the horror in his voice that his son is starting to put the pieces together too.

“It wasn’t the general,” Zuko confirms, his voice quiet and heavy in the silence around them. “It was my father.”

“You faced your father in an Agni Kai?” Sokka asks.

“Not exactly. I…” Zuko stares down at the bowl, his gold gaze looking a thousand miles away. “I couldn’t fight my own father. Instead, I begged him for forgiveness. I was met with a fist full of flames.” Zuko waves a hand towards his face. 

I begged him for forgiveness. 

Hakoda thinks of the version Horrack had told him. I heard the kid was kneeling in front of him when it happened—

“He--” Sokka also sounds at a loss of words, his voice choking off. 

“I was banished after that,” Zuko continues and his voice is hollow in a way that ricochets like shrapnel. Hakoda watches him meet his son’s gaze. “I was told to bring the Avatar back and all would be forgiven, or to not come back at all. That was before you and your sister woke Aang up from the iceberg.”

He hears what Zuko won’t say.  It was before there’d been confirmation that the Avatar was still around at all. He’d been banished from his home and told to chase a ghost. It was an impossible task. Ozai didn’t want his son to come home at all, Hakoda realizes. And from the tight way Zuko swallows, he’s pretty sure Zuko knows it too. 

Hakoda clenches his grip into a fist to mask the tremble to his hands. Zuko had done the right thing at that meeting—had tried to spare lives—and had still asked for forgiveness. Begged for it. And Ozai had lit his hand on fire and… and… painfully mutilated his own son and then kicked him out, telling him to chase a legend. In some ways, Hakoda thinks, it was crueler than telling him not to come back at all. 

Zuko is sixteen. But he is still a child, though saddled with the weight of righting a century of conflict on his back. And Hakoda knows that the Agni Kai had been three years ago. 

“How old were you?” Sokka asks tightly. 

Spirits above, he was only—

“Thirteen,” Zuko says, and Hakoda sighs, shutting his eyes against the confirmation. 

“Thir--” Sokka cuts himself off, his voice strained. “Thirteen. Tui and La, when I was thirteen--” he breaks off again.

Hakoda knows what Sokka is thinking about. Sokka was thirteen when he’d left to join the war effort. He’d tried so hard to keep Sokka as safe as he could. Protect his childhood from being stolen more than the war and the loss of his mother already had. He’d seen the stubborn set to Sokka’s jaw when he’d chased after him onto the ship gangplank, and Hakoda knew that Sokka was just as protective as he was. He’d asked him to look out for the village, for Katara. 

Hakoda would have done anything in the world to keep Sokka safe. He still felt that way, despite all the ways that Sokka had proven he could hold his own. He couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t want to. Sokka was his boy. Not so little anymore, not so innocent. He’d seen and been through too much, and Hakoda had missed most of it. But he’d tried. He’d tried to keep him safe for as long as he could manage. 

At thirteen, Zuko had been hurt by a person he’d loved and then thrown out into the world with barely a second thought. The Fire Nation had robbed him, too, of so much. Too much. 

Sokka takes a sudden step towards him and Zuko visibly tenses as if expecting a blow. Sokka freezes in place. “Zuko…”

Zuko shakes his head quickly, and there’s a small part of Hakoda that uncoils when he sees the way Zuko’s gaze doesn’t look quite so distant anymore. “Anyway. That’s--that’s what the admiral was talking about.”

“You…” Sokka sounds close to tears. “You were his kid.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko looks at Sokka again. “He spent most of my life wishing I wasn’t.”

Hakoda’s jaw tenses. He looks at Zuko who looks, for all the world, like a sixteen-year-old kid, with his shaggy hair falling into his face and in Fire Lord clothes that are maybe just a touch too big for him. At thirteen—barely a teenager—he’d spoken up out of an intense desire to keep more people safe. To save lives. In Hakoda’s eyes, Zuko was a hero. Just for that. 

How anyone could look at him and not be proud was far beyond Hakoda. 

“Zuko,” he says, and Zuko’s gaze flashes over to him almost like he’d forgotten Hakoda was there in the first place. “I… hope you understand that you didn’t deserve that.” 

The words fall short of what he wants to say, of what he means. But they feel important to him. Zuko deserved better from his nation and especially from his own father. Hakoda doesn’t know very much about the former royal family, but he doesn’t get the impression that Zuko heard that a lot. And if nobody else was going to make sure Zuko knows that he deserves better, Hakoda will at least try. 

Something softens a little in Zuko’s gaze. “I know, sir,” he says. “It… I didn’t at first. It took me a long time to understand that it was wrong of my father to do that. But I know that now.”

Hakoda inclines his head. It is a small mercy against the tremendous pain the kid carries on his back, but it’s something. And as far as Hakoda is concerned, it’s not a small thing, either.

“Where is he?” Sokka demands in a near growl.

Zuko blinks, looking far more surprised by Sokka’s outrage than Hakoda is. “Where’s who?”

“Ozai.”

“Sokka, what are you going to do? Fight him?” Zuko looks completely bewildered. “He already lost.”

“Against Aang, not against—did Aang even know?”

“Um, I guess I don’t know. I never told him. I… never told any of you.”

“Yeah--and what’s that about, huh?” Sokka takes a step forward. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Hakoda takes a step towards his son. “Sokka,” he warns. 

He wants to explain to him that sometimes things are hard to talk about. Spirits know there were things Hakoda had seen in his days involved in the war that he didn’t want to talk about and hoped he never would have to. He wanted to explain that events like that, things that linger on the edges of your nightmares and follow in lock-step with your shadow, had a nasty habit of strangling in your throat so that the words don’t come. That it is easier to carry those things close to your chest rather than lay them bare for the world to see. 

But Sokka is fuming and cuts his father off. “What, did you think we wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko hurls back at him, waving a hand towards the bedroom window. “My father already lost to the Avatar, Sokka. The war is over. The fighting is over. Aang took his bending. And that—I don’t know about you, but that’s the best, most justified end to his legacy I can think of.” 

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Hakoda watches the way his son’s shoulders heave with angry breaths, his non-injured hand curled into a fist. Sokka had always been fiercely, desperately protective. It runs in the family, Hakoda thinks idly. But this wasn’t something Sokka could protect Zuko from. The damage had already been done. 

Hakoda thinks, perhaps, that such a truth only makes it harder for his son to deal with. 

“Wherever he is,” Sokka growls, “I hope he rots. He deserves worse.” 

Zuko blinks, his eyes wide. Hakoda wonders briefly if Zuko has ever had someone be angry on his behalf, rather than angry with him. 

Sokka evidently doesn’t understand his surprise. “Don’t tell me you disagree—”

“No,” Zuko says quickly. “I just… nothing.” He offers the barest hint of a smile at Sokka. The reminder of the familiarity between them relaxes some of the tightness in Hakoda’s chest just a fraction. 

There’s a long beat as Hakoda hears his son suck in a deep, slow breath. Zuko’s gaze falls from Sokka’s, drifting back to the basin of water beside him. Zuko’s fingers twitch at his side. He looks suddenly uncomfortable, Hakoda thinks. Nervous, almost. 

“Thank you for helping Sokka’s hand, Firelord Zuko,” Hakoda says suddenly, and maybe it’s a foolish way to convey to him that this didn’t change their opinion of him. At least, not for Hakoda… and from his surge of protective anger, he’s pretty sure the same goes for his son. Zuko was still Zuko. And if maybe he made sure to call him Fire Lord as a quiet reminder that Hakoda did not think him less of a leader either, then maybe that was okay too.

Hakoda sees the slightly pink tinge to Zuko’s cheeks as he meets Hakoda’s gaze. But he reads the understanding in those gold eyes as well. “Oh. Uh, of course, sir. And… just Zuko is fine.” Thank you, is the unspoken words that flit across the teen’s gold eyes.

Hakoda smiles a little, inclining his head. “Understood.” He turns his attention then to his son. ”I should draft a letter to Bato tonight to update him on the treaty. Will you be okay without me?”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is tilted up in a half-smile. “Yeah, dad. I think I can manage.”

Hakoda gives Sokka’s shoulder one last squeeze and a nod to Zuko before he ducks out of the room to give them both a moment to talk more. He closes the door behind him, pausing long enough to take a breath. 

Generations of conflict had been ended a few months ago by a bunch of kids with too much weight on their shoulders and too many shadows clinging to their edges. But at their heart, they were good people trying to do good things. Spirits know they all had plenty of reasons to be otherwise. War had a nasty habit of bringing out the worst in people, of demanding sacrifices to who you are. It could latch onto the darkest parts of you and pull until it was all that remained. He’s grateful that the group of kids that ended the Hundred Year War managed to keep the best of themselves despite everything, and that they continued to do so.

Hakoda had learned a long time ago that goodness is a choice. And he’s grateful that the world was in the hands of people like his kids, like Aang, like Zuko. Kids who, despite everything and all the ways people tried to pull their darkness out of them, continued to make that choice.

[lexsssu]

𝑊𝑖𝑠ℎ (𝐷𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑓)

Ao3 ver.

From the moment he could perceive the world around him, Soma knew that life was difficult. Especially the world he had the misfortune to grow up in, because according to his parents the darkness and danger that was commonplace now was something that merely lurked behind the scenes during the time before he was born.

There was still danger no matter what era one is living in, but the era he grew up in is the most dangerous one. Dainsleif, his brooding yet ever thoughtful father said so, having lived for centuries and being witness to many major happenings within their world over the years.

“As long as we have each other...there is no other place I’d rather be,” his mother would always say as she presses her soft lips against the skin of his forehead.

Despite the darkness that had tainted their world, there is still light to be found even if it was only within the farthest corners and the smallest cracks. In his mother’s arms and beneath his father’s gaze, Soma felt the safest and happiest.

But sadly, the Abyss Order was relentless in their pursuit. Years of running and hiding could only keep them safe for so long.

“I’ll hold them off. Take our son and run as far as you can! Forget about me and keep on living! That’s an order!”

Soma’s baby blue eyes were wide as he gazed in horror at the sight of Dainsleif being swarmed by a squadron of Abyss Heralds, the boughkeeper’s figure getting farther and farther as his mother carried him away.

He doesn’t know how long they ran, he doesn’t remember how he even fell asleep. The blonde only remembers waking up on a small cot, lying next to you who looked exhausted and unkempt as you slept. He remembers asking if his father will meet up with you both later, only for you to burst in tears and embrace him tightly.

“Papa...Papa won’t be home for a long time, baby. But...he did his best for the both of us…”

The next several years of Soma’s life consisted of training with the Resistance, aiming to one day topple down the Abyss Order that took Teyvat hostage for several years now. He is filled with not just a thirst for vengeance and righteous fury, but also a sincere wish to end tyranny and prevent the tragedy that befell his family from ever happening to any other hapless child.

On the day of their planned final attack, he stood before you, a young man of eighteen who was the spitting image of your late husband. His body is bent forward so as to more easily reach your height while you placed a familiar dark mask with royal blue accents upon his face.

“He’ll watch over you for me. I know it,” despite the obvious tears that gathered at the corners of your eyes, not a single drop fell as you kissed Soma’s forehead.

“I’ll come back to you, Ma. I promise.” He holds the hands that cradle his face, committing to memory of their warmth and tenderness.

Those words were the last ones he managed to tell you before setting off, ebony cape fluttering as he spun away from you and joined the rest of the warriors that made up the Resistance.

If only he knew that he wouldn’t be able to honor his own words.

The Abyss Order proved too strong and every plan they prepared resulted in failure. Soma knew his time had come as he lay on the cold hard ground, his comrades either dead around him or fruitlessly fighting in a last ditch effort to survive. A glowing hydro blade rested on his neck, ready to end his life at any moment. 

Rather than resist, he opted to accept his death with dignity. The young man stared at his would-be-killer, the frozen Abyss Herald seemingly prolonging his misery as if waiting for him to beg for his life.

“I’m sorry…” An all too familiar voice came from the Herald, one that the youth only remembers in his memories now.

Before he could react, Soma knew nothingness.

══════════════════

“Hey there, little guy. Are you lost?”

Large baby blue eyes blinked as their owner swiveled his head, taking in the sight of the dark sky twinkling with stars and heavenly bodies while a field of glowing dandelions surrounded his tiny body in the open field.

It takes the toddler a second before his eyes meet with yours, making you internally squeal at just how adorable this child looked. Platinum blonde hair, rich blue eyes, and those squishy cheeks just made you want to pinch them for days. You wondered which good-looking parents were blessed with this precious baby…

“Mama!”

“...Eh?”

And that is how you returned to the city with a toddler in tow.

“When did you get hitched? Well, even if it’s late I’d like to congratulate you anyway.”

“He’s not—”

“Mama, eat! Foo’!”

“...I’ll have a bowl of Cream Stew and Fragrant Mashed Potatoes”

“Coming right up! Why don’t you take a seat with the little one while I prepare?”

Still carrying Soma (who happily introduced himself earlier after ‘mistaking’ you for his mother), you try to find an empty table only to find none. You scan the seats to see if any of your friends or acquaintances were there, hoping to borrow a seat at their table.

When your eyes catch sight of a certain brooding blonde gentleman, you make a beeline straight to him.

“Good evening, Master Dainsleif. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but I wanted to ask if I may perhaps sit with you this fine night? There aren’t any free tables as of now you see...but we’ll definitely vacate your table when a free one becomes available.”

The Bough Keeper lifts his gaze towards you, only to be met with a little face so eerily similar to his own that he has to blink several times to make sure he was seeing right.

“...Very well. If you don’t mind my company, then I suppose you may take a seat here—”

“PAPA!”

The forgotten Soma who had been mostly silent finally spoke up, shouting so excitedly that his voice rang across the tavern and caught the attention of every other customer within the premises.

Beneath all the stares, never did you wish to be swallowed up by the ground more than this very moment. You could only hug the little boy and bury your face in his hair, fervently praying for Barbatos to just make you disappear in a poof of smoke while the little boy in question giggled at the gobsmacked expression on Dainsleif’s face.

[quantumlocked310]

Summon Up Remembrance

@deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​. Cherrypie. My friend. My OG. My Vikings Mom. My shared braincell about everything Hvitty. You encouraged me to put myself out there and talk to people. You’ve given me some of my best ideas. You’re an amazing human who works so hard both in fandom and irl. I’m so happy I took the plunge and wrote you Bjornekram so we could start up this wonderful friendship. Congratulations on your 500 followers! Every single one is well-deserved.

So! In order to celebrate our love, I’ve tortured myself and Hvitty with this story inspired by The Little Match Girl. I’d say “Enjoy!,” but I have a feeling that’s not the right word...

Summary: What if Ivar hadn’t found Hvitserk in that cold forest in time?

Warnings: not a happy time, depression, graphic descriptions of violence, major character death, loss, despair, drug use, oral sex female receiving

Note: Title from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30

Don’t forget to tap the moodboard to see it in its highest quality!

++++++++++++

He’d used his last coin to buy the matches. Everything else had already been spent on the sweet release the mushrooms and drink provided him. His greatest triumph bled into his deepest failure when Bjorn sentenced him to live in the frozen forest. He knew it would not be long. His half-brother had given him painful and terrible mercy. Already he could no longer feel his toes, and his hair was stiff with ice.

His first match is useless. Scraped against the frozen rocks he huddles behind for some semblance of shelter. He knows he’s going to die, but he’d like to have a last taste of heat before he goes. Even the memory of the bright burning flames of his execution can no longer keep the shivering at bay. The cold and wet sticks he’d gathered couldn’t catch, even with the pine needles he’d found to shove under the bundle.

He is resigned to no fire and no hope. Only four matches to keep him company. The last vestiges of drink and drugs are leaving his body aching and freezing; his hands have barely enough movement to strike the next match. He watches this one burn. Its tiny flame dancing merrily along the wood. In its flickering he sees a better time; his favorite feast.

He’d been younger then, and happier. Not yet burdened with a legacy and revenge. The feast fires had kept him warm inside the packed great hall, and his belly had been full of food and satisfied with drink. It was the night he learned a woman might prefer his mouth over his other parts, and he’d been fascinated. The thrall he’d danced with had taken him aside and shared in his body, and shown him things other women hadn’t yet taught him. Their copulation was in a side room; their sounds of pleasure hidden by the noise in the hall. He remembers the delicious wet heat of her body against his tongue, and the way she whimpered and begged so sweetly for him.

The match goes out and Hvitserk is thrust out of the memory. He grows melancholy as he remembers the thrall was killed by horse hoof to the head when she was cleaning the stables one day. A horrible accident.

He scrambles for the next match. Wanting to leave this new remembrance aside and see something joyful once more. The next match strike flares bright in front of his eyes and he hears the clang of axes on swords. His best battle. He’d felt invincible that day. Bobbing and weaving in between English soldiers. Feeling the thunk of his axe as he buries it in the flesh of his enemies. The sweet and terrible smell of blood and guts and fresh mud. Hearing screams and battle cries around him as the Vikings cut a swath through the English forces. Getting to fight alongside his brothers, and seeing the prideful look in Ubbe’s face when he swoops in at the last moment to save his older brother from danger. Ubbe.

The match goes out, and the cold rushes into Hvitserk’s head. His despair is palpable. Ubbe could not let him die as he’d wished for on that fiery spit. But Ubbe let him walk into this cold and certain death demanded by Bjorn.

His saddened breath rattles his chest, and he feels the exhaustion in his bones; the wet snow seeping further and further into his clothing to numb his skin. The stinging tears falling from his red-rimmed eyes freeze to his cheeks, and he is barely able to lift a hand to strike the match. The tears fall faster as he stares into the flickering orange and gold to find a moment of peace.

They’re all there. Ivar, Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk. The four of them that beautiful spring day, together in the forest trading blows of the sword and the axe. Even their verbal sparring brings a smile to his disheveled face. He remembers going toe to toe with Sigurd, and being equally matched with Ivar. The rush of adrenaline in the fight is a distant comfort, and he dwells again upon youth; how young they all were. Naive and furious; untouched by the horrors that awaited them.

The match goes out and shivers wrack Hvitserk’s body. He sobs and shakes as he memorializes the family he will never see again.

Desire floods his system. The desire he’s always had to escape, to be someone he is not, to chase the dreams he had but could never fulfill. He weeps for his brothers, his mother, and his father. The most torturous thoughts follow, and he mourns and cries for himself. For the person he will never be. For the women he loved, and the children he never gave them.

This is his last one. The last chance to see his loved ones again. To see his brothers happy and together and alive again. Perhaps he will catch a glimpse of Thora or Margrette in this last memory. He draws strength from this small hope.

His breaths rattle and he lights the match. In the tiny flame it is his mother. How tall she felt when he was a child. She is loving peering down at his small frame as he plays with a wooden horse from Floki. Her smile is radiant as she talks to him. Asking him about the horse and the world inside his mind. Her tone is warm and loving, and it floods his body with a final burst of heat.

The match goes out and Hvitserk’s hand falls. In front of him his mother hasn’t left. Standing there like she was in his memory, with a gentle, proud smile on her regal face. She raises her hand, palm up, open and beckoning him. He rises and falls deeply into his mother’s embrace, clutching at her silken robes that catch the salty tears still falling down his face.

“Come, my son. You have done well. We must go to meet your father and brother.” Aslaug wraps her arms around her beautiful boy and holds him close. She feels his sorrow and his perfect joy as their souls connect and ascend.

Some hours later the stomping of boots and the rattle of wheels can be heard in the forest. Ivar looks to his side, observing the landscape around him, and his eyes are drawn to a cluster of rocks. They’re not at all interesting he thinks, but a strong winter wind whips past his face, and the rocks flutter in the wind. No, not the rocks. The hood of the person hunched behind them.

Ivar calls for a halt and carefully climbs down from his rig. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he has to see who it is for himself. His heart is pounding, and his instincts are screaming, and when he rounds the cluster he sees why.

The body is Hvitserk.

White hot rage floods his body, and Ivar lets out a primal scream. His sorrow and pain released in one powerful sound. Tears flood his eyes and freeze on his cheeks. He gestures to the closest soldiers to help carry his brother. They can barely lift him; Hvitserk has frozen in place, but Ivar is determined to give his brother the Viking funeral he deserves.

Ivar cries and mourns, and swears that he will seek revenge on his brothers in Kattegat who shoved one of their own into the wild to die. They did not even allow his fearsome brother the warrior’s death he deserved. What Ivar misses in his incandescent rage is the sweet smile on Hvitserk’s frozen face. Ivar should be celebrating, because as he was not in life Hvitserk is euphoric in his death; together with those he loved and lost once again. The image of rapturous bliss frozen forever in time on the face of his mortal body.

++++++++++++

If you want to read other stuff I write here’s my masterlist!

Taglist: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @punkrocknpearls @solinarimoon @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @southernbe @vikingstrash​

Photos are not mine they are from Pinterest.

[magneticmage]

Drabbles again :)

~The Seawolf and her little Spitfire~

Aelynne Cousland, lanky even at fifteen, crossed her arms and frowned at her mother as she watched her release dozens of arrows into the target across from them, giving step by step instructions.

She'd been giving such lessons since Aelynne had found her own bow and brought it to her during a dinner meeting with the banns to demand to be taught at the age of six. It was well past her bedtime. Furthermore, her older brother, Fion, hadn't even started his own training since he was eight and even her eldest brother, Fergus, had barely started his at ten. Bryce, her father, had choked on his drink alongside Arl Rendon Howe's own chest-pounding sputtered protests. Bann Edmund of the Sapphire Hills had raised a brow at all of this and expressed his support of the legendary Seawolf's legacy continuing with her daughter. To her mother's shock and her father's laughter, she proudly declared that she would be more than her mother's legacy, just like her mother did with her own parent, the Storm Giant. Needless to say, her mother was rather miffed at the fact her young impressionable daughter had learned of her raider history. At least until it came out that she'd only found the bow while looking for her broken doll in her mother's things and didn't, in fact, know anything about it.

"Ma," Her gray eyes moved towards the arrows as another barrage followed, "Where did you learn that? You said ladies needed to be..." Her red brows scrunched as she struggled to recall the words and tilted her head, "'Refined and gentle and well-mannered'. Isn't this the exact opposite of that?"

Eleanor sighed and lowered the bow to fix a firm steely gaze on her only daughter, "You know I fought in the war against the Orlesians alongside your father and King Maric. I grew up on your grandfather's ship with your aunts and uncles. I learned to fight with the best of them, perhaps even better than all of them."

"So that old song is true," Her eyes gleamed like silver coins in the early light, "About you and Father?"

"Maker preserve me," Her mother grimaced and set a hand on her face, "How many of those verses have you heard, Aelynne?!"

"Enough," She hedged simply. Aelynne raised her own weapon and widened her stance. She didn't look where her first arrow went but did for the second to hit the bull's eye, "Do you think I can do it?"

The Seawolf looked up at her daughter. Hair as red as fire and eyes the color of blades with lily white skin despite the training outdoors this summer, her daughter was her spitting image at that age. And yet traces of Bryce still showed through in her posture and expressions. The bright warm smile as she sent another arrow towards its target, the power braced in her body from long hours of effort and conditioning. The easy confidence and charisma she'd used to win over everyone around her, even getting Arl Howe to smile at a few of her bold antics. She wasn't built for the battlefield, though. Her limbs were long and stocky and she would sooner climb a tree to snipe at her foe than march in armor.

Perhaps, she should add some extra lessons in close combat just in case.

Aelynne smiled at her hesitantly, "So, you don't think I can. Even Father has his reservations, it seems."

Eleanor had a sudden moment of clarity-and premonition. If she gentlly pushed her daughter away from this bloody path now, then that would be the end of it. She would go on to turn her attention to her duties and studies, contenting herself with sewing work and managing the Terynir. She would find a good lad and marry him and have children of her own. If she did support her now, the embers of her potential would grow into an inferno capable of destroying everything in her path one day. She would take to the tools of war and sea and battle like a mabari imprinting on its master. Her daughter spat fire now as easy as breathing, but once she learned to temper it, to direct and hone it....

"You'll do it." She said.

Aelynne lifted her head and beamed, and Eleanor could have sworn she felt the full heat of the future flames that would shape her into a true force to be reckoned with. The ghost of those fires' smoke clouded her eyes and she felt a strong fierce feeling growing in her breast. She couldn't tell if it was fear or pride or both. She could taste the joy and fulfillment her daughter would find on a ship of her own, hunting down other men through storm and sea alike with a crew that answered to her without fail. Perhaps, that ship would grow into a small fleet of its own. An army and Aelynne Cousland at the helm. With a nerve of steel and a temper to be feared. A beauty as deadly as it was awestriking.

But it had not yet come to pass.

The Seawolf pulled her little Spitfire to her and held her tightly, as if such an action would shield her from that future for a bit longer, "You'll do it, my girl. You've as much my blood as your father's. The Couslands are not the only warriors in this family."

Aelynne wrapped her arms around her mother, as if sensing the delicate and fleeting nature of the moment in her mother's voice. Her eyes were so full of burning passion and light already, it was almost blinding. Eleanor's eyes stung from the intensity. Aelynne told her earnestly, "I'll make you proud, Ma."

She tucked a loose strand of flame behind her daughter's ear, "I am already proud of you and that will only grow as you do. Your path is yours to carve and chart as you wish. Just remember to come home when you're done. I don't like to be kept waiting, you know. And don't forget that I love you."

Her Spitfire seemed to burn all the brighter, "I'll always remember that."

[nalgenewhore]

Elide was absentmindedly doodling in the margins of her textbook, not paying a single iota of attention to her teacher.

There was nothing wrong with this specific class, but when the sun was shining outside and later, she would be going out with her friends for Beltane… moral philosophy couldn’t hold a candle to it. Her phone lit up on the desk beside her and she glanced at it, seeing a text from her boyfriend waiting there before the screen faded to black. Elide bit her cheek to stop her smile and carefully unlocked her phone, one eye on her teacher, who was still droning on and on and on. She read what he’d sent, her brows furrowing.

>>be ready in five

Rolling her eyes, her freshly done nails clicked across the screen as she answered him.

<<im in class dumbass

<<what in the gods names are you on about???

He answered her quickly but clarified nothing.

>>just be ready

Elide shook her head and sighed, determined to pay attention for the last fifteen minutes. Her eyes glazed and her mind wandered, what was that boy planning?

Not two minutes later, the class phone rang and her teacher paused, answering and speaking in hushed tones. Elide straightened in her seat when she glanced over at her and hung up. “Miss Lochan, the headmaster needs to see you in his office and he would like you to bring all your things.”

Just then, her phone buzzed and she looked down at it, biting her tongue to stop the grin that threatened to take over her lips.

>>come on get your cute ass out here

>>your carriage awaits milady

Elide hastily gathered her things and shoved them in her tote bag, winking wickedly at Aelin and Borte, sitting across the class from her. Her cousin gave her a thumbs up and the brunette beside her smirked as she said goodbye and speed-walked to the side entrance, avoiding the office completely. The moment she burst through the doors, she saw Lorcan leaning against the vintage Mustang convertible he’d worked all summer to buy and then fix. He had, at some point during the drive to the Kingsflame Preparatory School for Young Women from Staghorn House for Boys, discarded his sweater and his tie was loosened around his neck, his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“Hi,” he called out, narrowing his eyes as he tilted his head to the side, the glare of the sun hitting him in full force. “You gonna come on over or just lollygag? We don’t got all day, smalls.”

A coy laugh tumbled from her lips and she walked down the short staircase in measured, calculated steps, watching the way he drank in the sight of her legs and the swing of her hips before he dragged his onyx eyes up her body, his jaw feathering. When she reached him, he pulled her towards him, laughter bubbling from her throat as he leaned down and kissed her. He spun them and lifted her onto the hood of the car, one hand drifting up from her waist to hold her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Lorcan slid his tongue into her mouth to lazily tangle it with hers, his other hand sliding down to the back of her thigh and then up her school skirt, gripping her ass.

Elide wrapped an arm around his neck, smiling against his lips and humming when he pulled away to mark them down her jaw and dropped the hand he had on her chin to her thigh. She let her head fall back, coming closer and closer to losing control. The sound she made when his tongue dragged across her skin was interrupted by the sound of doors slammed open and the jeers of her classmates.

“Miss Lochan!” Swearing, Lorcan broke away from her and lifted her off the hood, dropping her and her book bag into her seat through the open roof before as he sprinted to the driver’s side and literally hopped in, gunning the engine. Elide was cackling, Aelin and Borte’s cheers louder than anyone else. “Miss Lochan, come back here! Your parents will be hearing of this!”

With a roar, the car peeled away from the curb and down the street, her teacher’s cries of protest drowned out as she turned on the radio, turning it all the way up and raising her arms, the wind whipping through her hair as she howled. Lorcan looked over at her, a full-blown smile forcing its way on his lips, “I love you, Lochan.”

Elide scrunched her nose at him and leaned over the centre console to kiss his cheek, “In every world and every lifetime, Salvaterre. You’re never getting rid of me.”

“Good.”

“But, Dad-“

“No buts,” Cal said, his voice stern and frown intimidating to anyone that wasn’t his wife or daughter. “This is the third time this semester we’ve gotten a call like this, you are not allowed out tonight.” He had half a mind to forbid his daughter from seeing that boy again, but he didn’t want to incur her and her mother’s eternal wrath.

Elide looked distraught and pleaded with him, making her eyes wide and sticking out her bottom lip. It was a tried and true way of getting him to crack, “Dad, come on, it was just philosophy! And it’s Beltane! It’s cruel to have school on a holiday.” She looked to her mother, who was watching with an amused light in her eyes, her daughter a spitting image of her. “Mama, please? He’s already here and waiting for me! I haven’t seen him all week.” She had, in fact, snuck out every night to see him but what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right?

Cal opened his mouth to say something but his wife cut in before he could, “Of course, darling. Have fun and say hi to your cousin for me, please.” Elide leapt up and hugged her mother, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said, walking to her father and kissing his cheek as well, “Bye, Dad.” She was practically skipping out of his office and downstairs.

“Bye, Elide, don’t be late!” he called out as Marion said, “Text me if you’re spending the night somewhere and make good choices!”

Glaring at his wife, Cal stood and walked to the window, hearing the front door slam shut downstairs. Marion just laughed and wrapped an arm around him, fitting herself under his arm. “Oh, come on, honey.”

“What,” Cal said, his voice gruff. He didn’t dislike Lorcan, but… no one was quite good enough for Elide in his eyes. The romantic in him melted a bit as they watched Elide launch herself into his arms and he caught her, their faces filled with an emotion that felt too intimate for them to witness. “I don’t like that boy.”

“Leave them be,” chided Marion, knocking her forehead against his jaw, “you daughter just so happens to be in love with that boy. And Lorcan is just as in love with her. They’re happy.”

He sighed, knowing he had been defeated once more. “So they are.”

@mythicaitt @kandasboi @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @westofmoon @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @city-of-fae @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tangledraysofsunshine @ttakeitbacknoww @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere

[malkumtend]

I Like Your Laugh. (A CrowSquirrel AU Fanfic) - Chapter 8.

Despite all their efforts to keep a straight face, the group were quickly losing patience.

They stalked along a series of hedges interconnecting a wall of Twoleg dens, guided by the old cat who had led them along for what seemed like moons. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, if it appeared that Purdy actually knew where he was going. But as they walked along the dark space, littered with twoleg rubbish, the craning on the cat’s head from side to side made them all wonder whether or not he was making it up as he went along.

“How much longer are we going to put up with this flea-pelt?” Crowpaw hissed under his breath. He looked exhausted after doing nothing but following aimlessly under the hot sun, and his mood seemed sharp and ready to strike.

The only cats who could hear him were the ones beside him at the back of the group. “What else can we do?” Feathertail said morosely, his usually bright eyes dim with fatigue. “It’s not like we’d be much use around here without him. At least he knows the place.”

“Or so he says.” Squirrelpaw muttered, glowering in the direction of the others.

Squirrelpaw had been trying, she really wanted to keep a cool head and show respect for Purdy and the ‘help’ he was offering. But her paws were aching and the sun’s heat was swelling all around her fluffy body. She had to keep calm though, everyone around her was clearly on edge, like her, and it would do nobody any favours if she started chewing out the elder cat.

Surprisingly, Feathertail had no comment against Squirrelpaw’s jab. Another sign that the Warrior shared her thoughts. Crowpaw openly agreed though with a displeasing snarl. “His brain is mouse bile. He’s leading us like a dog chasing its tail.”

Squirrelpaw snickered, her emerald eyes falling cheekily onto the grey apprentice; she was desperate for something to distract her from the pain in her paws. “We’ll probably see the entire Twolegplace before he turns back and blames a wrong turn.”

The edges of Crowpaw’s lips turned up. “His fleas will die before we make it out, we’ll be able to count them as they fall off.”

Squirrelpaw let out a snort of laughter that made the nearest cat in front, Stormfur, look back curiously. “Everything okay?”

The ginger apprentice nodded sleepily, “Yeah, don’t worry.” She glanced over at Crowpaw, grinning when he gave her a playful wink. A happiness coursed through her, making the pain in her paws fade away for a second. Stormfur looked up at Feathertail who shrugged meekly with a loving smile. The grey Warrior shook his head and looked forward again.

Feathertail gave the two cats a light swat on their flanks with her tail. “Be careful, you two. I don’t think the others will be in the mood for jokes, especially if they’re about Purdy.” She warned.

Squirrelpaw sniffed, “I didn’t hear you arguing against them.”

Feathertail stared at her with a stare strangely mixed between hard and soft. “That’s because I’m more forgiving than the others.” She dictated, swiftly stroking Squirrelpaw’s side with her nose, tickling the smaller cat. Squirrelpaw pulled away with a delighted giggle. “I can actually tolerate you two.”

Crowpaw snorted, “Yeah, well I don’t know how much more I can tolerate of this!”

“Cheer up.” Feathertail said, her tail brushing over Crowpaw’s back. The gentle connection of her fur with his made the grin drop from Squirrelpaw’s face. That sinking, stupid feeling rose up in her gut again. “We’ll get out of here eventually.”

Squirrelpaw resisted the urge to grimace when Crowpaw smiled, soothed, at the Warrior. Feathertail always seemed to be the one who could calm him down when he got angry. Smile at me that way.

Her eyes found the sky with a quiet sigh as she cursed how she sounded. What right did she have to be sad? What was she even sad about? Crowpaw and Feathertail were good friends, they had been before she had made friends with the both of them. Of course they were closer. But now she was annoyed whenever the two shared even the smallest of smiles!

No. Not just annoyed. She felt sickly. Like a snake’s venom was flooding her organs.

Some friend I am. Squirrelpaw felt a bitter sting in her stomach. Who was she to judge Feathertail? It was as clear as a pool how the Warrior felt about Crowpaw. It had become evident when he had bravely risked his life to save her from the dog. Now, whenever the Warrior looked at Crowpaw, there was an obvious glowing fondness around her. Affection that blazed as strongly as the love Feathertail had for her brother.

The most recent example had been yesterday. They’d been inside a Twoleg garden where a small pond rested at the side, brimming with a number of fish. While the others rested for a moment, Feathertail had offered to teach Squirrelpaw and Crowpaw how to fish. It had been much harder than Squirrelpaw had thought, the fish would slip out of her paws and slap her with a drizzle of water. Though it had been funny when Crowpaw had dropped the fish that he had caught in his mouth, spitting and retching over what he had called a salty taste.

Until Feathertail had squealed in delight. Squirrelpaw had figured it out before Crowpaw did as well. He’d received his saltwater sign! It was strange how much joy had gone through Squirrelpaw at that moment. They’d all known how desperate Crowpaw was for his sign, for the instinct that Starclan was watching over him, and now he had finally been awarded it, Squirrelpaw couldn’t help but feel absurdly happy for her friend.

He deserved to be proud of himself.

But Feathertail had seemed even happier, brushing her pelt against Crowpaw’s and whispering affectionate congratulations to the starstruck apprentice. It had been previously thought that Crowpaw loathed physical contact of any kind. Crowpaw didn’t complain once. In fact, he seemed unnaturally content.

Squirrelpaw had strained to keep a smile.

Feathertail really liked Crowpaw.

Squirrelpaw had discomfort whenever she saw it.

But not for the reasons she thought.

Most cats would have been repulsed simply because of how the thought of loving a cat from another clan went against the Warrior Code. To most it created disloyalty. Feathertail knew that better than any cat on the journey. And yet…she still didn’t care.

And while Squirrelpaw thought she did originally, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that kind of disgust. Every cat was guilty of clan disloyalty at this point; according to the code, none of them should have really been friends at all. The fact that she saw Feathertail and Crowpaw as better friends than Brambleclaw was practically a crime.

But Squirrelpaw didn’t give a foxtail! She’d tried her hardest at her clan, and they all treated her as less because she didn’t look like she was ever going to live up to their perfect image of their perfect leader, her father! It wasn’t fair! No cat had the right to judge her for becoming close friends with the cats who actually treated her with respect!

So why did she feel so sick at how closely Feathertail viewed Crowpaw?

Did…Did Crowpaw even feel the same way?

If he did, he certainly hid it well. But Crowpaw hid all of his emotions well! It was impossible to figure out if he was in a good or bad mood half the time! So it wouldn’t be too hard for him to cover his thoughts if he actually…

Squirrelpaw shuddered. It was still bewildering how much she was actually thinking about this. Feathertail was her friend, if she actually liked Crowpaw that way, she should be encouraging it. That was what being a good friend meant. Especially if it looked like Crowpaw…

Again, it struck. That panging ache. That worry.

Fox-dung! Why am I being so ridiculous? Her teeth clenched. She needed to stop this! There was nothing to get worried over! So what if Feathertail liked Crowpaw? She didn’t…care. There were more pressing matters to attend to! Like how stupidly long they had been following this kittypet to nowhere!

In a stranger turn of events, it looked like Brambleclaw actually said what Squirrelpaw wanted to hear.

“Purdy, are you sure this is the right way?” Brambleclaw asked, an obvious strain in his polite tone.

The older cat flicked his tail, “Of course I’m sure.” He meowed in vague amusement. “Don’t you youngins worry now. We’re just heading to higher ground, then we’ll get a better idea of where we’re headin’.”

Every cat’s head jerked up. “What?” Crowpaw snapped. “You said earlier you recognised the path like the back of your paw! We could have found higher ground ourselves!”

“Crowpaw.” Feathertail sighed, but she looked just as perturbed as the rest of them. Squirrelpaw was furious as well. Did Purdy even have any idea where they were? Were they actually walking in circles?

“Now now.” Purdy replied, his voice infuriatingly lacking any sense of concern. “No need to get snappy. Sure, I know this place, there’s a high wall near here that’ll give you lot a better idea, that’s all.”

Sounds like rabbit-dung to me. Squirrelpaw thought, a glare growing on her face. Crowpaw was right, if they’d wanted to find higher ground by now, they could have done it without the old tom’s help. He was wasting their time.

“So where is this wall then?” Tawnypelt growled, her patience thin.

“Just by an upwalker place. Just a couple a’ steps away.” Purdy either didn’t realise, or didn’t care, that every cat around him was clearly fed up of his false promises.

Squirrelpaw frowned. Knowing you, a step takes half the day.

“This is mouse-brained!” Crowpaw growled at the rest of the cats, “Why did we even trust you to begin with? Come on, we can find our own way!” He proclaimed.

Only Tawnypelt muttered in agreement, the other four kept silent in frustration.

“We might have been able to find higher ground earlier.” Stormfur said, giving a harsh sideways stare at Purdy. “But not now. Just look around us.”

Squirrelpaw grumbled. Stormfur was right, they were surrounded by thin walls that offered no area for climbing, and in front of them were still a series of different paths that could easily catch them off guard. They really had no choice.

“Stormfur’s right.” Brambleclaw agreed reluctantly, “We’ll get lost either way, we have to trust Purdy now.” He gave Crowpaw a warning stare, daring him to object. For a moment it looked like Crowpaw would, but the rest of the cats around him murmured in agreement and the apprentice had to fall silent, sulkily flicking his paw across the dirty floor.

Squirrelpaw frowned when she saw Brambleclaw smirk in his ‘victory’, she rubbed her pelt against Crowpaw’s encouragingly. “Don’t worry about it.” The other cats began to follow Purdy again, out of unwilling trust.

The grey apprentice frowned at her. “You know he’s as mouse-brained as he looks. Why didn’t you agree with me?”

Squirrelpaw shook her head with a tired sigh. “Come on, Crowpaw. What choice do we have? He’s the only one who might know where he’s going around here.” She tried to be gentle, she didn’t want Crowpaw to think that she didn’t trust his judgement. But, right now, they had to follow Purdy.

“And he might instead have maggots where his brain should be.” Crowpaw muttered.

“Look, I don’t like it as much as you do.” Squirrelpaw huffed. “But there’s nothing else we can do.”

“She’s right, Crowpaw.” Feathertail added in, walking by his other side. “We’ll end up lost if we leave Purdy now.” Squirrelpaw gave the Warrior a thankful look.

Crowpaw still looked bitter but he relented, seeming to see the cat’s points. “I still think we’re going to end up lost.”

Squirrelpaw batted his side with her tail, “That’s because you always assume the worst.” She chided.

“I just want to get out of this place! Kittypets must be stupid if they can call this place home!”

Squirrelpaw made a sound of acknowledgement. How any cat could prefer this filthy, stinking place over the freedom of the forest was a mystery to her.

The group took a left, walking onto a path where the hedge disappeared, replaced by a thick wall of brick, still overshadowed by Twoleg dens though. The light shone easier around here, at least, which gave every cat a small flicker of hope in the kittypet’s direction. Taking a right, they came to a small wall, clearly leading to the back of a Twoleg den. Squirrelpaw sniffed the air and sighed in relief, any scents of Twoleg, dog, or kittypet were stale by now. They weren’t in any danger around here.

Without warning, Purdy took a leap up the wall, landing clumsily on his worn paws. He glanced down at the group at cats, grinning.

“Well come on up then!” He ordered, his greying whiskers rising in amusement. “Just across this here garden.”

“Not another Twoleg garden.” Squirrelpaw heard Tawnypelt mutter.

“It’s alright, there’s none of them around here.” Squirrelpaw mewed.

Stormfur took a sniff and beamed to the apprentice. “Good nose, Squirrelpaw!” The apprentice smiled back at the praise.

“Yes, well done.” Brambleclaw added, with an audible lack of enthusiasm. Squirrelpaw rolled her eyes. Why do I even bother with him? “Okay, Purdy, we’re coming up.”

“Who made him leader?” Crowpaw whispered to Squirrelpaw.

“No one, as far as I know.”

“Oh shush.” Feathertail meowed, getting ready to pounce. “Let’s head on up.” She did just that, waiting at the top for the two.

Squirrelpaw exchanged a glance with Crowpaw. The Windclan apprentice shrugged and followed the rest, Squirrelpaw being the last to do so. On the other side of the wall was a wide garden, flat grass except for a small stone wall at the sides which encompassed a large collection of flowers. Squirrelpaw’s eyes widened, there were so many, some she recognised from the forest, but most she did not remember ever seeing before. Some buds looked as large as her own body, some were domed and slanted to an unnatural angle. It was like a forest created by the Twolegs alone, bursting with colours that gave the garden its own streaming rainbow.

“It’s beautiful.” Feathertail said, her jaw hung in surprise.

“Isn’t it just.” Purdy purred, “Say what you want about them Upwalkers but they have their uses.”

“No offence, Purdy.” Stormfur said carefully, but with an unimpressed stare. “But we didn’t come here to see a garden. Where can we find higher ground?”

Purdy shrugged and nodded over to the other side of the garden. “Over there is a wall that goes upwards, past the top of these here ‘dens’ as you call em’.” The cats looked over to where he indicated. A wall did stand there, near its back it slanted upwards towards another wall that carried into the next Twoleg garden; it was above the top of the dens height if they looked closely enough.

“If we just go on up that wall and go along it for couple a’ paces, now, we’ll end up in front of this Upwalker place with a good eye of where you kits want to go.”

“What about this den?” Tawnypelt questioned, “I’m not risking anymore Twolegs grabbing at us.”

Purdy waved his tail carelessly, “Ah, don’t you worry about them. Just a old couple of em’ live here. Older than me in fact.” He laughed at his own joke. No one else did. “They won’t be able to catch you youngins, don’t you worry.”

Tawnypelt eyes narrowed with distrust, but she drew back. There was no point in arguing anymore. But still, even Squirrelpaw had her doubts about whether Purdy’s directions would actually lead them well.

“Well lead on then, Purdy.” Brambleclaw sighed.

The old tabby nodded and jumped down into the garden. He looked up at the other cats, all looking between themselves nervously. “Don’t be shy, the flowers won’t bite you.” He snickered.

Crowpaw let out an irritable growl, “Stupid old fool.” He muttered to himself, shutting up when Stormfur gave him a harsh glare.

“Oh, shut up.” The Riverclan tom grumbled, jumping first onto the glittering grass. The others followed close behind. As soon as Squirrelpaw met the grass, she tensed for any trouble; you could never be too careful in this place. Luckily, the den remained undisturbed and no Twoleg scent came to her. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Wow.” She heard Feathertail say to herself. “This is more like it.”

All of the cats would have agreed with her. The vibrant colours of the flowers and the grass, as they twinkled burning light of the sun, was certainly a better sight than the dirty pathways and Thunderpaths that made up most of the Twoleg place. The air was full of the fresh, pungent smells of the flowers, many reminding Squirrelpaw of the wildflowers at home that Leafpaw used in her training. She felt a calming presence soar across her body, and the pain in her paws began to subside now they were against the familiar softness of grass rather than the cold Twoleg stone.

“You can say that again.” Squirrelpaw exhaled peacefully.

“Yeah, yeah, very pretty.” Brambleclaw rasped, “Can you please just get to the other side?” Squirrelpaw’s eyes burned on her clanmate. He just seemed against everything she liked.

“Of course.” Purdy stated with a toothless grin. “Jus’ this way-”

“Wait a second!” Tawnypelt demanded, making every cat freeze in place. Purdy frowned as the molly glowered at him. “How do we know this isn’t just another wrong turn?”

“Feisty, ain’t ya?” Purdy sneered, an irate rasp in his voice. “This is the way, no doubt about it! Trust me here!”

“Yeah, because trusting you has done us so much good this far?” Tawnypelt mumbled, but still clear enough for the cats to hear.

“Tawnypelt.” Stormfur interrupted, his voice almost pleading.

The molly ignored him, “Listen Purdy, we’re all exhausted, we can’t just waste more time on wrong turns!”

“And I’m telling you, there is no wrong turn here!” Purdy’s voice rose a little. Then he turned away with a bitter sniff, “If you’re all so tired, why don’t a couple of ya rest here while I take a couple to check if it’s straight?”

“Leave cats behind because you want us to trust you?” Crowpaw scoffed, “Yeah, no thanks.”

Purdy gave the apprentice a taunting smile, “Okay then, you stay here. You’re a scrappy little warrior, right?”

Crowpaw’s eyes widened in a fury and his claws looked ready for a fight. Squirrelpaw acted fast; a fight now wouldn’t do any of them any good. She stroked her tail against the apprentice’s back, curling down softly.

“Come on.” She purred, “It’s not worth it.”

Crowpaw’s back slackened again, and his eyes softened when they met the ginger molly, making her heart skip briefly, but the snarl never left his muzzle.

Brambleclaw’s frown left the grey apprentice as he thought for a few seconds, his lips tight against his fangs. “I suppose that’s reasonable.” He pondered, “No offence Purdy, we really are thankful for what you’ve done. We’re just…not used to trusting kittypets.”

Squirrelpaw held back the urge to vomit. What’s he kissing his paws for? So Brambleclaw would treat kittypets with respect but not her? Brilliant…

Purdy scoffed, “Ya don’t say?”

Brambleclaw forced an apologetic grin. “It’s not a bad idea though. How far away is the wall that you’re taking us to?”

“Just a couple ol’ steps, be as quick as a flea.”

Brambleclaw seemed to consider this, then he turned to the others. “Okay, how does that sound? A few of us will head up to check it out, the others will stay here, and if it’s right we’ll come back and get the others?”

“Sounds fine by me.” Tawnypelt meowed, before her eyes narrowed dangerously at Purdy. “I’ll go with you, because if you’re wrong again I’ll be lining the wall with your fur.”

Purdy responded to the threat with a sly, mocking smile. “Oh, I really like this one.” The tom jibed.

Before Tawnypelt could respond with another vicious growl, Brambleclaw stormed in. “Okay, that’s settled! So, me and Tawnypelt will go with Purdy, anyone else?”

Squirrelpaw rose up with a spark, “I’ll come too.”

“No.” Brambleclaw didn’t even look at her. The apprentice drew back, anger crawling across her fur. “For all we know, we could run into some more Kittypets on the wall, it’s better to keep the apprentice’s safe.” He said, exaggerating the word with a poisonous snarl.

Purdy rose a brow, “Wha? I doubt that-”

“It’s a risk!” Brambleclaw stated, the strong ferocity in his tone made the kittypet’s mouth snap shut.

Squirrelpaw was astounded. Was Brambleclaw really going to change his tune so easily just so he could have another go at her? What was wrong with him? Furthermore, she was disgusted with how much Brambleclaw talked like his word was final. What gave him the right to order her around like that?

“Excuse me, Flea-pelt?” Crowpaw started forward, his stare boiling with malice. “Just because we’re apprentices doesn’t mean you can treat us like soft elders! We don’t need to be protected, much less by you!”

Squirrelpaw almost marvelled at how unafraid Crowpaw was at speaking his mind. Brambleclaw had humiliated him when they had fought before, yet Crowpaw didn’t care at all. Everything about him just screamed that he was confident that he would tear the tall Warrior to shreds.

It might have been mouse-brained, but mostly it was brave. Squirrelpaw expected nothing less from him.

“That’s right!” Squirrelpaw stepped forward beside her friend. Her mind whirred and she smirked devilishly. “Anyway, who are you to talk about kittypets? The last time we fought with them you were hidden under a bush!”

Brambleclaw kept his temper held, but the shaking of his paws and the prickling of his tail conveyed his fury. Through grit teeth came a frustrated groan. “I’m just trying to look out for you! I don’t want to risk any cat getting hurt!” He rose on his shackles, making himself look larger than before. It was not so intimidating anymore.

“Oh, well thank you so much.” Squirrelpaw said, her voice laced with dry sarcasm, “But I can take care of myself!” She was all the more determined to go now she knew Brambleclaw didn’t want her to.

Tawnypelt took a tentative step towards the apprentice, “Of course you can, that wasn’t what he meant.” The Shadowclan cat gave her brother a deadly glance to silence him. “But, maybe you guys should stay here while we check it out.”

Squirrelpaw looked up at the molly incredulously, “What?” Tawnypelt was meant to be on her side.

“It won’t be for long. You two have arguably been the bravest out of all of us, so far.” Tawnypelt mewed, pressing her muzzle against Squirrelpaw’s pelt softly. “Let the rest of us have the action, if it happens, eh?” A prideful grin rose on Squirrelpaw’s face as the two mollies shared a small laugh, before Tawnypelt indicated Squirrelpaw to look to her side. “Besides, I think Feathertail might like to see a little more of this garden.” She whispered.

Squirrelpaw followed her gaze and stifled a laugh when she saw Feathertail absently examining a wide range of flowers that Squirrelpaw didn’t recognise. She looked like Leafpaw whenever she discovered a new herb in her training, bursting with wonder and excitement.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer. Squirrelpaw thought. Her paws were still aching after all, it could do her some good to relax for a little while. Besides, it would be nice to spend a little more time with her friends. As long as she thought about it as her choice, rather than Brambleclaw’s, it didn’t actually sound so bad.

Squirrelpaw let out a small whistle as she turned back to the others, puffing out her chest to look authoritative. “Alright then.” She remarked, “I’ll stay here with Feathertail.” She looked over at Crowpaw who had rose a bewildered brow.

She felt a small nervous prickle on her neck. “Do you want to stay as well?” She asked hopefully.

Crowpaw looked like he was about to interject, then he looked over at Feathertail, who was still admiring the flowers, and his expression softened. An empty discomfort came back into Squirrelpaw’s stomach.

Crowpaw sighed, giving Brambleclaw one last disrespectful scowl. “Sure.”

Tawnypelt rose up, satisfied. “Okay then, that’s settled. You three will stay here while the rest of us go with Purdy.”

“What? I don’t want to leave Feathertail behind!” Stormfur cried, glancing protectively at his sister who looked back at him with a touched expression. Squirrelpaw blinked, had the Warrior really been listening the whole time she was looking at the garden?

“Oh, don’t worry about me.” Feathertail said.

“But what if kittypets come into this garden?”

Feathertail stifled a chuckle, “We’ll be fine, I’m a Warrior and we’ve already seen how brave these two are.” Squirrelpaw and Crowpaw flushed at the cats’ comment. “You go on ahead, Purdy said it isn’t far.”

Stormfur shuffled uncomfortably, but he soon nodded and retreated with the others. Him and Tawnypelt both waved the cats off with their tails, but Brambleclaw didn’t offer anything but a disdainful sniff as he led the way behind Purdy.

“Won’t be long!” Stormfur called back at them. They trailed up the slant of the wall until they disappeared behind the back of the Twoleg den.

“What is his problem?” Crowpaw grumbled, turning away to pad over to where Feathertail sat.

Squirrelpaw followed him. “Thinks he’s a leader I suppose.”

Crowpaw scoffed, “Really, well most leaders don’t think out the place where the worms gather.”

The Thunderclan apprentice burst out laughing. “Since when were you up for a joke?”

The Windclan cat craned his head, but he looked pleased that the cat liked his quip. “I am when I’m not in the company of mouse-brains.”

Squirrelpaw snorted. She hadn’t realised how much fun Crowpaw could be when he wasn’t such a grump. Did he even realise it? She hoped he did, he really could be a good time to be around, as long as he didn’t know he was doing it. She just wished that he’d shown this side before, then they wouldn’t have wasted so much time fighting.

Oh well, better to live in the present.

They found Feathertail near a patch of tall white flowers with stalks as twice as large as any Warrior. The cat was shaking her head as she looked over the long plant which was embedded with small, chalky white petals that smelt remarkably like honey.

“I wish Riverclan had these kinds of flowers! They’d be amazing in any den!” Feathertail exclaimed.

Squirrelpaw had to sit back on her tail to look up to the top. “Take it back with you.” She said, only meaning it as half-a-joke.

“I wish I could. This place almost makes up for everything else.” The Warrior said, moving along to inspect an abnormally large bunch of sunflowers. “How were Twolegs able to do this?”

Crowpaw shrugged, “Who knows? Maybe they hoard it.”

“Maybe they have their own Starclan?” Feathertail pondered. Squirrelpaw laughed at the idea.

“All I know is that this place is beautiful!” Squirrelpaw stated, before pausing to sniff at a strange smooth rock in the shape of a hairy Twoleg with a tall red thing on its head. “Except that. That’s creepy.” She shuddered. The Twolegs could keep that ugly thing.

“You said it.” Crowpaw agreed, backing away from the thing slowly. He glanced over at Feathertail, “Guess we know what you’ll enjoy telling Riverclan about the most when we get back.”

Feathertail paused, a strange, sad expression flashing on her face. “Oh… yeah. I suppose so.” Her tail went flat against the ground, the fur hanging low in the grass.

Squirrelpaw’s heart thumped with worry. “What’s the matter?”

Feathertail started up, her face returning to its usual brightness. “Nothing. Sorry about that.”

The two apprentices looked at each other then back at their friend. “Are you sure?” Crowpaw asked, her voice dropping with softness.

Feathertail faltered a little but she kept a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” She looked distantly at a red flower with petals closing in on the others. “Won’t you two miss this a little?”

“Huh?” Squirrelpaw craned her head, puzzled.

“I mean, this journey hasn’t been as bad as we thought.” Feathertail mused, “None of us have ended up that hurt.”

“If you don’t include fights with kittypets and being chased by a dog.” Crowpaw said bluntly, making Squirrelpaw nudge him roughly.

Feathertail chuckled humourlessly, “Yeah… But I don’t know.” She looked back at the two with a sad smile. “At least I’ve made some good friends.”

The meaning dropped over Squirrelpaw like a boulder.

Feathertail gave a small laugh. “I’ve had fun on this journey, despite everything. It’ll be strange when it’s all over.”

Squirrelpaw blinked. She’d never thought of that. The ending of their journey and what it meant. She missed home and Leafpaw with all her heart, but the journey had given her the most excitement and thrills she had ever felt in her life. Plus, she had made some amazing friends.

She stiffened. Oh, right. When the journey was over, they would all have to return to their own clans.

Probably never able to gather like this again.

Back at Thunderclan, where no cat thought of her the way her two best friends did.

The three cats seemed to share the same thought, a melancholy silence temporarily enveloping them. Then Feathertail coughed.

“Oh well, it’s not like we won’t be able to see each other at the gatherings.” She said quickly, “Besides, I bet you two are itching to get your Warrior names?”

The two apprentices visibly lightened up at that. “Oh yeah!” Squirrelpaw exclaimed, that was something that she had dremt of for moons! “Just think what’ll they’ll call us when we return.” Her nose rose proudly into the air. “Heroes of the forest!”

“How about “SquirrelPurr-at-a-Twoleg?” She could hear the grin in Crowpaw’s voice.

The ginger furred cat shrank into herself, her chest coiling with embarrassment at the memory of that morning. “I-I told you not to talk about that, CrowFood!” She stammered, trying her best to glare at the chuckling cat. It was so hard to not laugh along when he did it.

“Squirrelpaw, don’t be embarrassed! It was a great idea!” Feathertail exclaimed through her soft laughter. “You saved me, remember!”

Squirrelpaw had, but it did little to quell the heat rising in her cheeks. “Look, just don’t mention it again, please? Just forget it!”

“Aww why?” Crowpaw mocked playfully, “Don’t want Thunderclan thinking you’re a cute little Twoleg lover?”

Squirrelpaw inhaled tightly, she could feel the blood rushing to her head. “D-Don’t c-call me cute!” She demanded, feeling humiliated by the lack of anger in her voice. She was flustered beyond control. Her heart thumped so loudly that she wasn’t sure if the others couldn’t hear it.

“Your secret’s safe with us.” Feathertail mewed, she bumped Crowpaw’s shoulder with her paw. “Right, Crowpaw?”

The apprentice snickered, “Sure, sure. Maybe it’ll make for good blackmail-Ow!”

To be fair, he should have seen her paw coming.

Crowpaw glowered, rubbing his sore ear while Squirrelpaw walked ahead, her nose proudly in the air, despite the rushing blood in her cheeks. It was odd how quickly she could become ruffled these days. This was not like her at all.

Suddenly, Feathertail let out a tight gasp, her eyes locked on something in the distance. “Oh! That would be great!” She piped, bursting with energy.

“What would?” Crowpaw questioned, trying to find where Feathertail was looking. But the Warrior ran off without an answer, jumping into a bed of flowers, scrambling through them excitedly. Squirrelpaw and Crowpaw shared a clueless look.

Just a moment later, Feathertail had returned with something small and blue flashing in her mouth. Before anyone could say anything, she jumped in front of Crowpaw, extremely close to his face.

Squirrelpaw felt her breath catch as Crowpaw began to splutter, the darkenss draining from his fur a little. “F-Feathertail? W-What are you-”

“Shh!” She ordered, as she placed something over Crowpaw’s ear and began to fiddle with it using her paws. Squirrelpaw only stared on at the scene. At Crowpaw’s flustered expression. At how Crowpaw didn’t offer no resistance to Feathertail.

Her stomach sank lower.

When the Warrior finally let the apprentice go, there was a light blue flower tucked in the fur of Crowpaw’s ear. The petals came together in a delicate dome, the yellow pollen tucked away inside the sky-blue petals, the flower struck out all the more against Crowpaw’s dark fur.

In fact, Crowpaw actually stuck out more with the flower. In a good way, Squirrelpaw thought.

Crowpaw tried to hide the flower behind his paw, his face burning with embarrassment. “Get it off!”

“No!” Feathertail smacked his paw down, frowning rigidly.

Crowpaw moaned, “I look ridiculous!”

“No, you don’t!”

“It actually doesn’t look bad on you.” Squirrelpaw said, coming closer, and putting on a cheeky smile. “It’s small and delicate, just like you.”

Crowpaw glared at her, then turned so the flower wasn’t facing the mollies. “What’s it even for, anyway?”

Feathertail fumbled meekly with her paws, “I just thought it would be… nice to have something to help remember the journey.” She said, her gaze sinking to the floor. “I’ve never seen those flowers around the Clans before, so…”

Crowpaw’s glare faltered, his eyes going back up to the flower tentatively. Squirrelpaw felt a tender pang in her gut for the molly, she really just wanted to show how much she viewed the Tom as a friend. Something to remember their journey. Maybe, something to remember…her.

Squirrelpaw suddenly felt angry. She took it out on Crowpaw.

“Come on, mouse-brain!” She snapped, whipping the tom with her tail. “Don’t be so ungrateful!”

Crowpaw glowered at the ginger molly, his eyes returning to the flower again. An embarrassed panic came over him again and it looked like he was going to rip the flower off. Then his paw froze in place, his face stiff, and he sighed, his paw returning to the ground: defeated.

“It…” He sounded vulnerable. “I don’t look stupid, do I?” He asked, abashed.

“You sound stupid is what it is!” Squirrelpaw yowled, ignoring how cute he sounded when he was clearly flustered beyond belief. “It looks fine!”

Crowpaw scowled at the Thunderclan cat’s tone, but he didn’t argue. He looked to Feathertail, who was waiting with a patient, hopeful look, and his coldness crumbled with a shy beam. “Sorry, Feathertail. T-Thanks for this, I appreciate it.”

Feathertail brightened with delight, her eyes closing as she let out an ecstatic chirp. “O-Of course, not a problem!”

Squirrelpaw’s anger directed onto herself as she felt her claws tighten on the grass. “That’s better!” She meowed, batting Crowpaw on the leg again, making him look down at her angrily. “By Starclan, I don’t know why you make these things such a big deal.” She wasn’t really sure who she was directing that towards.

“Oh, so I’m overreacting, am I?” Crowpaw snarled with a twisted smile.

Squirrelpaw looked away, unimpressed and undeterred. “Obviously, yes!”

Crowpaw made a small, pondering sound which made Squirrelpaw shudder a little. “Hmm? Okay then. Don’t move.” He said, stalking away to the flowerbed on the other side.

Squirrelpaw watched him curiously as he began traversing the flowers, sniffing and clawing his way through, his face hard with thought.

Feathertail’s sweet laugh came into her ear and she turned to her. “He’s really something, isn’t he?”

Squirrelpaw felt it would be true to agree, but she was tempted away by a small nagging at the back of her mind. “Hmph, he’s something, alright?”

“Oh?” Feathertail sounded disappointed, “I thought you were getting along with him?”

Feathertail’s discouraged tone made any anger Squirrelpaw had subside. She groaned, her anger morphing into a curious guilt. “I am. He can just be a vole-brain sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t say that; I think he’s just honest.”

“Honest?”

“He doesn’t hide anything from anyone. I like cats that don’t act fake just to please others.”

Squirrelpaw’s looked at her dubiously, “So you liked it when he clearly hated us all?”

Feathertail chortled, “Hey, I didn’t say that they couldn’t change overtime.”

It felt weird talking about him with Feathertail – no, not weird. Uncomfortable. Empty. Squirrelpaw cringed, feeling the need to change the subject. “So, you’ll miss this journey, right?”

Feathertail looked down, lingering on something that she looked too shy to say. “Won’t you?”

Squirrelpaw wasn’t even sure why she even thought she’d say no.

At home, she was scoffed at, yelled at, a nuisance, a troublemaker, a disgrace.

On this journey, she’d fought kittypets, done more hunting than Dustpelt had ever let her do before, had been able to stand up to that mouse-brained clanmate of hers, and made friends with cats she’d never have considered once upon a time.

“I suppose?” Why did she make it out to sound like a question?

“I will.” Feathertail said breezily, “I miss home but, there’s just been so much to see out here. Things I will never do again in my life. It’s odd, but I kind of wish there’ll be more.”

“There will be more, we haven’t even found Midnight yet.”

Feathertail’s pelt twitched a little, her vision resting on the grass again. “I know. But it won’t be long now.”

Squirrelpaw realised that. Everything had gone by so fast around here. For a second, she felt scared to close her eyes in case she would blink and be back at Thunderclan. It would feel like that soon enough, she knew it.

But she could not change that.

“Well, at least we’ve had fun.” Squirrelpaw said, pressing her tail against the Warrior. “And it’s not like we won’t be able to say hello to each other once this is all over. You’ve still got Stormfur, after all.”

Feathertail craned her head back, making a noise of understanding. “Yeah, I do.” Her voice sounded strangely hollow, but it didn’t seem to register when she looked back down at Squirrelpaw with a simper. “You really will make a good Warrior, you know.”

Squirrelpaw wondered if she did know that, or if was just what she wanted to hear.

Probably both.

“Thanks. I had a good teacher.” She hoped Feathertail would realise she didn’t mean any Thunderclan cat.

The grass rustled again, and the quick scampering of paw’s came back to Squirrelpaw. She turned and found her nose inches from Crowpaw’s devilish smile.

“Hold still.” He’d said it before she began to blush. She could just catch a glimpse of white.

Even before she could protest, she could feel him softly messing with her fur, her nose almost buried into his chest fur as he placed something onto the ear. It was like everything around her was Crowpaw; his scent was all around her, misty and calming. The soft fur of his chest tickled her nose as he fumbled with her ear. She couldn’t even remember being this close to a cat before outside of her family.

Squirrelpaw took in deep, almost panicked breaths. Her cheeks felt like they would burn away and she worried that Crowpaw would feel how fast her heart was beating. She didn’t want him to pull away-

What was she even thinking?!

His paw brushed against the side of her head and she was surprised at how soft he was, half expecting Windclan fur to be coarse and rough. Then again, they would probably need to be sleek in the moors.

And he was sleek, no doubt about that. But toned as well despite his short structure. He was thin, but refined, the muscles bulging in his legs. That explained how he could go so fast at least.

Squirrelpaw realised all this in the five seconds that Crowpaw was near her.

“There we go!” He said, his fur brushing against Squirrelpaw as he spoke. Then he drew back, admiring whatever it was he’d put on her with smug smile. Starclan above, she hoped he couldn’t tell how much she was internally breaking right now.

“Ohhh!” Feathertail mewed, her tail curling with joy. “That’s adorable! What is it?”

“I’m not sure. I just thought it fit.”

It fit? What was that supposed to mean? What did it look like? Squirrelpaw looked up to where the flower rested and she could make out a series of large white petals, but mostly she was taken in by the intoxicatingly sweet scent it gave out.

Squirrelpaw felt the embarrassment all the way down to her paws and she instinctively pressed her face into her pelt. She couldn’t help it; something was just making her panic.

“Oh, I thought I was overreacting for being embarrassed.” Crowpaw teased, making the heat in Squirrelpaw’s cheeks burn a little more. What could she say? The apprentice was giving her a taste of her own medicine, and she was reacting worse than he did!

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about it.” Crowpaw said. Squirrelpaw could hear the smile in his voice, but it wasn’t mocking, it was friendly. Trustfully, Squirrelpaw let her eyes meet his. The cat had his head craned to the side with a satisfied, but kind smile.

The flower over his ear appeared to make his smile gleam a little more. Maybe it was just the sun in Squirrelpaw’s eyes.

“Honestly, Squirrelpaw, you look beautiful!” Feathertail assured, walking beside the cat and giving her an affectionate lick on the cheek.

Beautiful. That was something she’d never been called before, not that she had wanted to. She’d never really cared about looking great in Thunderclan, unless it meant kicking the others flanks in training.

But, strangely, it actually felt quite nice.

She looked back at Crowpaw, not wondering why she wanted to hear the same from him. And her heart soared when he nodded along. “Hey, I wouldn’t have picked it if it didn’t suit you.”

Squirrelpaw’s heart began to beat even faster, not stopping even as Crowpaw dressed Feathertail in the flower he’d picked for her. A pale purple flower with small golden stalks in its centre. Feathertail didn’t even flinch as he did it, just gracing him with a thankful gaze. It was all the more obvious to Squirrelpaw how absolutely gorgeous Feathertail was, in every conceivable way.

She wondered how much Crowpaw noticed it?

There was a small hope in her heart.

“Thank you so much, Crowpaw!” Feathertail purred, nuzzling his side. Crowpaw flushed but said nothing. Squirrelpaw felt that green sickness inside her once more. She had to push it down, Feathertail didn’t deserve it. The Warrior looked between the two, her paw stroking the flower tenderly. “Now we all have something to remember this journey by.”

Squirrelpaw looked over to Crowpaw, he shrugged with a small smile. The ginger cat smiled back, the flower on her ear growing deeper into her fur with a greater desire.

When this was all over, it would be there to help her remember these times. Remember her friends.

Remember…whatever this was.

“Hey guys!”

The three turned and found Stormfur, he noticed what the three wore and he rose a brow. “Uh… Purdy was right about the view. W-We’ve got a great idea of where we’re going now.” He didn’t say anything else, either too weirded out or too concerned about upsetting one of the cats.

Most likely he subconsciously realised it was Feathertail’s idea and that she would claw him if he said anything negative about it.

The three looked between themselves, blushing, then deciding to laugh off the cat’s reaction.

Miraculously, and to Crowpaw’s abject horror, it turned out Purdy was right. The path along the wall was short, only needing to walk a few paces and one turn before they’d reached a high wall that reached above the height of a Twoleg den. The other three sat there, waiting for the other’s to arrive.

There it was. The forest stretched for what seemed like the length of the world not far from where they sat, if they continued for the rest of the day, they would have easily been able to rest the night in the forest. Even better, the Twolegplace only continued for a short distance from where they were.

Purdy chuckled as Crowpaw approached, “Not bad for an ol’ tabby, eh?”

The grey apprentice narrowed his eyes, his old temper returning. “Yes. You did what we should have done a day ago, thanks a lot!” He sneered. Purdy laughed him off with a shake of his tail. Crowpaw turned to Tawnypelt who looked just as sullen. “He’s not stopped bragging, has he?”

“No.” Tawnypelt fumed, her ears flat against her head.

“What… are those?” Brambleclaw sniffed.

Squirrelpaw didn’t even look at him, she could hear his desire to mock. She wasn’t going to fall into his trap. “It’s called a flower. It’s a type of plant.” She said dryly, still admiring the view of the forest.

“I gathered that.” Brambleclaw hissed, “Why’re you wearing them though? You look ridiculous.”

Squirrelpaw’s claws unsheathed, but she breathed in deeply. No matter what, he wasn’t worth it. The ending of the journey was just over the horizon, and she wasn’t going to taint the remainder of it because of a flea-pelted tom.

Besides, Crowpaw had it covered. “We wanted to match you, out of pity, of course.”

Squirrelpaw’s heart leapt up again, and this time she couldn’t stop smiling no matter how hard she tried.

Brambleclaw was too proud to lose his temper in front of Purdy. But it didn’t matter what he said as far as Squirrelpaw was concerned. All that mattered was what her friends thought. Because it was what mattered to them.

The flowers were going to be there when they went their separate ways.

But for now, they would make the most out of the time they had together.

...

[notbecauseofvictories]

It's confirmed in the official comics that Kylo wasn't the one who'd killed the students, it was Snoke who did it through Force lightning and he was horrified to see it happen (he might even have been turned on by his peers since they thought he'd killed Luke, but don't take my word on that one)

Mmm, no, that doesn’t seem right? I’m pretty sure that Ben Organa drags himself from the rubble of the hut with his hands bleeding, the inside of his mouth coated with something tacky and bitter to the taste. When he spits onto the dirt, it’s coppery-red.

He stares at it, the little spot of blood. It’s such a small thing, wet and pitiful. Ben wants to howl at it, wants to put his head down in the dust and scream until his throat tears itself open and his skin sloughs away and he’s gone, he’s anywhere but here; just a howl hanging in space. His hand is shaking when he lifts it to wipe his mouth.

He forgets about the blood at his knuckles until he feels the warmth of it smeared across his jaw.

It takes him a moment to realize how cool and still it is in his head. It’s never been so quiet, not since he was sent to Luke; Luke sings through the Force like a forest fire, all of Endor burning up. Ben could never leave the Light without leaving Luke, it consumed the world.

“Uncle Luke?” he chokes out, reaching as far as he can with the Force, but there’s nothing. It’s dark and cold in every direction but for the flickering candle-flames of the other acolytes, asleep in the temple. “Lu—” he starts, but his throat locks, and the only noise is the harsh rattle of his breathing.

He’s shaking. Ben shuts his eyes, but the sight of Luke standing over him, harshly lit by the beam of the lightsaber, is there in the dark. He has to open them again, and he stares down at the dirt beneath him, that little spot of blood.

He’s still shaking as he pushes himself up onto his knees. It’s a warm night—barely any wind, the stars bright over the temple. The moon is a silver sickle in the sky. There’s a kind of cruelty to it, Ben thinks, a laugh or a sob caught in his throat. Luke Skywalker is dead, Ben killed him, and it’s still somehow a beautiful night. Ben would have expected storms, cataclysms; all the the galaxy to cry out in unison as the last of the Jedi dies.

Even the windows of the temple are dark, the acolytes still asleep. Luke Skywalker is dead and not even his students know to mourn him.

Ben goes cold when he realizes that he’s going to have to—

They won’t believe you.

Ben does sob, the relief is so immense. “Master Snoke,” he says, letting himself bend forward until his forehead is almost touching the ground. He breathes out raggedly, curling his hands into fists. “Please. Help me.”

You have freed them from Luke Skywalker’s thrall, but they will not be grateful. You know this.

“I know. I know. But—”

You are thinking of your mother.

Ben wasn’t, but he sucks in a sharp breath thinking of her now. “No,” he whispers. He’s sick, trying to picture her face if he told her— “He was her brother.”

Your father.

Ben shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

No, Snoke says, and his voice is so gentle. No, you are alone—well. Not quite alone.

“I have you,” Ben says, and he can feel Snoke’s pleasure at how promptly this answer is given, at how quickly Ben reaches for him. (Ben feels a sick flush of pride at having guessed the correct answer, and it’s so good, to feel something other than the panic and guilt of this.)

My apprentice, Snoke says like a benediction, heavy as a hand on the crown of Ben’s head. You have been so faithful, so patient in waiting for this appointed day. You have borne the fear and misunderstanding, and turned it into strength. Now it is time I reward your faithfulness.

Ben can feel an alien pressure building behind his eyes. Apprentice, Snoke says, and the pressure builds to a sharp point like something trying to screw through his skull. Ben twitches, trying to dislodge it. Come now. You have such greatness locked away inside you, Snoke croons. Let me in. Let me help you.

“With what?” Ben asks, though he knows this is the wrong question. He can feel Snoke’s irritation, and then suddenly he’s swallowed by images—memories, some his, some not. He sees Luke over him, lit by blue fire and the other acolytes, whispering, laughing, giving Ben wide berth in the halls—sentients he doesn’t know but wear the robes of Jedi, sitting stone-faced in judgment of a crying padawan—the little human girl Ben hurt by lashing out with powers he didn’t understand yet, Han and Leia screaming at one another as Ben tried to block his ears—a warfront, men wearing the same face dying even as the Jedi step over them with lightsabers bright—violence. So much violence, in the light.

He comes-to with his hands braced in the dirt, to keep him from falling over. He’s breathing hard, as hard as though he’d been running for miles.

You know it must die, Snoke murmurs, and Ben deliriously thinks he feels a hand card through his hair, like Snoke is there with him, comforting him. No one’s touched his hair since he was sent away; Mama had fussed over it for hours, even though it was just Uncle Luke coming. Ben remembered that, her white hands—

The pressure in his skull sharpens to an edge, and Ben gasps. Apprentice. Beloved boy, Snoke says, and Ben nods, weakly. May this be the end of antiquated things. The Jedi, the Rebellion, the boy you think of yourself as…Burn it all down, and let a new warrior be born from the ashes.

Ben looks up, and the moon is a silver sickle in the sky over the dark temple. He wants to—he doesn’t know what. He wants to see it all red, and aching. He wants them to know what it is he’s suffered. Luke Skywalker is dead, it should be burning.

“Okay,” he says. “Yes.”

The absence of Luke’s light rushes up, swallows him whole and clings to every crevice of his mind.

The shaking stops.

So does everything else.

Ben blinks down at his bloody hands, and does not think about the blood, or how he reached for the stone and the stone answered. There is no anger here, or fear; thinking of Luke is like thinking of a rock, or an apple. Ben has never been sure before, but this is what it must feel like; everything connected in straight lines, clean hierarchies of decisions that must be made. (His mother took him to a planet once with three moons and huge seas of waving grass. By the moonslight every blade of grass had looked like a knife and faces were paper masks—this is the same horrible, dreamlike clarity.)

See how I reward you? Snoke exults, and Ben feels nothing. This is the gift of Darth Vader, a true warrior for the Dark—freedom from limitations, to not be distracted by empathy, or sentiment. True freedom.

Summon your lightsaber, Snoke says, and Ben reaches out. One side of his lightsaber has crumpled in under the force of the hut collapsing; when Ben ignites it, the blade is ragged, jumping. He watches dispassionately, even as the edges of the arc curl in on themselves, looking the same color of wet blood that he spat out of his mouth.

I have sent my guard to retrieve you, apprentice, Snoke says. Until their coming---let us burn the galaxy before us.

When Ben steps forward, he grinds the spot of his blood beneath his heel.

(Afterwards, shut up in that lightless ship with Snoke’s Red Guard and the remaining six of Luke’s padawans---some of them sobbing, others preternaturally still with shock, all of them trying not to stare at Ben and mostly failing---the certainty and stillness will fade. In the sudden warmth of his humanity, Ben will look down at his hands and think: oh.

There is no voice in his head but his when Ben Organa thinks: good.)

[coyotesongwriting]

When It Rains, It Pours - Ch. 4

Avengers - Bucky Barnes/Reader

Chapter 4 - Aspen

Story Summary:  Things are going great between you and Bucky, until one day they aren’t. He dumps you, not knowing that what you’d wanted to talk to him about was the positive pregnancy test you held behind your back.

Chapter Summary: It’s time

Author’s Note: Thank you guys for reading this! All mistakes are my own!

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters so don’t sue me please. I just really like them haha

Tag List (if you want to be added or removed let me know!):    @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @queenoftheunderdark  @samsgoddess @redfoxwritesstuff​ @iheartsebastianstan​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @fookingmuffins​ @yasnooshka24​ @redfoxwritesstuff​ @amazon-belle​ @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven​ @kinkywitchy​ @superwonderwholock​

Not sure why tumblr is bugging out but it won’t let me tag @avengemari, I’ll keep trying to tag ya though!

Previous Chapter

Thor had arrived back from Midgard with a huge box of books, and you were so excited. You swore he’d bought two of every maternity and medical book he was able to find in the store. When you’d laughed and asked why he’d got two copies, he shrugged and explained that one copy was for you, and one was for the library. Since you were staying and would be raising your child there, it only made sense that they had books available for the healers and midwives to study. 

You’d become overly emotional in the last few weeks, and you’d begun to sob into his chest as you hugged him. Thor merely laughed and ruffled your hair once you’d calmed down. You’d missed him while he was gone, but it had given you and Loki a chance to really bond. Thanks to the late night mentoring, the two of you had been close but while Thor was gone, he really stepped it up.

You’d begun to think of Loki as just as much of a brother to you as Thor was. You were still training with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three every day, but Loki was always nearby, never letting you out of his sight. He worried about the pregnancy more than you did, and it was honestly pretty endearing. You had never realized how much he cared about you until then. 

Bitra was pleased when you and Thor had arrived to bring her a copy of the pregnancy books and she’d read them all in no time. Apparently, Midgardian pregnancy actually was similar to Asgardian which relieved the both of you. It was like a weight was taken off your shoulders when you realized you didn’t need to worry as you had been. If it had continued much longer, you’d have had to ask Thor to take you back to Midgard for a checkup.

As summer rolled into autumn, Thor returned to his regular schedule of once a week visits to the Avengers. Every time, he offered to bring you along with him and every time you said no, merely asking him to tell the others you were doing well. They sent you their love, and once, Nat even sent you the beautiful necklace she’d found that you might like.

Bucky had been scarce since you left, and it seemed like he was getting sent on more missions than ever while the others suddenly had less. When Steve finally confronted Fury, asking what was going on he learned that Bucky had requested to be out in the field more often. He’d claimed that he’d been feeling too cooped up lately. 

It had taken Nat and Clint a while to be willing to work with him again as they had before, but eventually, Thor had managed to convince them to give up the ghost. They both held a grudge against the man who’d broken your heart, but if what Thor said was true you truly were doing alright now.

Even though Thor was making frequent trips, Loki never joined him anymore. Instead, he remained behind and looked after you. As your due date grew closer, Loki became more and more like a mother hen. When you were eight months pregnant, he began to argue with you about the fact that you were still training or really, anything you did that required you doing anything physical. As your pregnancy had progressed, you’d started training less and less and now you did barely any every day, just some basic knife throwing, but he found even that to be too much. 

“Please sit down, Lady [Y/N” Loki plead, pointing at a garden bench.

It was a lovely autumn day, and you had gone for a stroll in the gardens to enjoy the cool breeze. Unfortunately, Loki had followed you to the garden and you hadn’t even been out for five minutes before he began to pester you to take a rest. 

You whirled on him, finally having had enough. The look on your face was pure murder as you shoved your hand into his chest, pushing him back. His eyes opened wide as he watched you.

“If you don’t shut up Loki I swear I will kill you! I am pregnant, not injured! If I want to go for a stroll in the garden, I will damn well do so” you spat, glaring at him.

“I’m sorry. I just worry for you” he sighed, “I don’t want anything to happen to you or your child.”

Seeing the sad look on his face, a small frown crept across your face and you swept him up into a hug, “I know. But you need to trust me here. I feel totally fine, okay? If I didn’t, I would take a break. I know my body, okay?” 

After a long pause, his arms wrapped around you to return the hug. You stayed that way for a long moment before you stepped back and held out your arm. With a small smile, he hooked his arm in yours and the two of you went on a tour of the gardens, this time he only asked you to take a break every ten minutes.

~~~~~~

On November 14, you welcomed your little girl into the world. The birth had gone perfectly, and Bitra couldn’t have been prouder of you. Thor had been there to hold your hand through the whole thing, though he later swore that you broke his hand. She was the spitting image of her father and looking down at her for the first time your heart tightened. She had his brown hair, and looking into her eyes you swore you felt like you were looking straight at Bucky. You smiled softly down at her, tears in your arms as you cuddled her close and thought about her father.

“What are you going to call her?” Lady Sif had come to see you, and she was so excited to welcome the little one into their ragtag group.

“Her name is Aspen” your voice was gentle as you watched her sleep.

You’d named her after the town where you’d fallen in love with Bucky. The two of you had been sent on a mission to track a potential Hydra agent, and you’d had to pretend to be a honeymooning couple in the ski town. You’d spent the weekend curled up in the lobby of the lodge with him, and that had been that. The way he looked at you sometimes during that mission, you’d forgotten that you two weren’t really on your honeymoon.

“A strong name for a strong warrior” Lady Sif laughed softly, “I look forward to training with you properly once you’re feeling better, [Y/N]. It will be interesting to see how you do!”

You let out a low groan and threw your head back against the pillow, you were exhausted and the mere idea of training was too much for you right now. Sif merely grinned mischievously and headed out after patting you on the shoulder.

“You have a beautiful daughter” Loki had finally come to see you, and he smiled down at you sadly. He’d become your confidante over the last few months, and he understood just how much you missed Bucky. If anyone had asked you a year ago if you could ever imagine considering Loki family you’d have laughed in their face. Time had a way of changing things though.

You scooted over carefully, tired and sore and he climbed into bed next to you. He sat next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as you rested your head on his chest. You smiled down at your baby girl, “Hear that sweetie? Uncle Loki thinks you’re pretty.”

Tears welled in your eyes and began to roll down your cheeks, getting Loki’s shirt damp, as you thought of Bucky. Loki ignored the tears and began to hum a soft lullaby. You were almost asleep when you swore you heard him whisper, “I’m sorry” but before you could respond, you were out like a light.

When you awoke the next day to Aspen’s crying, Loki was long gone. Bitra arrived to help you out as you learned tips on raising your baby girl, and you soon forgot all about his late-night apology.

~~~~~~

Thor was a day late to his usual meeting with the team. He’d waited to make sure you were alright before he left, and even then he only did so once you’d sworn to have Heimdall get him if you needed anything. He promised that he’d be back as soon as he could, and had left at first light.

When Thor entered the tower, he couldn’t stop smiling. The sight of you and Aspen together was enough to leave him grinning like a fool. The lounge was almost empty at the early hour, only Clint was present.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Clint grumbled, clutching his coffee cup and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Lady [Y/N] -” he started, but caught himself. Only, he didn’t know what to say next and froze. 

“What about her?” Clint was suddenly awake, “Is she okay?”

“Er, yeah. No, she’s great” he stumbled over his words, “Nope she’s fine, great, nothing to worry about there. She’s just at home. Yep. Just at home with the others. Nothing weird there.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, “Yeah that’s not suspicious at all. Thor, you better tell me the truth. If something’s wrong with her and you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.”

Nat walked in just in time to hear Clint and she whirled on Thor, “What’s wrong with [Y/N]?” her voice was hard.

“She’s fine, I swear. She’s just at home, resting” Thor explained, cursing himself internally.

“Yeah, I’m not buying that. Okay, buddy. I think we’ve given her enough space” Clint said, getting to his feet, “Let’s go see her, I need to see she’s okay.”

Thor frowned, “I’m sorry Clint, but Lady [Y/N] has specifically requested I not bring any visitors.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, “Look, no one we know but you has seen or heard from her in months. How in the hell are we supposed to know you’re telling the truth? For all we know, she’s not doing well at all.”

“You must know I would not lie to you” Thor sighed, “But Lady [Y/N] has made her wishes perfectly clear and I would dare not go against her. Not in this matter” he rubbed his hand, which was still aching from your grip.

“What’d [Y/N] say?” Steve asked as he walked in and leaned against the counter, watching Thor curiously.

“That she does not want visitors and I am not to bring any of you with me to Asgard” he explained.

Steve sighed, “Still? It’s been seven months, Thor. Surely she can’t still mean that. When did she tell you no visitors?”

“Last night.” Thor’s voice was steady and slightly sad. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the team but he’d do it for you.

“Seriously? What’s going on with her, Thor. Please. Is she really okay? I’m worried about her” Nat sighed, stealing Clint’s coffee mug. 

“I swear on my honor, Natasha. Lady [Y/N] is doing fine. If she was not, Heimdall would have summoned me back already. He is under strict orders to get me if anything is wrong with her. They-She is happy, and she is healthy” Thor was looking her in the eyes, earnest as he spoke. 

Steve nodded unhappily but he and Clint gave up the argument, hoping that Thor was telling the truth. Natasha however, had caught Thor’s latest slip up and her mind began to race.

Next Chapter ->

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[jeaniegreysummers]

making fire afraid || jean, scott & maddie

summary: jean feels a disturbance in the force (almost literally). together with scott and maddie, they go to her childhood home, only to discover her entire family have been murdered by an elite squad of alien warriors, determined to gain revenge for the acts of the phoenix. there is, however, one survivor who provides both information and a very hard decision to make.

trigger warnings: grief, death, murder mention, violence mention

featuring: scott summers, madelyne pryor

JEAN: It felt like someone stepping into a river while Jean was in the middle of the ocean. It was a ripple a thousand miles away, a slight shift of the pressure around her, but she could sense it at the back of her mind and it wouldn’t let her rest. It was far from a new sensation — Jean had been dealing with variants of it since her powers first developed, had learned to trust in it because it usually meant danger was on its way.

In this case, she had the sickening sense that danger had already come and gone, that something had happened and she was powerless to stop it. She’d tried and failed to push it down, tried to convince herself it was just the after effects of her neighbour’s first day at their new job, or the anxiety of the parents a few blocks away waiting for their teenage son to come home. She tried everything she could to pretend it wasn’t one of her problems, because she had enough of those to go around already. Eventually, Jean pushed herself up out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, determined that a cup of tea at four o’clock in the morning was all she needed.

It went well until she lifted the cup to her lips and a sharp pain shot through her temples, causing the hot liquid to spill out over the kitchen counter. “Shit,” Jean hissed, reaching for the towel — just in time for another spike to go through her, and the faint recognition that someone was behind her.

There were two options. Scott, who would hardly be surprised to see his wife awake at this hour and feeling another person’s pain (though it felt so familiar that she doubted it could be), or Maddie who … well, who also wouldn’t be surprised. In a relatively short space of time, her sister had more than proven her understanding of Jean’s ‘condition,’ courtesy of shared life experience, she supposed.

“I’m okay,” she started off. “It’s just—”

Her stomach turned, and Jean got a flash of memories, a snapshot of Annandale before everything went dark. It was the same as Annie, the second the car hit her. (They always said your life flashed before your eyes. Jean wished that was true. It would be nice to see her family again, if she could. It would be nice to see what good she had done. But of course, the world wasn’t nice. Death wasn’t nice.)

Jean turned from the counter, eyes wide. “It’s my parents,” she said. “We need to get to my parents.”

SCOTT: Scott had always been a restless man. It was a quality that had burrowed into his chest, one that planted itself like a tree within him and took root long before he knew it was there. He had no idea when it had started, if it had been within him before the plane crash or if it was something that came hand-in-hand with the burning parachute and the arms wrapped so tightly around his brother that he left bruises in the shape of fingerprints marking the skin. He knew only that it was there, that it had curled up inside of him and refused to leave long ago.

It had gotten worse, in recent months. Since his death, he’d been sleeping less and less. At first, it had been easy to blame it on the nightmares. Dying left you with no shortage of them, and Scott had two deaths under his belt now, two unsurvivable ends that had spit him out on the other side when they should have swallowed him whole. But the nightmares were less frequent than they had been months ago, and Scott was awake all the same. Deep down, he knew what it was. He knew it was the energy inside of him, the white hot flame that burned and burned and burned and would leave him in ashes before all was said and done.

He wasn’t the only one burning with it, of course. He knew Jean was awake before he made his way into the kitchen, felt her presence in a way that was both familiar and new. He didn’t know if it was their old, constant bond that lead him to her or if it was the piece of the bird nestled within him reaching out to the larger portion of it within her, but it was hard to resist either way. His feet moved of their own accord, walking towards her with no attempt to look for her, no need to search. He’d always had a way of knowing exactly where to find her.

She said she was okay, but Scott hesitated at the counter all the same. She did this sometimes. It had been more common back when they lived at the mansion, back when there were a hundred traumatized children under a single roof and she had loved every one of them enough to feel their pain in droves, but it wasn’t uncommon to happen later on, either. Jean was empathetic in the same way Scott was restless. It was a part of her, a thing that she wouldn’t be her without. And he loved it and he loved her even when it ached.

The wave seemed to be lasting longer than they typically did, and Scott was already moving towards her when she spoke again. He faltered in his step, hands hovering just above her arms. Her parents. They hadn’t been a fan of his in a long while, and Scott understood why. It was hard to love a man who’d gotten two of your daughters killed, wasn’t it?

“What’s wrong with your parents, Jeanie?” His voice was gentle, concerned. “Did you feel something? From them?” The sound of another person’s footsteps padding into the living room drew his attention momentarily, and he glanced up to catch Maddie’s eye from across the room. Perhaps she could shed more light on the situation, could feel her family the same way Jean had. After all, Maddie could offer Jean a connection to the Greys in a way Scott would never be able to mimic.

MADDIE: There was a tie to Jean that Maddie had felt before she had even came face to face with the woman. It was what propelled her forward to find this nameless face that made a safety and warmth bloom inside her chest. Most of the time it was like looking into a mirror of her own mind if she ever pushed forward that tiny bit to look inside the other woman's head. The similarity in their own power sets that Maddie felt solidified their familial ties to each other. Jean was her sister she had been convinced of that the moment she had met her. The force that had brought her there had brought her for a reason.

Restlessness was common when you could do what Jean and Maddie could she supposed. There was always a frequent stream of errant thoughts that people couldn't contain that Maddie had steadily learned to tune out, though unable to completely tune it out at times, some thoughts louder than others. There was also the empathic side of it all. Maybe Maddie didn't feel it as strongly as Jean, it being more subtle, but it was still all there. And that night it was gnawing at her and loud, the own feeling of dread hanging over her head like a dark cloud. Maddie couldn't quite find herself being able to ignore it.

Even the voice that always seemed to linger in her mind hadn't said anything. Hadn't let her brush it off.

Maddie found herself getting out of her bed, her feet seeming to take her to find her family. The dread pressed and pressed on her chest until it felt harder to breathe. Each breath was like a minor relief, releasing all the fear only to breathe back in the debilitating dread. She hovered almost anxiously in the living room, a pain blooming in her own head. It made the woman flinch, fingers pressed against her temple and letting out a sharp breath.

A mirror, that's all Maddie could think of in that moment. The pain was diluted down, a mirror image of what she was sure Jean was feeling. Almost the same, but not quite. "We need to—" Maddie let out a frustrated noise and shook her head. It wasn't good. Whatever it was that was happening that was resulting in this mounting feeling of doom that centered around Jean's (their?) parents. "We need to go now. It doesn't...something is wrong. I can feel it too. I don't know what it is...I can't tell, but it doesn't feel good." And that scared Maddie.

JEAN: There were certain people who were always front and centre in her mind. Scott was one of them, right from that first day — a subconscious manifestation of her abilities, according to Charles, owing in large part to her attraction towards him (he always had a reason for something, always had an explanation. Mutant existence was merely a form of evolution, another avenue of science). Ororo was near and dear to her heart, their emotional responses similar if not exactly in tune. Maddie, an obvious example, often saying the same thing at the same time, shooting thoughts around like she was bargaining in her own head. Her parents, her siblings (with the notable exception of Sara, who was long gone), they’d never been on that list.

There had been love, she thought. Her father used to hold her on his knee in the office, used to bounce her there for hours on end even as his leg cramped up and he was wearing a frown, marking his students’ papers. There had been love when Julia pressed a kiss to the top of Jean’s head during their grandmother’s funeral, or when Roger reached for her hand at her wedding. There had been love when she was pulled from that swimming pool, love when she crossed the stage at her graduation, love that drove them to phone Charles Xavier in the first place out of concern for their daughter. There had been love, but no connection, not really.

Nothing like this, at least. Nothing that had Jean reaching for Scott’s arm, nothing that had her eyes widening as she looked over at Maddie and felt that panic reflected right back, even if it was dulled around the edges. “I felt them,” Jean said. “I heard them. They were thinking … they were calling for me.”

That had never happened before. Not in decades, not even after battles broadcast on the television or newspaper stories that said mutants were dead on the streets. Her parents, once they passed her into the care of the Institute, once she walked up that aisle and married a mutant, thought of her only in passing moments, when they pulled out family photos they couldn’t erase her from completely.

Her siblings came through too. (It was then Jean realised something. She didn’t know Roger’s address, or Liam’s, or Julia’s. They’d all moved, she was sure, over the years. They’d all moved and they hadn’t asked their telekinetic sister to help lift the boxes. She never sent a card.) Her siblings came through, but there was only one place Jean knew to go to.

Annandale-on-Hudson. That big, panel clad house with symmetrical windows and a filtered pool and stripes on the lawn. The only room she could remember with perfect clarity was the library, and even that had to have changed--

It did. In the brief, shattering moment of clarity, Jean saw a green wall that had been blue before. “They’re upstairs,” she yelled back to her husband and sister, barely allowing the car to pull to a halt before throwing the door open, feet hitting the tarmac (Annie died on this road. Annie’s blood was still in the stone, deep down. Annie died, and now her family--)

She burst into the house, a quick wave of her hand launching the front door off its hinges into the manicured hedges. The sprinklers stuttered against the intrusion, water changing course to hit against the windowpanes, and Jean continued through the hall, up the stairs, counting them as she went, her breath tight and hot in her chest.

Two, four, six … sixteen, eighteen, there.

The office door disappeared without a thought (she couldn’t tell if she’d meant for it to happen, or if Maddie was clearing her path — if the people she loved were making things easier even as the world fell down around her). The door opened, and there was red on that green wall.

Her father was there. Her mother, too. Their eyes were still open, their mouths in a permanent gasp.

“Scott!” Jean screamed, the skin on her knees ripping as she dropped onto the carpet, hands going to her father’s neck. “We need an ambulance! They’re not—”

SCOTT: The feeling of another person inside your mind wasn’t as strange as one might assume it would be. For Scott on that park bench all those years ago, it had felt natural. Of course, he had experienced it before the girl with red hair sat down beside him --- Sinister’s presence in his mind was a cold fear, Winters’s was a sharp blade --- but Jean was different. Jean was safety. She was belonging, she was understanding, she was natural. Jean, Scott often thought, sometimes seemed to belong inside his head better than he did. And Maddie was the same. Their connection was different, less straightforward, but it was just as simple. Just as natural.

And right now, both of those connections were taut.

It was like a tightrope, like the red strings that seemed to bind them were pulled so tight they could be plucked like guitar strings, made to make melancholy music that would fill any listener with dread. Scott thought to another night in another place, to Sara’s voice on the phone low and tinny and scared. ”You have to come, Scott, please, I didn’t know who else to call, I didn’t know -”

He shook the memory away, forcing himself back into the present. Back to Jean and Maddie, back to two women he trusted with every ounce of trust he had within him, back to the twin expressions of panic and dread on their faces. “We’ll go to them,” he said, hand on the small of Jean’s back as he pulled her in. “It’s going to be okay, Jeanie, it is. I promise.”

(And the last time he said that ---

The last time Scott promised Jean that everything would be okay, he ended the night choking on his own blood. The last time he promised her a happy ending, she buried him in the dirt and placed his name upon a stone. Smarter men would have learned, in that moment, that promises were hard to keep.

Maybe Scott had never been half as wise as he liked to pretend he was.)

The drive was quicker than it should have been, with speed limit signs being taken as suggestions and stoplights being manipulated by minds that had always had the upper hand over matter. Jean’s parents’ house looked like it had years ago, when Scott was eighteen and came over to dinner in a cheap suit and clip-on tie because he wanted to make a good impression on his girlfriend’s parents but he didn’t exactly have the cash to do it. It looked like it had a few years after that when they drove back there for lunch after burying Sara, or a few years after that when Jean was in the ground and her parents began to look at Scott as if they were putting the pieces together and solving the equation at hand to find the smallest common denominator.

The house looked the same as it always had, but it was different. Even from the outside, Scott knew. Dread built steady in his gut, weighed him down like a rock, threatened to cement him to his seat in the car. If you were familiar enough with death, he often thought, you could feel it long before you saw it. When you’d watched enough people die, you didn’t need a front row seat to every tragedy to comprehend what had taken place. Jean was out of the car in a heartbeat, and Scott wanted to stop her. He wanted to stop the entire goddamn world, wanted to keep her from losing anything else, wanted to let her live forever in the moment before the tragedy when there was, for a heartbeat, hope that everything might turn out in the end.

But eventually, every heartbeat gave way to the next. Eventually, that last moment of hope disappeared. Eventually, tragedy reminded you that it was not a thing to be ignored, that it was there and it was hungry and it would never steer clear of you for long.

He heard her voice scream his name, and he knew. He knew.

Years ago, he was too late to save Sara. He got there and she was gone, she was dead, and Jean ached with it even now. And Scott had heard, once or twice, that history had a way of repeating itself. He’d experienced it before, of course, watched Jean die so many times that her name scarred the inside of his throat with the grief of having screamed it so often, but this was different. This was rawer.

Jean came back. She died and he mourned and she came back to him.

But Sara never did.

And the rest wouldn’t, either.

He was at her side in an instant, breath catching as he looked down at his in-laws, at people who had hated him for good reason, at people he had failed and failed and kept failing. And there were no words, in moments like this. There was nothing to say. Tragedy had a way of grabbing you by the throat and squeezing, a habit of snatching the words out before you could say them.

“Jean,” it was a whisper, the loudest thing he could manage. “Jean, I don’t --- It’s too late. It’s too late.”

MADDIE: It was like the beginning of a very dark, treacherous storm. Maddie had a feeling that unfortunately this was going to be the start to a very dark night. Scott promised that it would be okay, that they'd go to them, and they would, but...Maddie could make herself to make that promise. Not when the panic tugged and pulled at every part of her being, the threads being pulled tight and it was only a matter of time before one of the Fates decided which string to cut.

Each light on the drive flickered to the right color, to push them forward. Closer to the eye of the storm and the dark cloud thickening with each exhale of breath, each heartbeat. The house came into view and for one breathtaking moment, Maddie was hit with...memories? It felt like a picture just a hair too far away, you could barely make it out, but you didn't see all the details. She could remember running down a hall, the feeling of grass between her toes as she basked in the summer sun.

It felt familiar, a minor moment of comfort before it immediately dropped away in the face of the car door shoving open and Jean running towards the home.

Maddie was quick to unbuckle herself and rush after her sister, a few paces behind her and her heart lodged right in her throat with the overwhelming dread. Her fingers curled into a loose fist and she pulled her arm back abruptly, throwing the office door open right as Jean made it to the destination of all their fears combined. Tears stung at her eyes as she stood in the doorway, Scott making it up the stairs just as fast as they did and dropping beside Jean. The whisper of 'it's too late' causing the tears to finally brim over, staining her cheeks.

Too late, too late, too late.

Death took and it took without a care. Until there was nothing left and left a house silent with immeasurable grief.

It wasn't until Maddie forced herself to look away from the heart wrenching sight that she picked up on something else entirely. She felt another presence there, one that she hadn't picked up on until now. It was quiet, but still there. Someone other than the three of them was in the house and they were close. She didn't feel a threat, it was just...fear and...anger. So much anger swirling around with the intense fear that plagued this person.

Taking a step back, Maddie hated having to leave her sister and brother in law, but she needed to see who was there. Who this person was that had been left alive when their—Jean's parents had been taken for violently from this world. Jean had Scott, she always did. It lessened the ache in her heart to have to step away while her sister was in need of support. The steps away from the office felt less heavy as her feet took her down the hallway, closer and closer to the presence that was becoming more pronounced with each step. Maddie came to a stop in front of a door, hand wrapping around the doorknob and trying it only to realize it was locked. It took only a moment of concentration before Maddie was able to use her mind to click the lock the other way and open the door.

Stepping inside of the room Maddie could hear the labored, panicked breaths and how sweltering hot the air was in the room. Her brow furrowed and she stepped further into the room only for the bed to go up in flames. Maddie couldn’t help her surprised yelp and she staggered back, eyes wide. A form finally scrambling out from beneath the bed, hair a fiery red as flames engulfed most the person’s form. It took a moment to realize that she wasn’t...in danger, but the flame didn’t seem to be harming her. She was controlling it. She looked beyond terrified, ready to attack if need be even as she shook and the fire started to spread.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Maddie tried to soothe, taking a step back as the heat in the room grew. “It’s okay. I promise,” she glanced back almost desperately as she swung the door back shut to try to keep Jean and Scott away, not add to the grief and trauma plaguing her sister. ”I won’t hurt you, you’re safe now.” She took the chance to reach into the girl’s mind and as much as she hated digging through mind’s, she wanted to calm her down before the fire took them all with the scared girl.

JEAN: Most people, when they heard what Jean did for a living, assumed that meant she brought people back from the dead, with or without the Phoenix. They assumed that her hands saved hundreds in a week, thousands in a year — assumed that when she touched someone, they were safe. That was sometimes true. More often, what Jean did was come in to make a decision about when to give up. It wasn’t something you talked about in college applications or job interviews, but it was what separated people into could and could not. Charles prophesied about hope eternal even in the midst of insurmountable odds — Jean was forced to abandon that hope, to touch people instead to comfort, to explain that sometimes, the world was cruel. Sometimes, there was nothing you could do.

It wasn’t easy to say that to someone. It wasn’t easy to destroy their world in an instant, wasn’t easy to be yelled at and understand instinctively, intrinsically, where that fear and anger came from. It wasn’t easy, but this? This was something else.

Her parents’ chests weren’t moving. Their lips were blue. There was blood on the carpet and sinking into the wallpaper, and Jean knew, rationally, logically, that there was nothing she could do, that this was just another cruel thing the world sent her way.

But the cruelty Jean had faced in her life wasn’t of fate or destiny. The cruelty she had faced always had a similar tinge, always came packaged the same way. It was always her fault. She felt it, instinctively, as she looked at her parents, felt it deep down in her gut as Scott stepped towards her and she immediately grabbed onto his shirt, burying her face into his shoulder.

Her siblings were hard to find, sometimes. They were hard to find, but never this impossible, never this far. “They’re gone,” she said. “They’re all gone, Scott. How can they all be gone?”

On the other side of the house, flames flickered through the room. It wasn’t cosmic energy, wasn’t part of the Phoenix that remained conspicuously silent. Instead it came from Derry, from her hands and her heart that felt like it was on fire as much as the papers on her grandfather’s desk that were curling and turning black.

No, not her grandfather. She knew that now. There were no secrets anymore, nothing to hide behind perfect veneers and family dinners with one chair always left empty. She didn’t realise someone else had walked in until the other woman was right in front of her, and for a second, the flames burned all the brighter.

We are here for Jean Grey, and her blood, they said. We are here for the Phoenix host. We are here for our people.

Jean Grey, the woman who took over cities, the woman who ripped prisons apart, the reason Derry was targeted in school and her grandparents locked themselves away in their home for the past two months. Jean Grey, who was her blood, until she wasn’t.

(They’d kneeled down in front of her, touched the side of her face, and said, We are here for her blood. We are not here for you. They left her, alone, and she realised in the same breath that her father was not her blood, and he wasn’t breathing anymore. He wasn’t there. He never would be again.)

“Get away from me—” Derry started, pushing back further into the wall, the plaster crumbling around her. “You’ve done something. You’ve turned me into…”

Calm. It was sudden, pervasive, and enough to let Derry see something like subtle differences. This wasn’t how they described Jean, the aunt she’d never really known.

The flames receded only slightly, just as someone banged against the door, attempting to come in. Derry leaned in, gaze unwavering as she met the stranger’s eye.

“They want the host,” she said. “My dad is dead — everyone is dead — because of you people.”

(You people. Warmth crept up her skin, unharmed by the flickers of light. You people included her, now.)

The fire grew once more.

SCOTT: When Scott Summers was a child, the world bottomed out beneath his feet. The plane his father was piloting, the vessel he trusted with every ounce of faith he had in him, rumbled and shook and fell apart bit by bit. Smoke filled his nostrils, his lungs, his heart, and it was a strange thing to be less than ten years old and know with as much certainty as you knew your own name that you were going to die. There was a strange sense of calm about it, a simplicity that he hadn’t felt since. And he’d been wrong, of course, but only because his mother made him wrong. He was alive because someone had saved him, because Katherine Summers was willing to forfeit her own life to ensure he got to keep his. The only reason Scott made it off that plane, the only reason he was alive right now, was because someone thought he was worth saving.

He wondered every day if his mother ever learned how wrong she was.

Scott was alive because someone had saved him. He was breathing because other people made it so. And on the floor in front of him, stiff and still in their own home, John and Elaine Grey were dead. Dead like their daughter, whose house Scott had shown up to just in time to see her fall. Dead like Jean, who was here and breathing and mourning even though Scott had buried her so many times that he’d grown to expect it now. Dead like all the people he’d ever failed to save, like the list that grew longer and longer with each passing day, like the names that echoed with every beat of his heart and reminded him that he was a failure, that he wasn’t enough. When Scott Summers was a child, the world bottomed out beneath his feet, and it was happening again now. The plane was shaking, the metal was creaking, and Scott would make it out alive regardless of how little he deserved it because other people made it so.

So consumed by the sight before him, he didn’t feel Maddie slipping away. And that was strange, that was unsteady, because he should have felt it. He should have recognized the feeling of her mind distancing itself both physically and mentally, should have been intuned to the way she left the room, but he wasn’t. He was laser-focused on his in-laws dead in the floor, on the grief pulsing from his wife at his side, on the world turning itself upside down and trying to shake him loose.

Jean clung to him, buried her face in his shirt, and Scott tried not to think about Alex doing the same as the parachute burned above their heads. He tried not to think about how he always ended up here, falling and falling and trying with a desperate grief to cling to what he could save while staring up at what he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, and he didn’t know if he was talking to Jean’s head tucked beneath his chin or to John’s unseeing eyes glaring a hole through his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

The scent of smoke crawled up into his nostrils, curled around his lungs, and Scott was falling. The parachute was burning above his head, and the ground was coming at him too quickly. Somewhere, something was burning, and all the people who had given everything to save him had wasted their efforts because fire was indiscriminate in what it destroyed and smoke would wrap its wispy fingers around your throat and strangle you no matter how many people died for you. The world bottomed out beneath him, and two people were dead above him, and something was burning, and Scott wasn’t a little kid anymore but he felt like one anyways. Jean’s world was shaking, and Scott didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to help her through grief he didn’t understand himself, didn’t know how to ---

His nostrils flared and the smoke climbed higher, and Scott realized that the scent was not confined to the broken memories in his own head. Something was burning, here and now. Something was burning in the same house where Jean’s parents were dead on the floor, something was burning a room or two over from where his in-laws were murdered. He glanced around and, for the first time, recognized that Maddie was gone. His heart faltered in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.

With the realization that his nose wasn’t playing tricks on him, the rest of his senses returned with a startling assault. He heard shouting, frightened and uncertain and young, and for a moment the word Alex waltzed into the forefront of his mind in answer, but Alex was grown now and he wasn’t here, and something was happening in the present that had never happened in the past. Someone was alive, somewhere. Someone had survived.

Scott shifted towards the door, gripping Jean tightly. “Jean,” he said lowly, “who else is here? There’s someone --- Something is burning, Jean. Someone’s shouting. Can you reach Maddie?”

MADDIE: The swirl of emotions in the house and in such close capacity was enough to make Maddie’s head ache fiercely. She never had been huge on the empathy, it was there, it had always been there but this was something else entirely. The grief that came flowing off Jean like a never ending waterfall that was loud and unforgiving, the guilt that came from Scott like a shot directly to the chest, and the anger from the girl before her that raged just like the fire creeping further into the room. The fire didn’t hurt her, but it wouldn’t hurt Maddie either. She felt it in her chest on the daily, the anger that would creep in unsuspectingly at a moment’s notice that made her want to take down the whole city with it. The smoke was enough to make her cough and make it that much harder to breathe through the grey that billowed through the room, but it didn’t scare her surprisingly enough even as the fire crept forward and forward. You couldn’t make fire afraid.

Something seemed to click in Maddie, stepping forward closer to the young woman who was crumbling apart as the world seemed to fall around her. “I didn’t do anything to you, sweetheart,” Maddie said as calmly as she could, trying to keep her attention on her, not staggering back this time when the fire seemed to flare angrily once more. “The host? What do you--” She coughed and covered her mouth with her arm, flicking the lock on the window in the room with her telekinesis and shoving it open to pull the smoke out of the small room. The anger that burned as bright and fast as the fire around them was mixed in with an intense pain that Maddie knew was unmeasurable. It held the same strength of the grief that poured off of Jean and made Maddie’s own heart feel heavy enough to fall right to the floor.

The host. She had said someone was after the host. That meant someone...something had come to the house and killed Jean’s parents in an attempt to get to the host?

It didn’t make much sense to Maddie, it left her with more questions and answers even as the voice in the back of her head finally seemed to flutter to life. ’

I can explain later. Get her out of here. Now. You know what to do.’

Maddie grimaced. She did know what to do, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. Intruding in someone’s mind was a tricky thing and it always left her with a part of that person she was never meant to see or wanted to. “I’m sorry,” she offered to the young girl and pushed forward into her mind, searching and searching until she was firmly in the other woman’s mind to make her eyes flutter shut and promptly pass out. Maddie surged forward and caught her before she hit the floor, tugging her along towards the door.’

I’m okay, I’m okay--’ Maddie finally reached out with her mind toward the link she had with Jean, feeling the guilt seeping in at going off alone. She coughed roughly and grimaced, pulling back from the link to push the door open out of the room to get them both out.

JEAN: She had been alone for so long.

There was a dark part of a person’s mind that appeared only when they were dead. Charles explained to her when she was eleven years old and shivering, in as delicate a way as one could talk about such things, that it wasn’t so much a place as an absence. It was an empty space, it was devoid of light or colour or sound. It was nothing. A young Jean listened to this, considered a lack of any kind of thought, and realised that death truly was the end. There was a flash, there was a moment of memories shooting through your mind, and then there was nothing.

Annie was in the nothing. Her best friend from college, her sister, her husband, her friends and found family, her blood now, they were all in the nothing. They all ceased to exist. They all took their last breath, and they didn’t go to that white room with flames in the walls that never burned through skin. They took their last breath, and they died.

Jean was so fucking terrified of death. The idea of it, the smell of it, the taste in the air. She’d seen it a million times on the battlefield, in the back of ambulances or resuscitation rooms, in operating theatres and in the halls of her childhood home. She’d seen it a million times, and still she felt like she stopped breathing along with them.

But Scott’s shirt still smelled the same as it had that morning when he came up behind her making breakfast. His arms still felt the same around her, still managed to let her lungs expand in her chest, let her focus on something here and now instead of the memories that crept up.

Being underwater, the chlorine in her nose and making her eyes sting. How Charles had appeared in that darkness, had told her it’s time to leave now, Annie isn’t here anymore. (She is, Jean had said. She will be here. She’s only a few minutes away. She’ll come back. Only old people die.) Her brother screaming at her at Sara’s funeral, the tears in her father’s eyes the day of her wedding. How her mother had never spoken to her after she changed her name.

“No one,” Jean muttered, throat thick and aching with … smoke? (The fire had never touched her before. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the last time. Maybe that white, hot room was going to keep her forever now. Maybe people really could die of sadness.) “There’s no one left. They’re all-”

Maddie.

Jean pulled back, meeting Scott’s gaze. “This way,” she said, fear welling up with the dread, hand going to Scott’s as she pulled him towards the source of Maddie’s familiar mind, warm and comforting and as enveloping as a blanket around her shoulders.

Home, her other half.

I’m okay.

The door opened just as the flames flickered out, ash scattered on the ground and photographs with curled edges laying amongst shattered glass. “Maddie!” Jean crossed the small space between them, the floor hot enough to burn through the soles of her shoes but not through her skin. (You couldn’t make fire afraid.) Jean reached for her, hands going to cup Maddie’s face, pressing a hurried kiss to her forehead -- and then she realised who she was holding.

“Derry,” she whispered, glancing over at Scott. “I didn’t feel her. Maddie, did you…”

This isn’t cosmic flame, the warped voice provided (she sounded so far away, today). This is something else.

Jean took one hand from Maddie’s face, touching it to the side of Derry’s temple. The images flashed through the bond between the four -- an argument at her parents’ anniversary party they weren’t invited to, Roger packing his bags, the reveal of another man’s face in an obituary notice.

“Derry isn’t a Grey,” Jean whispered. The pieces started to click into place, and she looked between her husband and sister. “They’re dead because of me. I can’t let that happen to her. She’s too volatile, she’s too young.” Jean reached for Maddie’s hand, squeezing it gently. Speaking it out loud felt sacrilegious, almost (unholy enough that she couldn’t look back at Scott, not now), so instead she just nodded. “Together?”

SCOTT: There were moments that, when they happened, you were sure you would never recover from them. They happened and somewhere in the back of your mind, you accepted that the world was different now. The woman you loved fell on the battlefield, a bullet slipped between your ribs, you came into your in-laws’ house to find them still on the floor with the fear of their last moments still etched into their faces and you understood that the world was ending. There were moments you were sure you would never recover from and then, right after them, there was another moment. There were moments you were sure your life was over, and then your heart beat again and you realized that it wasn’t. Jean’s father was dead. Her mother was dead. Her siblings were dead. But she wasn’t. He wasn’t. And somewhere, deep within the bowels of the house, someone else wasn’t, either. That took priority. It had to.

Grief, Scott had learned, was the easiest to deal with when you had something else to focus on. His parents’ deaths were softened by the way he gripped Alex tightly in his arms, Jean’s death was only bearable because there was still a battle to be fought around it, the trauma of his own resurrection was swiftly pushed aside in favor of fighting for his people, and this moment was outweighed by the moment that followed it. There was someone left to save, and Scott had always preferred it that way. Not because he was selfless, but because he was selfish. Because if there was someone left to save, he didn’t have to make sense of the swirl of emotions inside his chest.

Jean was in shock. He realized it faintly, and the fact that the realization was faint probably meant he was in a state himself. “Jeanie, listen,” he said quietly, moving to cup her face in his hands. And then she was moving, was pulling him out of the room, away from the bodies, into the fire. And there was relief in that. There was an unspeakable relief in walking away from the grief and into the fire, in leaving mourning behind in favor of action. One Scott understood, but the other… He’d never been good with allowing himself to feel.

They found Maddie, and Scott felt a stab of guilt in his chest at the realization that he had almost forgotten she was here at all, the realization that he’d been so focused on Jean and on the bodies that he’d forgotten about the only living family she had left.

Or… maybe not the only.

Scott’s eyes darted down to the child bundled in Maddie’s arms, felt the faint sense of familiarity at the form. He remembered the last time he’d been welcome at a Grey family event, remembered sitting in a too-small chair at the children’s table with his knees so high they were almost resting against his chest. ’It’s a tea party,’ Derry had told him, pressing a tiny plastic cup into his hands. ’And it’s just for us. Auntie can come if she wants to, I guess.’ And Scott had felt more acceptance from a little girl than he’d felt from most of the rest of the family combined, had met Jean’s eye over Derry’s head and grinned, had taken that tiny plastic cup and brought it to his lips to sip on invisible tea and now Derry was unconscious in Maddie’s arms and everyone else was dead and nothing made sense. Nothing made sense.

Jean spoke, and Scott glanced over. “She isn’t?” He looked down at the little girl, throat thick, and at the next words, he let out a small sound of protest. “They’re dead because someone killed them,” he said firmly. “That isn’t your fault.”

So adamant on protecting her from her own guilt, he almost missed the implication of what came next, almost missed the way she took Maddie’s hand, almost missed the familiarity of it all. For a moment, Scott was a child. He was in the basement of an orphanage, and he didn’t think anyone else knew this room was here. It was only for him. There were tables with straps, and there were bruises on his wrists the same size that he didn’t remember getting. There were vials and needles and wires, and there was Nathaniel Essex standing over him with an expression of utter fascination. ’You’re dangerous, Scott. It’s better that I take it. I’m sure you understand.’ There were blank spots, voids he hadn’t been able to get back even after all this time, even with Jean and Charles helping. And there was more than that, too. There was always more.“Jean,” he said hoarsely, uncertain. He hadn’t questioned her since she pulled him from that casket, hadn’t let his own inner thoughts speak louder than the Phoenix since the first time he’d heard it in his head, but this…

“Jean, what are you doing? This isn’t… Are you sure this is the only way?” He felt sick. There was nausea in his gut, and he wanted her to say no. He wanted her to change her mind, wanted her to find another way but he’d never seen her change her mind when she looked like this and already that voice in the back of his head was making excuses. Already it was drawing up differences, insisting that the situations weren’t the same as if this one had already happened, as if there was no changing it. Already, he was telling himself it was okay even when he knew it wasn’t.

MADDIE: There were moments in life that one couldn’t really forget. It stuck with you and wouldn’t leave. Maddie had a feeling this was going to be one of those moments, how her breath was stuck in her throat, but not because of the smoke practically choking the air out of her lungs. It wasn’t their fault. She couldn’t hold it against them, nor would she, for not realizing she had slipped out of the room and down the hall, just that smallest bit out of reach from them. Jean was hurting and that hurt was on blast, Maddie feeling her sister’s pain in void of her own. There wasn’t any pain there. Wisps of memories that she couldn’t grab onto when she had seen the still faces of Jean’s parents. That overwhelming sense of wrongness she had felt since she entered the home screaming at her in volumes as the voice that lingered in her mind had fallen silent for once.

There was no trace of her anywhere in the home and she was grasping at straws to explain just how that could be. What did that mean for her?

That didn’t matter. Not right now, anyways. It was quietly tucked away in the back of her mind, lingering like a dark cloud that no matter how small she made it would still be there. Maddie had other things to focus on, like getting back to her family. (Right?)

The relief was as palpable as the fire that roared in the home. Maddie let out a sharp rush of air and shut her eyes tightly to keep her own emotions at bay when the familiar touch of her sister reached not just her face, but her mind. Her eyes opened once more at the question and she hesitated, arm curled around Derry’s small figure to keep her up right. “She was scared, and so angry. I didn’t feel her at first, but then I couldn’t ignore it. It was like…” Hurt and rage warped into one angry storm of emotion. There was confusion and fear that tinged the aura that was unavoidable.

It had been quiet, not a threat, but enough to make Maddie notice it. The anger and fear had gotten louder with each step closer to the bedroom, one after the other. “She didn’t feel like a threat. I just followed and found her.”

She wasn’t a threat, she was just a scared girl who had endured something traumatic. It felt entirely too familiar, Maddie’s heart aching all the same for the young girl who had endured far too much all in one sitting. The memories that flared through the bond only confirmed that, the words she had uttered to Maddie as the flame grew hotter and higher ringing through the images. ‘Everyone is dead — because of you people.’ The despair that had seemed to wash over her features when it only then hit the poor girl that ‘you people’ meant her too. Like in her eyes being a mutant meant that was something dirty or to be afraid of. That made Maddie’s stomach churn and her heart drop right down to her feet.

There were moments in life where you had to make a choice. A choice, that in the moment feels right, is the best option. That maybe if one was to make that decision then it would spare some hurt.

“They’re not dead because of you,” Maddie shot out at the same time as Scott, both of them sharing the sentiment full heartedly. The air in the room seemed to lose any remaining oxygen. A coldness seeping into the heat that threatened to burn each one of them standing in the quiet. Her own fingers curled around Jean’s, even as the doubt started to creep into her mind. Derry was so angry and her powers only responded to that anguish and rage that was untapped inside of her. The flames creeping out of the room was confirmation of that enough. A ’we shouldn’t’, a ’we can’t’ lingered at the tip of Maddie’s tongue, but nothing came out. The voice that had only seemed to speak up in times of doubt or hesitation tonight spoke once more with the same sentence it had uttered out to her once already.

’You know what to do.’

“Okay,” Maddie whispered softly and managed a small smile that felt hollow at best, squeezing her sister’s fingers. “Together,” she repeated as her eyes stayed on the mirror image of herself rather than the ache that was all too pronounced coming from Scott’s direction. Maybe it would make her feel less unsure if she didn’t look at him. So she didn’t.

There were moments in life where it was all too much like coming to the edge of a precipice. One step was all it would take, step off into the unknown or stay on the solid ground. The three of them were now taking that step off the edge and plummeting into the unknown. Maddie could only hope it was the right decision. The voice seemed to think it was.

[a-world-in-grey]

The Ring of Lucii

@secret-engima 

A what-if in which Sola puts the Ring on instead of Nyx, is just as irreverent, and gets herself a new Appellation. (This is not canon guys. At least, this meeting isn’t.) Under the cut because this got long.

The world darkens, and Sola gasps as something pulls on her very soul. Old-light-steel-domineeringwill-

“Grandfathers!” Sola shouts, struggling to her feet. “Grandmothers! Answer me!”

A heartbeat, then-

Flares of ghostly white fire, one after the other, until fourteen figures tower before her. Magic bears down upon Sola’s senses, sending her to her knees under the onslaught of ancient-will-life-death-memory-power. Sola wheezes, struggling to push her own magic out far enough to breathe.

“You call upon the wards of this world’s future, mortal.” One of the Kings intones, deep and draconic, and vibrating down to Sola’s bones. A cry rips itself from Sola’s throat. “If you come lusting for power, you must first stand in judgment.”

Hands scrape against shadowy cobblestones, and Sola grits her teeth against overwhelming pressure. “Our people die, yet you do nothing. Summon the Wall!”

“You do not command us!” The King snaps, and this time Sola braces for the pain of hearing voices not meant for mortal ears. “You who have repudiated all claim to your royal blood.”

The Mystic King, Sola realizes, finally tracing the voice back to the central King.

Another voice, lower, the rumbling of earth and stone. “It does not fall to us to guard your city.” The Fierce?

The Conqueror speaks, shifting double-bladed axe that is over twice Sola’s height. “She is a fool creature. Clinging to the past and cowering from the future. Wasting her strength on bygone days.”

Fury gives her strength, and Sola hauls herself up to glare at her forefathers. “What future do you protect, that doesn’t include our people?”

“So short sighted.” The Mystic sneers. Sola bares her teeth in return. The Founder King is an asshole. Good to know.

“And cursed never to rise above it.” The Conqueror agrees. 

“Wait.” Sola freezes, breath catching in her throat as she turns to the last King. She knows that voice, layered with power as it is, she knows that sword. “I have seen what this brave soul is prepared to do. She, too, seeks to safeguard the future.”

“Papa?” Sola whispers. But her father does not turn his gaze from the Mystic. And its with horrible, dawning realization that Sola sees that this is not her father but The Father King. Sola is but a supplicant, come seeking the power of the Lucii, and not his child.

And Sola wishes this wouldn’t be her last memory of him.

The Mystic gives a slight nod to the Father. “Very well, Young King, we will weigh your warrior’s worth.” He turns back to Sola, a note of challenge bleeding through the layered tones. “But our boon does not come cheap. The cost is a life.”

Spectral images of Libertus and Lunafreya fade into being on either side of her.

“His or hers.”

Sola cannot breathe. Her heart, or Noctis’s. How can she choose?

No. She can’t. She won’t.

“Curse your boon to Ifrit’s Pyre.” She spits. “Asking I sacrifice my people for power? You call yourself Kings!”

The Mystic is unmoved. “Your worth has been weighed and found wanting. Now burn.”

Fire ignites from the Ring, purple and blue and searing though Sola’s flesh. Sola screams.

It’s an act of pure will that sees her remain on her feet. She will not kneel. Not to these callous mockeries of kings. And she laughs, dark and bitter because she had so foolishly hoped the dead would care for the living. That these beings of power would care for fleeting mortal lives.

But if it’s not the living they care about. “They will take the Ring.” She tells them. And oh, do they deserve such a cruel irony. “Insomnia. Lucis. Galahd. My king’s people will burn, until there’s nothing left for him to rule.” 

Sola’s soul wails with furious sorrow. Her people don’t deserve this, and her brother doesn’t deserve to come home to naught but ash and grief. She stares the Mystic with fire-fury-conviction in her soul. “Abandon us to the Pyre. Or save us.”

The Conqueror seems amused by her defiance. “You mean to barter for your life.”

Sola snorts. “No. My life is nothing, compared to so many.” She turns, taking the agonizing moments to meet the gaze of each Lucii. “I would die for my people. For my king. But that’s not what my duty requires.”

She brings her gaze to rest on the Mystic, and tilts her chin up, daring him to challenge her next words. “You’re right. I abdicated. I do not want the duty of the crown. I am content to fight for hearth and home. But I am Sola Ostium Lucis Caelum, The Ardent of Fire and Fury, and I have a duty to Lucis. And Lucis, Hearth and Home, is not a place. It is the people.” 

A burning hand over her heart. “It’s their future I will fight and live for.”

Laughter, chiming like bells from The Just. “Spoken like a true Queen, granddaughter.” She says fondly.

The Fierce hums, considering her. “You do not fear, even if that future is doomed."

“If the future is doomed,” Sola counters fiercely, “I will fight until it is not.” Sola refuses to give up on her people. She will die first.

“If that is true, perhaps you are worthy.” The Fierce says.

The Pious nods. “We will grant you our Light.” He decides. “But know that it will set when the sun rises.”

“The price will be the end of your line.” The Mystic decrees.

No red haired Ostiums then. No Lucis Caelums with Libertus’ face and her magic. 

Adoption, then. The Ostiums will continue, if not the Lucis Caelums.

“Agreed.”

“Then rise, Regent Queen, until the Chosen returns to claim his throne.”

[cornelthecursed]

I’m a what?

// Another piece to Cor’s life stories. This time around I want to shed a little light on the vampire types that are in my world and how they function. Of course, there is not every single detail, but the main things are mentioned. On top of that, this is one of the first times Cor’s met his now best friend Leoric. Couldn’t help myself but make the lore bit a little bit more interesting through the dialogue and confused Cor. Enjoy. Word count: 1558 Wranings: mentions of death

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He hadn’t known. If he had perhaps he would have acted different. Perhaps he wouldn’t have followed on with his feelings and married a human girl. But how could he known? He didn’t even realise he was a vampire to begin with! And now he was sat down behind the wooden table at a house he never visited by a vampire who somehow managed to put him down. Granted he was a little manic and not in the best of moods, but here he was. Looking up at the fair haired man he glanced around the kitchen area they were sitting at.

His eyes danced from one thing to another, noting the neat rows of clean dishes, the herbs by the window and decorations through out. It was clear the vampire wasn’t living alone. A spouse perhaps? Did he have a human one too? His eyes rose to meet the other’s. The first thing he noticed was the fact that his eyes were ice blue. The man in question sighed and sat on the edge of the table making him look down on the apparently younger vampire. “Spit it out, I know you have questions on your tongue.” Cornelius sighed and looked down at his hands that rested on his lap. He was trying to clear his head, make it easier to start asking for him and get a hold of the whole situation. “So…they were killed because of me?” he asked in a small voice. His thoughts returning to the dreadful night when he found his family covered in blood and very much dead. Leoric, the man above Cornel, sighed. “Yes and no. The world isn’t white and black, Cornelius.” He spoke gently and the look he had given him could be compared to a reprimanding one. A father that was looking down at his son for misbehaving. “They killed them, because you have created a halfling. Those are shunned by our society - well mostly the older ones.” Licking his lips he shifted, leaning against the leg that was supporting him up. “You are far more powerful than any of my kind could be. That’s why they keep you under wraps. You should have let them know you decided to create a family.” “Who are they?” Leoric looked at Cornel wide eyed. He was even more of lost cause than he thought. And he was a pureblood? How in the name did they not know about him until now? “Well..The Highest and his family. The so called old generation vampires. The protectors.” “Old generation? There are other types? Is that why your eyes aren’t red?” his voice was so eager that he sounded more or less like a child that was trying to understand the world around him. In a sense Cornel was just that. His eyes just opened to the world of vampires and there was so much to be learnt from it. The man siting on the edge of the table chuckled at his outburst. “Yes, to all three. There are two types of vampires. Yours truly and you. I think your eyes reflect your heritage.” He hummed examining the red irises surrounded by the black sea. That made Cornelius avert his eyes and try to focus on something else - rather look out of the window even if all he saw were the leaves of trees growing nearby. As a telepath he found it unsettling to be looking into one’s eyes directly like Leo did just moments ago. “I don’t know who my parents were…I don’t remember them well.” He sighed shaking his head glancing again towards him and looking at the table.

“Can’t be helped. That is, however another peculiar thing to old generation vampires, or as we call them - purebloods. You weren’t changed, you were born.” Putting emphasis on the last word he grinned revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. Most importantly human ones. That had Cornelius start and look closer at them. “Your teeth. They look normal.” He mumbled to himself, even reached up to touch them which had Leo lean back away from him at first.

“I can hide them Cornelius.” “But,” sitting back down his shoulders sagged. “Is it because I didn’t have a vampire to raise me that I cannot?” When he looked up he looked defeated. There was so much he didn’t know and apparently because of it two lives were extinguished. Ones of his beloved family it would seem. Just because he didn’t know the rules by which vampires lived.

“That’s because you are a pureblood. You are way too powerful to be able to look human.” The patient voice continued explaining. “You couldn’t step into the sun either, right?” A nod and Leoric smiled in response.

“Not without a protective amulet.” The younger one added and ran a hand through his hair. “What else is there I should know?” “To us - the new generation vampires, you are a mystery. Purebloods, or what is left of them keep their secrets well hidden, you would have to look for answers in history of our kin or go up to the remaining ones. The Highest is one for example.” The mere mention of the Highest had the pureblood growl and his eyes glint dangerously in the setting sun. His hand curling into a fist to the point where his own nails weer breaking skin in his palm. “Or not!” Leoric added hastily, raising his hands in surrender. It was obvious Cornel loathed the guy. And there was no wonder. Who would have liked the one who ordered the death of your family? Taking deep breaths and closing his eyes, he got his rage under control before he looked up at his partner again. “Then tell me what you know.” His voice was surprisingly calm considering the topic. Leoric regarded the man in front of him, the way his eyes screamed murder but the rest of him was perfectly at ease. He definitely had a command over his body and it made him so much scarier. It didn’t add to the fact that he was a fucking pureblood vampire that could take on multiple normal ones just by default? They were faster, stronger and generally built to withstand to take a hit or two. Better warriors, better at everything but blending in. Licking his lips Leo pushed of the corner and approached one of the cabinets. Pulling out a bottle he poured them both a glass of wine. “Alright, but we might be here for a while.” He responded, setting the half filled glass before the other resident of his house. Sitting across from him now, he looked him in the eye. “Purebloods were created long time ago, the sources don’t have the exact date, but it was damn long ago. They were made to the image of humans, meaning that beside having to drink blood, they had to eat and drink as well to survive.” Taking a sip from his own glass to wet his throat he continued. “The shift came with one of the greatest wars of our history. We were fighting against werewolves. The war was long and exhausting for both of the races. But we were the ones that were impacted the most. We had to adapt to our environment.” He shrugged looking up to see if Cornel was listening, unsurprisingly, he was. That’s when we were created. New generation. The names are quite fitting, eh? We can go into sunlight without protection and we blend in better. We had to hide from the werewolves in order to not go extinct.” The last sentence had Cor lean back and cross his arms over his chest. It didn’t add up. He was saying that there was new kind of vampires created from the old ones. At the same time it happened way back meaning he wasn’t alive then.

“How do you know all this?” his head tilted to the side as he regarded him. He was starting to grow suspicious. Was Leoric sent in by the Highest as well? What role did he play in this whole scheme? However, Cor’s expression changed as soon as he noticed Leoric blushing.

“I kind of like history.” He shrugged, placing his hands on the table near his glass, playing with the base of it. Turning it from right to the left and back. “I’ve read through the books I mentioned before.”

“Oh…but if the war happened so long ago, how come I exist?”

“That’s the thing. Like I said purebloods can be born.” Leo’s eyes were twinkling with excitement - the question making him perk up. “Since your lot was made after humans you reproduce similarly. Granted, your fertility rate is low, but I think it’s better to have at least a small chance rather than none like I do.” He got a little sad at the mention of it, but otherwise he looked quite excited to be talking about a topic he was interested in. Cornelius on the other hand looked as if contemplating everything that he had heard from the vampire across from him. It would take a lot longer to process, but at least he got the grasps of it. There was a lot that he didn’t know yet. But he had endless time at his disposal to figure the finer nuances out.

[lirnitbreak]

Alisaie intro!

(Firefly, 26, MST )  ─  the mirrors surrounding you did as they were meant to, reflecting back a spitting image of CHINA ANNE MCCLAIN  -  but it’s clear something is wrong from the moment that a vision of  REAWAKENING IN THE RISING STONES AFTER YOUR TIME IN THE FIRST strikes you.  perhaps it was a passing daydream in the frenzy of the funhouse. you reassure yourself  -  you’re ALISAIE LEVEILLEUR,  a  NINETEEN YEAR OLD COLLEGE STUDENT AND CHAMPIONSHIP FENCER  whose virtue lies in your + DETERMINATION & + EMPATHY, although you’ve been told that you tend to be quite - UNDIPLOMATIC  & - IMPULSIVE,  and you’re associated with THE SHEEN OF A METAL RAPIER, AND THE SMELL OF DUST AFTER AN EXPLOSION by those around you.  suddenly,  however,  you’ve found THE GRIMOIRE GIFTED TO YOU THE LAST TIME YOU SAW YOUR GRANDFATHER  on your person - was that always there? from the moment you leave the funhouse,  memories from your life in FINAL FANTASY XIV have begun to return - leaving whoever you had been before in the mirror’s reflection behind you.  you can almost hear INVINCIBLE  by KELLY CLARKSON following in your wake.

BEFORE ALUCARD:

(Note: Alisaie’s last memory is from the last patch of the game as of writing this, 5.3, so there are spoilers for the entirety of FFXIV!) 

CW for relative death mentions

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Alisaie Leveilleur was the second born twin born to the esteemed Leveilleur family of Sharlayan. At the time of her birth, her father led a research colony in the province of Dravania, but she has no memories of her birthplace, as she returned to the motherland as an infant because of the threat of war in the region. Alisaie grew up in the shadow of her twin brother Alphinaud, with all of her gifts in magic not being as remarkable as his, and her flaws being much more noticeable then his, making her develop a bit of a complex. One of the few people who could soothe this complex and make her feel better about herself was her grandfather Louisoix Leveilleur. Out of all of her family he was the one who made her feel like her own person and not just as Alphinaud’s lesser twin.

The last time she saw her grandfather was when she was eleven years old, right when she and her brother were accepted into the Studium of Sharlayan. He had given them tomes to help with their studies of the arcane arts, but shortly after he set sail to the distant land of Eorzea which was brewing with the threat of war. The Sharlayans always believed they had to avoid war, but Louisoix believed it was man’s duty to help those in need. Unfortunately he never returned home, giving his life to save Eorzea from total destruction.

Alisaie graduated from the Studium at the age of sixteen and decided with her brother to visit Eorzea and see the land their grandfather had given his life to. Alisaie became disillusioned with the lack of answers she received and split from her brother to do her own investigations. As her grandfather had given his life to stop the primal sealed in the moon, Bahamut, she investigated the ruins that had showered onto the earth. With the help of the brave adventurer her brother had put all his faith in when they split paths, she ventured into these ruins and stopped the possible reawakening of Bahamut and spoke to a specter of her grandfather one last time, who convinced her, that her path was to help people.

She spent time on the road, learning the arts of the Red Mage, allowing her to combine her prodigious fencing skills with her magic skills, and finally have a form of magic different from her brothers. She helped everyone she could. Her travels eventually led her back to her brother and the adventurer, now widely known as the Warrior of Light, and formally joining their team.

She became extremely loyal to the Warrior of Light and saw them as the ideal hero, following them to the ends of the earth, and even to other worlds, when she was pulled to the First Shard. There especially she became even more sure of her path, when she spent about eighteen months tending to and defending people who’d been left behind in the catastrophe that shook the First Shard. But eventually she returned to her home world, and that is where this story ends...

DURING ALUCARD:

...and where this one begins. In many ways this Alisaie is very similar to her previous counterpart. She is a twin, born to a scholarly minded family. Her family was well known for their global humanitarian efforts, but her parents had essentially retired after her and her brother’s birth to return to their hometown of Alucard to raise them. 

Much like before, she never quite measured up to her brother’s potential, despite being otherwise a genius.  As before her grandfather was very supportive of her and gave her much of the encouragement the rest of her family seemed to forget to give her.  From a young age, she became invested in fencing, realizing it was a skill she had that her brother didn’t, and put her all into it, her room being littered with trophies from regional, national and even international championships before she was even an adult. Her parents sometimes worried that she wasn’t putting in enough effort into her studies, but her grandfather always encouraged her that she was taking her own path and it didn’t have to match the one her parents put before her.

When she was fourteen (so five years before current day) her grandfather tragically died in a humanitarian incident overseas. After that Alisaie became even more frustrated being cooped up in Alucard, and wanted to see more of the world, and to understand the kind of causes her grandfather gave his life for. But her parents insisted that she had to go to college and get a degree in something, not wanting her to completely depend on her fencing talents for a living.

Alisaie is now in her second year of college, but is very bored and is still undeclared.  She is passing all her classes with ease, but nothing interests her enough to pursue it. And its cutting into her time that she could be spending training in what she actually loves!

-------

Basic stats:

Name: Alisaie Leveilleur

Nicknames: You can call her Ali if she likes you enough

Gender: cis girl (she/her pronouns) Birthday: August 27, 2001

Sexuality: Bisexual

Occupation: undeclared university student, championship fencer

------

POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS:

LONGTIME FRIENDS (or nuisances): Alisaie has lived in Alucard basically her entire life, (much to her annoyance) so anyone in her age range who’s lived here even a fraction of that time, there’s a very good chance she knows them from school, or community things. Kind of a general connection idea, but Alisaie is the kind of character I imagine different people would react very differently to her, so if you’re interested in any kind of relationship like this, lmk and we can plot it further.

      FELLOW JOCKS: one specific connection is Alisaie comes from a family of a bunch of nerds (even her beloved grandfather? Complete nerd) and she definitly would want to spend time outside of her house with some people who can appreciate some physical activity. I’m not sure if theres any fellow fencers here (I mean a lot of fictional characters use swords, so not out of the realm of possibility) but even people to hang out at the gym with her, would be a lifesend. 

         =  FELLOW COLLEGE STUDENTS: Alisaie is undeclared and she’s kind of trying everything to see if anything makes her tick. So its very possible she’s ran into other students in any major because she’s trying “intro to whatever” in anything that seems vaguely interesting to her.  I’d just love some people who could make her time in college feel a little less miserable, because girl you’re only young once, stop moping, y’know?

[thewarriorandtheking]

The King’s Women

This one was intended to be a Short Read but it sort of got away from me...the first meeting of the King’s wife & his Warrior Woman

The Warrior and The King MasterList

Warnings: Smut, Fluff, jewelry porn 

***************************************

They were on the road back from Esgaroth with a load of Longbottom Leaf and Belfalas whiskey when Durin heard Dwalin hail someone behind them. He turned in his seat on the wagon and saw it was Kaylea Wolf, his father’s woman, on her black horse. He looked around for her wolf and spied him far off the road, trotting through the brush. Durin nudged his brother beside him.

“Look, your girlfriend!” Though he was always quick to deny it, Thror had a huge crush on the warrior woman and Durin never tired of teasing him about it. Thror quickly turned to look and punched his little brother in the side.

“Shut up!” He told Durin, watching Kaylea come up beside their wagon on her big horse. She was so pretty he could never stop himself from staring at her. Her fine features that could have been carved from marble, her golden hair, her sky-blue eyes, she had to be the fairest woman in all Middle Earth. He loved it when she came to Erebor.

“Master Dwalin,” Kaylea said, nodding to the old Dwarf. “And the princes, I hope you are well.”

Thror and Durin nodded politely. “It is always a good day when you come to Erebor, lass,” Dwalin was saying. “Though your timing could be better.”

“I do not have control over that,” Kaylea chuckled.

“I think it is a perfect time for her to be here,” Durin said sullenly, kicking the board in front of his boots. “Father has been in one of his moods for days, she always cheers him up.” His father had been so cross lately, it was the reason they talked Dwalin into letting them ride to Esgaroth with him. They had been unsuccessful in getting him to stay a few more days.

“What, the King is brooding again?” She asked Dwalin, with a knowing smile.

Dwalin laughed, settling back into his seat. “Well, he has been worse than usual! Shurri is just back from the Grey Mountains, that always puts him in a mood. And there has been much talk lately about Moria.”

“What about Moria?”

“There are many who believe it is time to reclaim it, including my brother.”

Kaylea shook her head, looking down the road at the Lonely Mountain in the midday sun, its peak still shrouded in snow. “To go to Moria would be a mistake. There is a great evil there that is better left alone. I would have thought Balin knew better,” she said quietly. She well remembered her journeys through that dark and forbidding place. “You have not been long in Erebor, why try to regain Moria so soon?”

“I do not know where the talk started,” Dwalin replied. “It began in whispers several years ago, now it is all over the city. We are doing well in Erebor, our numbers are increasing. Many like my brother think we are strong enough now to do it.”

“Did you bring us any presents?” Durin interrupted. Kaylea always remembered to bring them something, usually weapons of amazing steel. He had been unsuccessful in getting Dwalin to buy him the Elvish bow he had seen in town, maybe his father’s woman had brought him one from Dorsai.  

Thror poked him in the side. “Do not be rude, brother.”

Kaylea smiled at the princes. Thror was growing into a handsome young man, though he seemed to take after his mother. The shape of his face and his nose were very different from Thorin’s. Durin was the spitting image of his father, and more like him in temperament than his brother. “Have you not outgrown those, your highness?”

Durin sat back in his seat with a sigh. “I suppose,” he said, crossing his arms disappointedly.

Kaylea chuckled as she reached into her saddle bag. “Catch!” She tossed a glittering object to him, Durin caught it and turned in over. It was just a little bigger than his hand, made of metal with many sides, each with a rune carved into it.

“What is this?” He asked, fascinated. He found he could depress the facets and the thing would vibrate slightly.

“That is a puzzle box,” Kaylea replied. “When you figure out how to open it you will find your present.”

While Dwalin and Kaylea discussed recent events in the city, Durin worked away at the puzzle as they made their way back to Erebor. He had an idea the runes might spell something that would give him a clue how to open it, but there was no indication of where the script started. Finally, he saw it. “A riddle!” He exclaimed.

“Tell me, brother,” Thror said, he too had been studying the object. Durin shook his head, Thror was much better at riddles than he was and he did not want his brother to solve his puzzle.

“I will tell you when I figure it out,” Durin said. As they crossed the bridge to the city gates and climbed down from the wagon he was still turning the box over in his hands, reading the script. Thror watched his brother go then stepped around the wagon to bow to Kaylea.

“Please forgive my brother,’ he said with a smile. He tried not to look too long at her as it always made him blush. “Allow me to thank you on his behalf.”

Kaylea bowed back to the prince. “You are welcome, your highness.” She turned and reached into her saddlebag. “I also have something for you. I felt you were getting a bit old for puzzles.” She handed him a wide leather belt, beautifully tooled with interlacing Dorsai designs and a buckle in the image of two ravens.

Thror turned it over in his hands, astonished. The last time she was here he and Kaylea had a long discussion about the meaning of the intricate Dorsai designs, he had admired the ones on her tunic and wanted to reproduce them on a scabbard he was making. He could not believe she had not only remembered, but had something made for him. The buckle design recalled the Raven Crown of his father, the work was very fine, though he did not recognize the metal. “Thank you, my lady. I will wear it often.” He looked up to see her smiling at him and quickly looked back down, he could feel the heat in his cheeks. “I hope we will see you later at dinner.”

After Kaylea took care of her horse she climbed the stairs to the second gallery. Years ago, Thorin had set aside a large room for her, with a bathroom and a dressing room. She thought it was a bit extravagant as she was rarely in Erebor, but having her own quarters did make the place feel like home. Hector went through the door first to curl up on his fur bed. He was almost instantly asleep. The news of her arrival had obviously been passed on the staff as the bed had been freshly made and turned down, a fire was laid on in the hearth. The cool of the underground city was refreshing after being out in the summer sun but it would be cold without a fire in the evening. Kaylea gratefully peeled off her heavy clothes and took a bath to wash off the road dust. Clean and refreshed, she retrieved her tablet to read her daily reports as she stretched out on the bed. She hoped it would not scandalize whoever came to bring dinner if she answered the door in her undershirt and leggings. She had been in the saddle for almost thirty hours and it felt good to lie down and relax.

She was barely through her second report when she heard Thorin’s knock on the door. Surprised, she stowed her tablet away and went to answer. She had not expected to see him alone until later in the evening, the thought of being in his arms had her heart pounding, she ached for the taste of him. As soon as she lifted the latch Thorin pushed the door open and wrapped his arms around her, his tongue in her mouth, his hands under her shirt traveling up her back and around to her breasts. He kicked the door closed behind him, pulling her shirt off. Kaylea returned his kiss with the same passion, lifting his shirt over his head and unbuckling his belt. They took a moment’s pause to make their way to the bed, shedding the rest of their clothes. Kaylea pushed herself back on the pillows, desperate to have him inside her. She arched her back as he entered her, pushing against him to get him deeper. Thorin thrust into her slowly, then quickly took them both to a gasping climax. They lay together breathing hard for a few moments before she hooked a leg around him, holding him tight against her and pulling his mouth back to hers. Her hands played over his body, finding those places that drove his passion, her fingers light on his skin. Thorin felt his body respond, he returned her caresses, hands moving down her body, he moved slowly now, taking his time to savor the sensation of being one with the woman he loved. The desert smell of her, the feel of her skin, like water to a man dying of thirst.  

It was almost two hours later when they exchanged their first words. Still in the afterglow of passion Kaylea was pouring drinks from a bottle out of her saddlebag. After their first night together her Dorsai liquor had become a sort of tradition. Thorin came out of the bathroom to stand beside her, sliding his arm around her waist. He clicked his glass to hers and drank. Giving her braids a critical glance, he pulled out a chair.

“Sit,” he said, rummaging in his coat for a comb and his pouch of beads. Kaylea always did her braids carefully before she came to Erebor but they never passed Thorin’s inspection. He always had to take them out and redo them.

“Is all well with you, my king?” Kaylea asked him as he worked. Their passion for each other was always intense, but there had been a kind of urgency to Thorin’s desire this time. “I am not complaining about the enthusiasm, just wondering at the cause.”

Thorin sighed. “I have many things pressing on my mind, my love. To know you are here is like a weight lifted from my shoulders.”

Kaylea smiled, waiting for him to go on. When he fell silent, she reached over and stroked his side. “Dwalin told me there is much discussion of Moria.”

“Yes, it is the talk of the city. I believe it is a mistake but one day soon I will have to let them go. Many will leave, it will be a hard blow for Erebor.” He finished combing her hair and started the first braid. “And Shurri is pestering me about having another child.”

Kaylea was surprised. “Another child? When you have two sons?”

“We are both from families of three, she thinks there is some kind of charm to it. I really do not see the need,” Thorin frowned, concentrating on his work. “If you would just stay here and marry me, my life would be complete.”

“Let us not have this conversation again on the first night,” Kaylea replied. In truth, she hated sharing the man she loved with his wife. She wished with all her heart that she and Thorin could be together, but it simply was not possible. He could not come with her and, as much as she loved him, she had no desire to give up her life to be the Queen of Erebor.

Thorin finished her braids and moved to stand behind her chair, he ran his hands down her arms and cupped her breasts, his fingers circling her nipples, his touch like sparks on her skin. Kaylea felt chills run up her spine, she tilted her head back to smile at him, he bent his head to kiss her mouth. It was a long moment before he drew back.

“You will get me started again,” Kaylea said, reaching back to run her fingers up the inside of his leg.  

“Mmmmm…much as I would enjoy that, it is time to get ready for dinner,” Thorin said softly, smiling down at her.

“Are you inviting me?”

“Of course,” the King replied. “Wear your silver dress and sit beside me.” He picked up his undergarments and pulled them on.  

Kaylea half-turned in her chair to look at him. “Is that wise, my king? Would it not be better to be cautious while your wife is here?”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “For once, will you put aside thoughts of the kingdom and do as I ask?” He put a hand on her cheek. “You are so seldom here, and never for long enough. Can you blame me for wanting to spend every moment together?”

She bowed her head, Thorin was the King and she would do what he wanted. “As you wish.”

He tilted her head up and kissed her softly. “To be with you is my only wish.”

Later, as Kaylea smoothed her dress in the mirror she wondered what Thorin was up to. This was really throwing it in Shurri’s face. She would have preferred her first meeting with Thorin’s wife take place in private, but he had declared otherwise. The soft silk dress had always been his favorite. The draped silver fabric caught in metal clasps at the shoulders, leaving her arms bare. A length of the same fabric spanned her shoulders to cover the cutaway back, falling to the floor behind her. The low neckline and slit in the side insured every man’s eye would be on her tonight. Kaylea put on the multi-stranded chain and ring that Thorin had given her, then made her way down the stairs.  

As she walked into the reception hall Kayla saw that the King and Queen were not yet there. It looked like it would be a lively party, she saw the princes, and also Dis and Dwalin, Gloin and Balin and several others. The fires were burning merrily in the hearths, the hum of conversation filled the room. She noticed Thror was wearing his new belt and went over to compliment him, which made him blush again. As they were talking Durin walked up.

“I solved it!” He announced proudly as he pulled up his sleeve to show her the sheath of throwing knives that had been in the puzzle box. He had always admired Kaylea’s and now she hoped he was old enough not to injure himself with them.

She nodded her approval. “I will have to teach you how to use them.”  

“I have already been practicing,” Durin said proudly. “I will show you tomorrow.” Kaylea noticed several of the knives were not secured in their sheaths and quickly showed Durin how to slide them in and make sure he felt the click. As she was securing them she glanced up to see Dis crossing the room towards her. Kaylea had always liked the princess, with her wry humor and straightforward manner; it struck her Dis seemed so much older than Thorin now, her hair streaked with grey and lines around her eyes. In fact, she was younger but the boosterspice shot Kaylea had given him at the Battle of the Five Armies had reversed his aging. Now he looked even younger than his nephew, while his sister continued to age.  

Kaylea curtsied. “Your highness.”

Dis acknowledged her with a nod, handing her a glass of wine. “Good evening, my lady! It has been too long since you were in Erebor. You are looking well,” she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You do know Queen Shurri is here.”

Kaylea nodded. “That is my understanding. This was Thorin’s choice.” She looked down at her dress. “What has changed between the King and Queen? I understood they were friends.”

Dis chuckled. “Time changes many things, as I am sure you know. They have both long been in love with other people. Now that the kingdom is prospering and Thorin has heirs they see less reason to stay together.” She gave Kaylea a critical look. “Showing up at a family dinner dressed like that is not going to help.”

“I have a feeling the King may be making a point,” Kaylea said wryly. “He told me Shurri is pressuring him to have another child.”

“Is she still on about that?” Dis shook her head. “Well, she will probably get her way in the end.” She glanced quickly at the tall woman. “I am sorry.”

“I am the one who encouraged Thorin to marry a Dwarf princess, you remember,” Kaylea told her.

“You should have just married him yourself,” Dis scolded gently. “The two of you were meant to be together, anyone can see that.”

“And let the line of Durin fall to infighting and disarray? Your son has a strong claim to the throne, but now that Thorin has heirs of his own there can be no question,” Kaylea said. “This marriage to Shurri insured the continuation of his line.”

Dis gave her an appraising glance. “It is always about the good of the kingdom for you.”

Kaylea smiled. “I am a soldier, I think first of King and country.”

Dis stepped closer, laying a hand on her arm. “Perhaps you should give some thought to what it is you want for yourself, lass.”

Before Kaylea could respond, the Queen walked in, attended by two of her handmaidens. Shurri had a reputation as a great beauty and Kaylea could see it was well-deserved. Flawless white skin, sharp features, violet eyes, dark hair in three braids almost reaching her knees. She wore no beard but had tiny jewels in her long sideburns. She was wearing a spectacular blue dress sparkling with gems that accentuated the curves of her figure, and an astonishing amount of jewelry. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Kaylea, she crossed the room and stood before her, looking her up and down appraisingly. Kaylea was wearing her hair down, but the braids she shared with the King were plain to see, as was the fact Shurri was not wearing them. The two women could not have been more different. Kaylea tall, athletic and golden-haired, looking like a goddess of the hunt in her flowing dress. The Queen small and full-figured, a picture of Dwarven beauty, exuding all the majesty of her position. Everyone in the room was watching the two women, wondering what was going to happen next.

Kaylea curtsied low, bowing her head. “Your majesty.”

“The famous warrior. At last we meet,” the Queen replied. “Pity you did not have time to finish making your dress.”

Kaylea smiled at her innocently. “I can see your majesty was also pressed for time this evening. You neglected to braid your hair.”

“I prefer less mannish braids,” Shurri said, matter of factly. “They do suit you.” For years she had been hearing about this woman, now that she had set eyes on her she could see why the men of Erebor never stopped talking about her. It was not just her great beauty, it was her commanding presence, she had that quality that inspired you to follow her wherever she led. The same charisma that Thorin possessed, only far more powerful.

“I do not mind wearing a man’s braids,” Kaylea was saying. “As long as it is the right man. Is that three-braid style popular in the Grey Mountains?”

Shurri gave her a dark look. The fact she also had a lover back in her homeland was hardly a secret but it was not spoken about in public. Thorin had forbidden her to bring him to Erebor and it had long been a sore subject between them. It did give her satisfaction to know that even though Thorin paraded his mistress in front of her, it was her children and not Kaylea’s that would be kings of Erebor. She was already resolved that once her third child was of age she would end her arrangement with Thorin and return to her homeland. Then he could marry this woman, if she would have him. The Queen had heard she had already refused him several times.

At that moment Thorin came in and everyone turned and bowed low. He was wearing a high-collared red shirt with his black embroidered vest and breeches. To Kaylea he looked good enough to eat. He stepped between the two women and held out his hand to Kaylea, not even acknowledging the Queen. She looked at him in surprise, but before she could react Shurri stepped forward and took his hand.

“I must insist that you follow proper protocol, husband,” she hissed at Thorin. He gave her a dark scowl, that intense, simmering stare of his that few could withstand. Shurri merely scowled back at him, apparently undeterred. Everyone in the room was holding their breath. Kaylea quickly shot Dis a glance over the Queen’s shoulder. Thorin’s sister elbowed Thror, who was standing beside her. Prodded to action, he stepped forward to offer Kaylea his arm.

“If you would allow me, my lady.” Kaylea nodded to him and put her arm through his, following the King and Queen into the Small Dining Hall. It was only called that because it was used for gatherings of less than thirty, there was really nothing small about anything in Erebor. The ceiling arched ten meters overhead, the walls intricately carved and hung with fabulous tapestries, the table laden with the evening’s feast. Thor led Kaylea to her seat at the right of the King and moved down the table to take his own, feeling as if he was walking on air. It had only been for a brief moment, but now he knew what it was like to have the most beautiful woman in Middle Earth on his arm. Shurri sat at the far end of the table, her handmaids on one side and Durin on her right. Privately Kaylea wondered what was going on between the King and Queen, Thorin seemed to be going out of his way to offend her. As the meal got underway she soon understood. Balin started in almost immediately on his plans for Moria and it was clear Shurri supported him. Thorin laid out all the reasons it was a bad idea, and Kaylea jumped in to agree. As she began to describe the state of the mines and the halls, the obstacles they would face, she saw some doubt creep into the faces around the table.

“You speak almost as if you had been there,” Shurri remarked, after Kaylea had described the difficulties of navigating the tunnels.

Kaylea nodded. “I have. When one must cross the Misty Mountains in winter, it is the fastest route.”

Balin’s eyes widened. “You go through the western door! I had not thought of going that way!”

“Nor should you,” Kaylea replied. “The western door is guarded. The Watcher suffered me to pass, I was one person. A large company of Dwarves would not be so fortunate.”

Shurri laughed softly at this. “I would say it is more likely this Watcher would fear for his life if he found a troop of Dwarves at his door!”

Kaylea’s eyes flashed. “You know not of what you speak, your majesty. And that is not the only evil that dwells in Moria. There is no weapon you possess, no number of Dwarves that can defeat Durin’s Bane.”

This started a whole new round of debate. Many believed the Balrog had left, or returned to its sleep deep in the earth. Kaylea shook her head, she could tell this idea had taken a deep hold on Balin and those like him. Her words might stay them for a time, but one day soon they would go, and it would be their deaths. As the evening wore on Kaylea grew restless. The conversation had turned to trade and currency markets, Dwarves never seemed to tire of eating and debating, and the warm, smoke-filled room was making her long for a breath of fresh air. Rising from her chair, she leaned over to whisper in Thorin’s ear.

“I am going for a walk,” she told him. Thorin turned toward her, laying a hand on her arm.

“I will go with you,” he said. She shook her head.

“Protocol, remember? Stay and enjoy yourself,” she ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. “I will see you later.” The King bit his lip, leaning toward her. Before he could reply Gloin called for him to settle a point about a family relation and he turned back to the table to set him straight.  

Kaylea walked out onto the parapet over the gate, breathing in the night air. The land between the shoulders of the mountain was laid out before her, the lights of Dale twinkling in the distance. Fast-moving clouds in the sky moved over the moon, the landscape a patchwork of moonlight and darkness. She felt a cold nose nudge her hand and looked down to meet Hector’s yellow eyes. He was rested now and ready to hunt.

“Go on, then,” she smiled at him. “Good hunting.” The black wolf trotted off and a few moments later she saw a shaft of light as the gate was cracked and he slipped out into the night. She watched him lope off to the north until he disappeared. Alone with her thoughts, she recalled Dis’ words from earlier in the evening. It was true she never gave much thought to her own wants; her mind was always occupied with thoughts of her command or orders to be obeyed. To live in Erebor with Thorin would be a good life. She knew she would outlive him, and could return to her old life after he was gone, though it pained her deeply to think about it. But her lord would never permit it, and she was still uncertain how Thorin would feel about her when he found out where she was really from. Setting wishful thinking aside, she decided to take a walk through the city. It had been seven years since she had been in Erebor and she always enjoyed walking the streets and seeing all the improvements that had been made. It was close to midnight so the city would be quiet, hopefully she would not startle too many of the inhabitants.

She made her way down the stairs and across the Second Hall to the gallery that led into the city proper. As she approached the entrance, she could see it had been much enlarged. It was both taller and wider, the support columns had been removed, the ceiling arching gracefully overhead. A little stream lined with colorful stones now wove its way down the middle of the street, spanned by many beautiful bridges, each different. In places the sides of the gallery had been carved with trees, so lifelike they almost looked as if they had grown there. During the day this was one of the main locations for commerce in the city, with crowded shops and merchants setting out their wares in the street. At this hour all was quiet, Kaylea saw only a few Dwarves cleaning up, and a crew working on a new tree. They all paused in their work to stare at her and bowed as she passed. She acknowledged them with a nod and a smile, realizing she was a bit overdressed to walk around the city.

She came to the place where a second gallery intersected the first, in the center now was a beautiful fountain. The sculpture of the past kings of Erebor at the center so delicate it almost disappeared under the water. She stopped to admire it when she felt someone approaching, listening to the step she knew it was Thorin.

“I have found you at last!” Thorin exclaimed as he came forward to take her hand, bringing it to his lips. “When you said you were going for a walk, you were serious.”

“I am a bit restless tonight, my king.”

“Let us walk a bit further then,” Thorin replied. He took her arm and headed down the second gallery. They talked of events in Erebor, of Gondor and the goings on in the West, the whispers of the shadow that was creeping into the land.

“I feel beset on all sides with this Moria business,” Thorin told her. “I want to thank you for your words of support this evening.”

Kayela shook her head. “I do not know if I was able to change any minds, hopefully it will dissuade a few. To enter that place is suicide.” She smiled at him. “It is my place to support you, if I disagreed you would not hear about it in public.”

Thorin stopped, looking at her intently. “Shurri could learn a lesson or two from you. Tell me, why will you not stay here and be my queen?”

“You know the answer to that,” Kaylea reached up to smooth a stray hair away from his face.

“No, I do not,” Thorin replied. “All I hear from you is what I should do for the kingdom. I would like to know what you want, my love.”

Kaylea wondered if he had been talking to Dis. She leaned forward to rest her forehead against his, closing her eyes, this time she spoke from her heart. “To stay by your side until the stars go out, to fall asleep every night in your arms, to know that wherever I go, you are beside me.”

Thorin drew back, his expression surprised. He put his hands on either side of her face. “We want the same things, my love! Why do you not stay?”

Kaylea sighed. “You were born to be a great King, I was born to lead armies into battle. Just as you cannot set your crown aside, I would never be happy if I could not do that which I was born to do.”

Thorin nodded. “I understand, my love, better than you know. As you say, I could never give up my kingdom but sometimes the weight of the crown does grow heavy, as I am sure your responsibilities do for you. I would not be averse to laying it aside, for a short time. You once spoke of us spending time in each other’s lands, I hope you have not given up on that.”

“No, indeed. I still believe there is a way we can make a life together, that is my dearest wish.”

As they talked they had come to the entrance of the treasury of Erebor. The guards stood aside, bowing to the King. Kaylea well remembered how astonished she had been the first time she had seen the great wealth of the city. It was much tidier now, the gold melted into bars that were stacked high in a series of vaults; the gems, jewelry and other treasures neatly ordered in a series of storerooms.

“What are we doing here, my king?” Kaylea wondered if this meant she was getting another necklace, or maybe something else. This was only the third time she had been in the treasury since the Battle of the Five Armies.  

“Not to worry, my love,” Thorin said with a smile. “I do not have a secret plan. Just that it has been many months since I was down here, I thought I should take the opportunity to make sure everything is where it is supposed to be.”

Kaylea nodded, not quite believing him. She was glad that all traces of Thorin’s dragon sickness seemed to be completely gone. She had not been there to witness it herself, but the stories she had heard from his companions were hair-raising. The Kzin telepath had done his work well erasing it from the King’s mind. Thorin stopped at one of the smaller rooms and pulled the door open. Inside were rows of drawers, narrow and long. Kaylea remembered from her past visit that these were full of cut gemstones and jewelry.

“These are yours,” Thorin said, waving his hand at a row of drawers. He chuckled at her startled expression. “I have taken a new interest in jewelry making lately, I find it quite relaxing.”

He moved over and opened one to the drawers. Inside was a row of spectacular necklaces, not with large, heavy gems such as the Queen wore but delicate rows of stones, most with multiple strands. Some with chain as fine as a single strand of silk. Thorin picked up a necklace of blue-white stones that got larger towards the front, a teardrop-shaped single luminous blue gem at the bottom. A moon sapphire, to match the ring Kaylea wore.

“If you would indulge me, my lady,” Thorin was saying. “I just want to check if the length on this one is right.”

Kaylea shook her head, smiling at him. Reminding herself that this is what she should expect for falling in love with a Dwarf, she turned so he could take off the chain she was wearing and fasten the necklace. The stones were cold against her skin, flashing with white fire in the soft light.

Thorin looked at it thoughtfully. “It needs to be longer.”

Kaylea wondered once again what it was with Dwarves and jewelry. Though sometimes it felt like she and Thorin had been together forever, in truth she was still learning the intricacies of Dwarven culture. She could tell by the way he looked at the necklace it was more than just an ornament to him, it seemed to move him in some deeper way. She wished he would just come out an tell her, but he seemed reluctant.

Thorin moved behind her to unhook the necklace. “Will you try one more for me?”

“Of course,” she smiled over her shoulder at him. “You can try them all, if you want to. As I have told you, I never have occasion to wear such things in my home country, but I will gladly wear them here for you.”

Thorin kissed the back of her neck. “Thank you, my love.” He tried on a couple more necklaces, shaking his head at some imperfection that only he could see. Then he picked up one with a web pattern in mithril silver, dotted with tiny white gems, like raindrops on a spiderweb. Kaylea blinked at design, it was very unlike anything she had seen on the ladies of Erebor.

“Ah, you like this one!” Thorin said as he fastened it, he had been watching her closely. “This one and the first one are your favorites.”

Kaylea chuckled, she was almost embarrassed Thorin could read her so easily. On impulse she pulled open the bottom drawer of the row in front of her. “What else do you have in here?” She heard Thorin’s swift intake of breath, he moved quickly to close the drawer but not before she had pulled out a carefully folded and tied bundle of some kind of chainmail. It was made of gold and glittered with diamonds, the links diamond-shaped and open, almost like a fishnet made of metal. It was soft like fabric in her hand. “What is this?” She asked, marveling at the workmanship.

Thorin did not answer. His face was reddened, he was clearly embarrassed. “That is for a special occasion,” he said. He moved to take it from her, but Kaylea put her hands behind her back.

“What sort of occasion?” She asked. Thorin stepped forward and slid his arms around her, smiling at her as his fingers worked their way under hers. It always surprised her how much strength he had in his hands. She let him take the bundle, wondering why he was being so coy all of a sudden. Thorin had proven himself to be an expert and adventurous lover, there was not much left unexplored between them. “You are not going to tell me, are you?”

“Perhaps another time,” Thorin said, quickly stuffing the bundle back into the drawer. “It is very late, my love. Let us go to bed.”

She smiled at her handsome King, sliding and arm around him and unbuttoning the top of his shirt playfully. “I hope you are not tired.” She traced the buttons down to his belt. “You know I am still learning your ways. If there is something I can do, something you want me to wear for you, all you need to do is ask.”

Thorin grinned crookedly at her. “I did not say I was tired.” He reached up to run his fingers over the spiderweb necklace. “Wear this for me tonight, my love.”

Kaylea could hear it in his tone, Do not take this off. She had always been careful to remove her jewelry before going to bed, now she understood her mistake. She remembered Elrohir’s words the first time they had been in Erebor, Dwarves love best that which they make with their own hands. Jewelry for Thorin it was not just about adorning her, it was about seeing the work of his hands on the woman he loved. Wondering what other mysteries she had yet to discover about Dwarven culture, Kaylea took Thorin’s arm and let him lead her back into the city.

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