#the court jester suffers quietly

[lucidloving]

Charles Bukowski, "Hurry Slowly" // uquiz by VoteforDaffy // @ka3l // Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov // Soozey Lipsey, 'Your Show Must Go On'

[gravitycavity]

Sunshine (Pomni x Ragatha) Chapter 4: Spellbound

[Click here to read from the beginning on AO3!]

Cover art by @blukiar

“...and I’m sorry.” Pomni wiped at her eyes, dragging her drooping gaze up from Ragatha’s torn, tear-soaked dress. “The other day, when I was yelling at you — and everyone else? I was being a jerk.”

Ragatha laughed. “A little. But you’re not a bad person, Pomni — if you were, you wouldn’t have apologized. That takes maturity.”

Pomni sniffed. And sniveled. And sniffed again. “What does it matter? Everyone still hates me…”

“Nobody hates you. Especially not me.” Ragatha sighed. “You’re going through so much, Pomni — we understand.”

Pomni shook her head with a shaky sigh. “I just…” Her voice warbled. Another tear dropped from her shimmering eyes, “...I just want to go home...”

“Oh, Sweetheart. Come here…” Ragatha pulled Pomni closer. She rubbed circles around the little jester’s shuddering back, patiently comforting her until her tears ran dry again — however long it would take. 

“...I don’t understand. How do you do it?” Pomni’s voice, still shriveled and small, eventually found the strength to speak again. “You’ve been trapped in this horrible place for years now. How do you stay sane? How do you just…accept it?”

Ragatha stirred her head. Had it really been that long? 

“...I try not to dwell on things that are out of my control. To focus on the little things that make life worth living.” she said. “It’s easy to be miserable — cathartic, even — but to focus on the silver lining, even if you have to squint to see it? It’s not easy, but I think it’s worth the trouble. Because it’s always, always, always there.”

Pomni was perfectly still for the longest time, quietly breathing, silently squeezing tear after tear from her weepy eyes. When at last she met Ragatha’s gaze, she opened her mouth to speak — but no words spilled forth. Instead, Pomni simply pressed her cheek against Ragatha’s chest, holding the doll tighter than she ever had before.

And Ragatha smiled. “Yeah…?” 

Pomni nodded. 

Ragatha hummed softly, brushing her finger through Pomni’s hair. “I’m glad I met you, too.”

🎪  

The memory was still fresh. 

Ragatha groaned, stirred from her sleep by the court of wild ravens clicking and cawing in the stony branches above. Just like every other morning, her drowsy eyes remained stubbornly shut, but the persistent tap-tap-tapping of woodpeckers kept her mind from sneaking back into slumber. 

Propped against the pruned, petrified redwood, Ragatha shifted her head and took in a long, soothing breath. The forest air had thickened overnight, for better and for worse; the aroma of dewy wildflowers just barely masked the foul musk of rotting wood. 

She grit her teeth, exhaling through her nose. Ow — Ragatha had forgotten how much it hurt just to breathe. The countless rips and tears carved into her fragile form worked in synergy to maximize her suffering; any slight movement was immediately punished with a cacophonous chorus of pain, pain, and more pain. 

Reluctant to even open her eyes, Ragatha remained perfectly still, spacing out her shallow breaths as far apart as she possibly could. Slowly, the roaring in her chest faded into a rumble, the screaming pain in her legs hushed to whispers, and the boiling discomfort in her right arm cooled to a bubbling simmer. 

Even as the choir’s shrill song faded into silence, however, a single voice continued its grating chant. 

It was odd — Ragatha’s left arm laid just as still as its opposite, yet a bothersome, prickling pain still coiled around the appendage. Even stranger, it was a far different sensation than the rest: instead of a blunt, radiant agony that flared up whenever she tried to move, the pain was…precise. Targeted. And dreadfully persistent. 

Every few seconds, something sharp would harass a certain spot on her arm — poking, prodding, stabbing — until her soft skin finally broke. The point would burrow deep into the fresh puncture, dragging something long, dry, and frayed behind it; it tickled as it passed through.

It was an uncomfortable sensation, to say the least, but Ragatha was hardly phased. After all, she’d been living in a body fashioned from cotton and fabric for years at this point —  she was rather accustomed to the unique body horror of being stitched back together. The procedure was just a fact of life now, no different than the uncomfortable routines she’d followed to maintain her old, human body—

Wait. Did that mean…?

Where was she? Had she and Pomni failed the adventure? Had they been teleported back to the tent? No, no — of course not. There’d be no need for anyone to stitch her back together if that were the case; Caine could simply snap his fingers and repair her in the blink of an eye. 

Not wanting to give herself away, Ragatha sat forward — slightly and slowly. Her good eye was closed, but the periwinkle button that served as its twin would be her secret spyglass. 

She concentrated, and the gloomy woods slowly came into focus — as much focus as her barely-functional button eye could handle, at least. She glanced down at her chest, and for a moment, a profound melancholy overcame her: her dear friend Pomni, who had been snuggled so tightly against her the night before, was nowhere to be found. 

Her eye scrambled to find her — she didn’t have to look very far. 

A blurry blob, roughly the shape of a certain anxious jester, kneeled on the ground beside her. One of the woman’s little hands held Ragatha’s arm in place; the other held some sort of needle. Where had she found a needle!? It trembled, stumbling around the wounded limb with whatever the exact opposite of ‘surgical precision’ was. 

Prick, pull. 

Prick, pull. 

Prick, pull. 

Ragatha ground her teeth together as the needle passed over, under, and through her fabric skin, slowly but surely mending the tear in her arm. It took everything she had to keep up the act, to not flinch and squirm with every pointed bite — but some outside force compelled her to hold in the urge. 

In fact, in some strange, backward way, the pain almost felt pleasant — and Ragatha found herself fighting the slight smirk twitching her cheek. She just couldn’t help it, just like she couldn't help how hard her heart was beating, or the brilliant warmth spreading out from her core. 

Each jab was a reminder. Proof positive that even Pomni  — the anxious, angry shut-in who hated everything and couldn’t care less if everyone around her died in a horrible accident — had a kind heart underneath all of that harsh, prickly angst. 

Ragatha surrendered, letting her smirk blossom into a full smile. She knew it. 

Prick, pull. 

Prick, pull.

Stab—

“Oh, go #!$% yourself!” Ragatha yelped. She sat up in a snap, roughly snatching her stinging arm away. 

Pomni quailed in fright. “O-O-Oh my gosh! Ragatha! I’m so sorry, are you—” 

There was a pause. And then a longer one after that. 

The jester blinked. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing! I—” Ragatha was as white as a ghost. “I didn’t mean that!”

“Did you just say the F-word?” 

Ragatha cringed. The pain of her injuries was nothing compared to this mental torment. “I’m so, so, sorry! That just slipped out! You have to believe me — I would never!”

“Ragatha, it’s okay! Really! Think about who you’re talking to right now.” Pomni giggled. She was smiling now. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Ragatha struggled to swallow the embarrassment sizzling in the back of her throat. With her mind too scrambled to think anywhere close to straight, her gaze bounced around the darkness, desperately searching for something she could latch onto to change the subject. It took several moments of hemming and hawing before the obvious pivot she was searching for popped into her head.

Her face still hot, Ragatha looked over herself. Just like she had suspected, Pomni had been hard at work mending her wounds — but it was clear that the younger woman didn’t have much experience with sewing. And by ‘not much’, of course, she meant ‘none whatsoever’.

Frayed threads stuck out from hundreds of jagged stitches. Fluffy chunks of cotton bulged out of hastily-sewn seams that were already starting to come apart. Parts of Ragatha’s delicate fabric skin, stretched and compressed at seemingly random points, were far tighter or looser than they were supposed to be, which made movement even more of a struggle than it already was.

Pomni had done a laughably-poor job; nevertheless, her earnest efforts drove an arrow straight through Ragatha’s soft heart. “I…You…” Ragatha could barely get a word out, “How…?”

“Kind of a long story, actually.” Pomni stared at the gound, rubbing the back of her neck. “So, basically…”

Pomni’s flustered explanation was long, rambling, and hard to parse through all the stuttering. Suffice it to say: over the past several hours, she had gathered the pieces of Ragatha’s torn dress, painstakingly de-threaded them, and twisted them up into thin ropes. Her ‘needle’ was actually the feather from her cap — she’d cut off the end, poked a hole through it using one of the redwood’s thorns, then sharpened its pointed tip.

“...and…yeah.” Pomni tugged on her collar. “I woke up early, so I figured I might as well keep myself busy...”

Unconsciously, Ragatha parted her lips. “You did all that?” she said, “For me?”

“I mean, we’re friends now, right?” Pomni shrugged the most awkward shrug in the history of shrugs. “I wanted you to get better.”

Ragatha was enchanted — and the nagging doubt that had strangled her heart since Pomni’s chaotic debut at last loosened its vice grip. That sealed it. Of course she had been right not to trust her first impression. Of course Pomni cared. To the jester, at least, this unremarkable ragdoll was someone worth protecting. Someone she considered a friend. Someone…beautiful.

Recalling the memory did to Ragatha’s heart as sunbeams did to April blossoms. Beautiful — when had she last heard that word? Since when had she felt so wanted? So cherished and valued? Had she ever?

The raggedy doll cast a yearning look toward the jester. “I don’t know what to say. This is…” she hesitated softly, “...Thank you, Pomni.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I still need to finish your arm.” Pomni’s tone was the same she might use to describe the weather. She pointed at the limb still held tightly against Ragatha’s chest. “So, um, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“...Oh.” Ragatha touched her face. “Oh! Of course — yeah!” she nodded, cautiously surrendering her arm. She wore an anxious smile, and wore it poorly. “Just try to be a bit more delicate this time…?”

“I dunno. Now that I know what happens when I poke you the wrong way, a small part of me wants to know what you’re gonna say next—”

“Try it. I dare you.” 

Pomni chuckled, sinking her makeshift needle into Ragatha’s arm yet again. “Okay, okay. I’ll be careful.” she said. Gently, she pulled the tool through. The doll’s pliable skin tightened, and the deep gash stretching across her arm shrank in turn. 

Ragatha watched Pomni work in silence. The woman, normally a twitching little bundle of nerves, was so…calm. Controlled. Confident, even. It was as if the pitiful, sobbing mess that Ragatha had soothed to sleep the previous night had transformed into an entirely different person overnight. 

Once Pomni had stopped her crying, she and Ragatha had just…talked. And talked. And talked. They vented about the things that annoyed them, chatted about their common interests, and listened to each other’s infodumping about their particular hyperfixations. 

In the midst of it, Ragatha’s troubles had melted away. She and Pomni, holding each other close, were lost in their own little world — but now that Ragatha was back in reality, a nagging worry snuck its way into her mind, and no matter what, it refused to give her peace: 

Exactly what had Pomni been trying to say before her meltdown? 

Why did Ragatha…what? Why did she what? 

The question sat like a boulder in Ragatha’s stomach. She hadn’t done something wrong…had she?

Ragatha looked at Pomni. She shifted her posture, then shifted again. The question, harassing her psyche like a bothersome itch, needed an answer — and yet, Ragatha stayed silent, drowsy eyes admiring the calm smile on Pomni’s face. 

Why would she say anything that might make it disappear?

🎪  🎪  🎪 

Pomni squinted. Her tongue peeked out from between her lips as she carefully — very, very carefully — triple-knotted the thick thread in her hands. With one final tug, the stitches were taut, sealing shut the long gash carved into Ragatha’s arm. “...voilà! Okay, you can open your eyes now!”

Ragatha still leaned against the petrified redwood. Her hand covered her eyes, and, despite her darling companion’s command, didn’t budge an inch. “Again, Pomni, what exactly is the point of this…?”

“What do you mean? This is it — the big reveal!”

“Well, I get that…” Ragatha said, “but I’ve already seen everything. Five minutes ago.”

“But you haven’t seen the whole picture!”

Ragatha breathed in the world’s most angelically-patient breath. “Sweetheart—”

“Ugh, come on! You’re ruining the moment!” Pomni pulled Ragatha’s hand away from her face. Practically bouncing, the jester stepped back, gesturing at Ragatha as if the doll had just been revealed from underneath a sheet. “Ta-da!”

Ragatha shook her head; a relaxed smile brightened her face. She was tickled pink to see that Pomni was finally comfortable enough to show off her goofier side — especially after seeing her at such a low point last night. 

Pomni’s expectant grin didn’t flinch. “So? What do you think?”

Ragatha tilted her head downward. A familiar warmth spread across her face as her eyes retreaded the sloppily-mended tears scattered across her body. Ragatha knew she could have done a much better job herself — but she didn’t care. If it were up to her, she would choose Pomni’s subpar stitching every time. 

She swayed, crossing her hands over her thumping heart. “Gosh, who would’ve guessed you were so talented with a needle and thread, Pomni?” Ragatha batted her hand, “One pales to imagine what this helpless princess would have done without her dashing knight at her side~”

“It’s…It’s not that big a deal.” Pomni swallowed, hands curling around her middle. Her bubbly affect popped just like that. “Really. I-It’s the least I could do…”

“And so modest! Mercy me. Are you just getting into character, or are you always this chivalrous?”

“Um…!” Pomni, wearing an apocalyptic blush, quickly averted her gaze. She awkwardly offered her hand. “S-So, a-anyway, we should probably get going, right…?”

Pomni already looked like a tomato just offering her clammy hand — words could hardly describe the look on her face when, at last, Ragatha grabbed hold.

Sweating, Pomni wrapped her other arm around Ragatha’s back and carefully helped the injured doll to her feet. “You look like you’re in pain.” She frowned, watching Ragatha struggle to stand even with her assistance. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I’m a big girl. I think I can handle it.” Ragatha winked. Steadying herself against Pomni, she broke away from the jester’s support. She carefully shifted her weight onto her feet, and— 

An agonized shout, paired with the sickening sound of tearing fabric, echoed beneath the canopy. Ragatha collapsed, clutching her stomach. 

Pomni just barely caught her. 

“Ragatha!” Pomni shrieked. Cotton spilled freely from the reopened wound slashed across the older woman’s chest — now twice as long as it had been before. 

Pain was spelled in bold all across Ragatha’s face, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. “Th-Thanks…” she trembled; a loose tear traveled between the twisted creases that wound across her face. “...for catching me...”

Pomni plummeted to her knees; Ragatha was draped across her lap. “No…no, NO!” she clawed her face, each panicked breath ringing louder than the last. Her pupils quivered in a sea of bloodshot white, beholding the sum of all of her hard work: absolutely nothing.

“Why did I— Why did I think—” Cackling, she bared her teeth — sharp and pointed. “Of course! Why did I think I could do anything right?!”

“Woah, woah!” Ragatha forced herself to speak through the pain. A throaty grunt punctuated her next words, “Calm down — It’s going to be okay!”

“Okay?! How is any of this okay?! What could someone like you ever do to deserve this?!” Pomni seethed. “Is this Caine’s idea of a sick joke? Is that why that psychopath paired us together? So I could lose my mind watching you suffer?” 

“Pomni! Please—”

“What now? Are we just stuck here forever?! Are we both going to die here because of me?!” Pomni’s voice cracked at the realization. “Oh, God. Oh my GOD! Please, please, please—”

“POMNI!” To the tune of another gut-wrenching tear, Ragatha sat up to grab Pomni’s trembling hand. “Listen to me! We’re not out of options, okay?!” Her thumb drew tight, soothing circles on the back of the jester’s palm. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but…why don’t you just go on by yourself? I can just stay behind and—”

“NO!” 

Ragatha dropped Pomni’s hand like hot iron. 

Pomni flinched — the hurt on Ragatha’s face finally snapped her out of her insanity spiral. “I…I didn’t mean to—” she shivered. Her mouth twisted into a hundred different shapes until, at last, she managed to say: “I’m sorry...” 

“Just take a deep breath for me. Please.” Ragatha soothed, reaching for Pomni’s hand again. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Pomni didn’t hesitate, sandwiching Ragatha’s trembling hand between both of hers. She nodded, filling her chest with a trio of long, shaky breaths. Her racing pulse began to lag. 

“I’m not leaving you all alone.” Pomni said after a beat of silence, peering straight into Ragatha’s eyes. “I already…” she hesitated, shaking her head. “What if something happens, and I’m not there to save you?”

Ragatha couldn’t help but perk up at the look on Pomni’s face. The jester looked just like a guard dog, determined to protect her at all costs. “How about we just wait here together, then?” she said, “The others probably finished this adventure hours ago — and adventures don’t go on forever. If we take long enough, Caine will eventually just force us out and say we failed.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough! You need help now!” 

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I just…” she sighed, “…can’t.”

Pomni furrowed her brow, gently turning over Ragatha’s arm. She inched her face closer to the doll’s roughly-sutured wounds, squinting as if the answer to their predicament were spelled out somewhere in the frayed silk stitches. Her voice broke the silence. “What are you stuffed with, anyway? Cotton?”

Ragatha raised an eyebrow at that. It was Pomni’s turn, apparently, to ask a question totally out of left field. 

“More or less…?” Ragatha’s hand rapped on her chest, “But if you really want to know, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a heart crammed in here, too. Something that beats, at least.” she shrugged. She’d probably never know what the organ really looked like, but she'd always imagined a cartoon heart fashioned from the same patchy felt as the rest of her body. 

“So you really are just a walking, talking doll…?” Pomni let out a huge breath — one she’d apparently been holding in for quite a while. “Oh, perfect! This is perfect!”

Ragatha rubbed her face — how hard had Pomni’s head hit the ground yesterday? “Perfect…?” she spoke slowly, “How do you figure?"

“Well…” Pomni’s forced laugh was painful to listen to. “D-Do you think you’d be light enough to, uh…” she glanced away, stroking her hair. “W-Would it be okay if I…”

Ragatha wondered if her plush body came with a stomach as well; she definitely felt something fluttering around in the place she’d expect one to be. She just couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was pint-sized Pomni really about to suggest using her frail little arms to —

“Let me carry you!” Pomni exhaled sharply. Her stammer was gone, burned away by the heat of her passionate glare.  “There’s no way I’m gonna let you just sit here and suffer! We’re finishing this stupid adventure and getting you fixed up — today!”

Spellbound. Ragatha was utterly, completely, hopelessly spellbound — but the sly smirk spreading across her face hid her true sentiments well. “Oh, nooo! You’re just too kind…” she closed her good eye and swooned just like a debutante. Her button spied on Pomni’s reaction — watching the new girl get all hot and bothered over her, of all people, was Ragatha’s special form of self-care. “I suppose you could, but, gosh, I wouldn't want to be a burden~”

Wearing a determined look, Pomni stood up, scooping the lightweight doll into her arms. The way Ragatha’s big, bulky limbs spilled beyond the edges of Pomni’s puny frame, even when curled up, was almost comedic — but Pomni was hardly laughing. “Burden. Give me a break. You weigh fifteen pounds soaking wet.”

Ragatha sighed, leaning her head against Pomni���s chest. “My hero…”

“I-I…” Pomni glanced away, “...Don’t make it weird. You’re not even heavy.”

���Oh, but you would still carry me even if I were stuffed with sand, wouldn’t you?”

Pomni looked down with a nervous smile; her glowing cheeks did all the talking for her. Holding her damsel a little more snugly now, she launched down the path, eyeing the distant, window-studded spires peeking through the trees.

“Woah! Pomni! Take it easy!”

🎪  🎪  🎪 

The moon slept soundly in the sky, silvery light outlining the decrepit mansion’s twisted silhouette. A stark shadow stretched to the bottom of the steep hill on which the manor was perched; from all the way up there, one could see for themselves how truly endless the surrounding sea of trees really was. 

“Almost there! C’mon!” Ragatha whooped, arms curled tightly around Pomni’s waist. “You’ve got this, Girlie!”

Girlie did not, in fact, have this. Pomni huffed and puffed, puny legs wobbling for their lives as they crested the hill — and the obnoxiously-long staircase that wound all the way around it.

“What, so now you’re—” Pomni paused to suck down a breath, “— now you’re cheering me on?”

“What do you expect? Nagging you to slow down wasn’t working. If you’re determined to faint from exhaustion, you might as well do it past the finish line.”

“As if. You’re just mad—” Pomni huffed, “— You’re just mad that I was right.”

“Don’t count your chickens just yet, Sweetheart. You’ve still got a few more steps to go.”

Pomni grumbled, pressing on.

A baroque fence, punctuated by gargoyle-topped columns, hugged the perimeter of the dilapidated estate — as if the manor’s remoteness weren’t already enough to keep out the riff-raff. Pomni stumbled through the iron gate, and the very second she was through, an ethereal presence slammed the egress shut with a startling clang. 

“See?” Gasping for air, Pomni slumped over. Ragatha nearly rolled out of her arms and onto the manor’s overgrown lawn. “I…told you…” she gasped again, “...we would finish the adventure…today…” another gasp, “...and I meant it!”

Ragatha huffed. Again and again, she had begged Pomni to slow down, to stop and rest, to take a break, for the love of God. But Pomni, obstinate as usual, had refused to listen every time.

Shame weighed heavily on Ragatha’s soul as she stared up at Pomni’s pale, exhausted face. The poor woman looked absolutely awful — as if she were ready to faint at any second. 

“Ugh! You could have hurt yourself! Then what would we have done?!” Ragatha huffed, “God. Why do you have to be so stubborn?!”

Pomni’s breathing was finally beginning to slow down. “That’s not a serious question is it?.” 

“Wh-What…?” Ragatha blinked. “Of course it is!”

“Come on.” Pomni, stared straight ahead into one of the mansion’s myriad windows; the flickering candle behind the dusty glass reflected in her eyes. “After all you’ve done for me, don’t you think I owe you at least this much?”

Ragatha exhaled.

A swift tide of emotion washed away her anger, leaving behind…something else. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, or what it really was — but she knew it was a good feeling. Better than good. Much, much better.

Just like Pomni, Ragatha yearned for freedom. She dreamed of wrapping her arms around Mom and Dad just one more time, even if she could hardly remember their voices anymore. She couldn’t recall the distinctive fur patterns on her pet cat’s paws, yet she still worried herself sick about who was feeding him — if at all. By her third year of captivity, the names and faces of her two-dozen kindergarten students had all melded together, and Ragatha couldn’t help but wonder: had her little bundles of joy forgotten their teacher’s name, too? How old were they now? Ten? Eleven? Even older?

For so very long, Ragatha had believed that the only cure to her heartache was to find a way out, to return to the life she had left behind. Yet, if an exit door were to appear in front of her right this second — as the wind nipped her skin, as her entire being roared with pain, as the knowledge that another leg of this adventure still stood between herself and her soft, warm bed — she would hesitate to walk through. 

She must have been going crazy. The idea of remaining in the circus forever was horrifying, yet if she were to make the choice right this instant, she just might choose to stay here in Pomni’s arms forever.

Ragatha’s heart hammered away in her chest; she just couldn’t stay upset at her knight in shining armor. “You’re right.” she spoke softly on purpose, toying with the cute little pompoms that dangled from her protector’s handsome tunic, “Maybe I’m overreacting…”

Struggling to make out the doll’s words, Pomni leaned in closer. Closer than she’d ever been before. Close enough for Ragatha to catch the mild aroma swimming in Pomni’s auburn hair. It smelled sweet. Complex. A patchwork potpourri with notes of vanilla and dried leaves and crisp morning air.  

“You’re a good person, Pomni.” Ragatha lifted her neck, even though it pained her terribly. She closed her eyes and planted a dainty little peck on Pomni’s dainty little cheek. 

Pomni’s breathing turned shallow. She stared at the woman in her arms, mouth slack, then snapping shut, and finally falling open again. 

Ragatha, feeling herself slowly slipping out of Pomni’s loosening grip, wrapped her arms snugly around the jester’s neck. She moved her face closer, gazing up with a dreamy, expectant look — but the longer Pomni just stared down, unblinking, the more Ragatha’s smile faded. She… didn’t break the poor thing, did she?

Another well-placed smooch would snap her out of it, Ragatha thought, but even she knew that was just a sorry excuse to indulge herself further. “Goodness gracious. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” she said with a playful chuckle, placing two more kisses near the corner of Pomni’s mouth. “I’m just showing my appreciation, Sunshine. No need to overthink it.”

It happened so fast. 

Knees buckled, Pomni fainted, plummeting backwards onto the manor’s lawn like a felled tree. Ragatha went right down with her, landing roughly on top of her smaller friend — and another handful of amateur stitches burst open.

Ragatha’s everything roared with horrible, splitting pain. She would have screamed, but she was too busy cackling harder than she ever had in her life. 

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HUGE thank you to @spitinsideme and @blukiar, who were kind enough to illustrate a scenes from this chapter! Go check them out!

@spitinsideme: https://www.tumblr.com/spitinsideme/744502650373062656/read-a-really-good-ragapom-fanfiction?source=share

@BlukiaR: https://www.tumblr.com/blukiar/748666035752812544/long-time-no-ragapom-did-this-one-based-on

[moonshynecybin]

#he really does cut people out cold shoulder them with no discussion huh.... fascinating man......#invisible transgressions remembered forever at arms length#he is. i think. pathologically nonconfrontational. idk even with the sepang stuff.#like he doesnt look at marc AT ALL only performs to the press. same with argentina he sends uccio.... <- *eye* have a theory that vale on his factory settings is actually quite a desperate people-pleaser. not necessarily in a "i need others to approve of me" way (though that too) but in a "i need for others to cheer for me" (to try and explain what i mean better, he's not doing anything just to get the approval but he wants to feel approved/supported for whatever he's doing. different catalysts for action, same need). that's why he can play the crowd so well. and sepang - i think it was genuinely a protracted breakdown caused by vale realizing he's not superhuman anymore and his lead slipping and compounded by the anniversary of the worst loss he's suffered in his life

post about graziano here, jorge confrontation here

like the thing about vale is. well we dont personally know him. so outside of stuff people close to him tell us, we only see the side of him he wants to show the press, which is still him, just more of a performance, i think. its already been discussed AT LENGTHHH that he loves to do this sort of performance and is just. generally very good at being a celebrity. and i think its an extension of his PR deftness that when jorge comes at him he just laughs and looks at his audience. he ropes them into a private joke, like can you believe this guy? which jorge (who takes to confrontation like a duck to water) HATES so bad. its a very effective deflection tactic. fr the easiest way to seem like the bad guy is to treat an argument like it is worthy of your attention. so he meep-meep roadrunner court jesters his way through off track conflict for the majority of his career. and yes he makes enemies and they tell US that he is being cold and prickly and treating them differently. but crucially. he does not seem anything other than a Chill Dude in front of the cameras. until well. sepang lol.

so yes! i think he is invested in controlling these narratives and good at it to boot. but!!!! where it gets crazy is when you get to the personal arenas. like the people he loves that he is actually invested in. where his feelings are on the line fr.

like for other (professional) conflicts he gets over it!! but not with his dad and not with marc. and part of the marc stuff is the ego involved (theyre having a GOAT-off) and the professional stakes, as ive discussed. BUT. i think he doesnt get over these two because. well. because they really really hurt his feelings, i think. like he's said in the past that he's been able to get over the rivalries he has with other racers (like biaggi) bc they WERENT friends before so he didnt gaf when it got nasty. but. he still. REALLY cares with marc. (and of course with his parents divorce. like yeah that makes sense) so i actually think its very telling that he isnt over sepang. and that he didnt look at marc at all whenever they had their epic divorce moments (sepang press conference, postrace argentina 2018) rosquez would be less real if he could just move on lol. like it is a divorce to them both for REAL. so vale is going to handle it the same way he did with his parents and quietly cut marc out while making it. VERY clear. that marc is no longer one of the people that he holds within the select bubble that gets to see vale without all of his press trappings.

[goatpaste]

evil mane six you say... im listening👀

e! yeah this is like from a nearly 6+ year old AU of mine from when i originally into mlp and stuff 

lil cringe but i really wantd to update it because i liked some design/story concept from it

some of the basic world building for this AU was that the Crystal Empire never disappeared and went on to basically be the cantorlot of this universe, and ponies relied on a crystal based technology system and magic became less of a focus as crystal magic was something everyone could use.

Sombra is a good king of the empire, with a large happy family. Dear friends to the wizards of cantorlot, Celestia and Luna. Sombra also made of the elements of harmony in my AU but this is about these bad bitches

twilight in my AU was a unicorn who looked up to the wizards of Cantorlot and wished to train under their wings. she learned many powerful spells from them and the books of great unicorns.

however Twilight became obsessed after learning of the elements of harmony, an ancient relic that had gone into slumber years ago claiming it wouldnt return until it was needed. however twilight thought herself to be smarter and able to force it out of hiding so that Equestria could have a boost in magic believing it would further society to have another source of power.

Twilight had no idea what she was working with and began to work behind the backs of celestia and luna. Tuning into Lord Tireks ability to absorb magic she used it for herself to drawn out the magic of the elements. However she was rejected and the spell turned on her, turning her to a monstery figure would mind could only think of taking the elements powers.

Shining armor was there with her when it happened trying to stop her, but instead became apart of the magical rejection. Only his body was effected and he was forced to stand by and watch his sisters mind become corrupted. Now she is locked in tarturus with Shinning armor as the doors gaurds, hoping they can find a way to heal her. 

Rarity is much like her normal self, the only difference is she much more work focused and lives in the crystal empire. She was so goal oriented that she had no friends and simply went day to day working herself to the bone trying to make each dress better than the last. 

it drove her made when she began to believe her style was becoming repetitive and she simple would do anything to get out of her runt. so she left the empire and went out into the snow around the kingdom seeking out an old mine full of unique and beautiful stones. 

Little would she know she would come across a locked away evil that would take over her mind, feeding on her greed and want to be the best. she would act much as normal Sombra, taking over the crystal empire and demanding the most beautiful stones and jewelry and gowns of the people. it would be this event that would set the new elements into motion, king sombra and friends stopping rarity. (id like to thing her villian name could be oddity...)

when i originally designed these villian designs pinkie was defiantly meant to take over nightmare moons place. 

Pinkie pie’s family lives in the crystal empire, as crystal farmers. Pinkie pie herself would work at the castle as a party planner from planning the birthdays of sombras children, to grand galas to diplomatic brunches. She is close friends with Princess Ivory.

However when rarity took over Pinkie pie was held captive as a jester for rarity. some believe the close contact with a creature radiating darkness infected pinkie pie. because there was hardly any build up, just one day Pinkie pie seemed to snap. right in the middle of a party she went berserk and began to destroy everything. The royal court chose to let her off assuming she was sick or had a sugar crash, the list of what it could be was endless. Pinkie pie word return again to throw Princess Ivory’s party and nearly kill her. Pinkie pie would have no memory of what she did only to come concious and learn she was banished from the court and to ever see Ivory again. it broke Pinkie’s heart and it was a moment of weakness. her mind was clouded and she turned into a monster of a mare named ‘The Timeless Party’ and planned to party the whole planet to its core until it could party no more.

with the new found elements of harmony powers pinkie pie was saved, she hasnt returned to the castle but still gets note from Ivory despite refusing to see her out of fear of hurting her. 

Rainbow dash was a clouddale pony, she never left the city and happily worked at the weather factory and thinking of the day she would be a wonderbolt. Until the day she lost her wings, she could no longer fly like other pegasus and began to adjust to her new life. she moved to the ground and became a park ranger. she lived a happy simple life coming to enjoy the new experiences that came her way that she never thought she would thought she would enjoy.

Until a stroke of misfortune hit her, literally hit her. A bolt of lightning hit her and she swore she died, Until she  awoke and found she wasn't. instead she was covered in dark rolling clouds that she could manipulate and shape to her will. 

Rainbow dash found she could fly again and faster than ever before and with no fear of lightning or hail. the weather knelled to her. little did she know with the use of her power she brought on violent storms, floods and lightning made forest fires. Rainbow dash chose to stop her new powers until she could get them under control, but found this itch like a voice in the dark parts of her mind. telling her to let go and enjoy her powers, they were a gift after all.

it wasnt long until rainbow dash changed and seemed to no longer care about her damages. with this came the ancient unicorn, Starswirl the bearded. An old unicorn of old equestria would had frozen his aging to ensure his students could full take over for him one day. however star swirl was full of himself and could never see the bigger picture. He would freeze rainbow dash in ice and leave her in the cold mountains. 

with the story reaching tarturus shining could over hear twilight talking about starswirl and asking shining armor if he really thought rainbow dash was the villian and if starswirl choices were truly for the best. 

Fluttershy lives in ponyville outskirts but ponyville in this world is mostly underwater and a tourist town for the large spa/hotspring resort run by and supported by a colony of seaponies and sirens. 

Fluttershy barely patreons there except to quietly get a spa once a month. and leaves without a world.

she still works with animals but mostly runs a pet cemetery for animals that drowned in the local waters or potentially eaten by rouge sea creatures. Fluttershy sadly would die in her own cemetery having fallen and hit her head on a tombstone. 

however after not being found she would be reclaimed and returned to the living by the earth. believing she was given a second chance and was not one with the earth Fluttershy didn’t notice that it was darkness that brought her back.  Fluttershy didn’t question her need to send the world back to a state when animals thrived and ponies were scares.

(a villian name i had for her was Queen Pangea)

With the mostly underwater Ponyville in this AU applejack comes from a family of both seaponies and sirens. herself mostly taking after the siren side of the family. She comes from a farming family of seaweed farmers that contributes to the spa and Ponyville’s many economy source. 

Applejack’s colony would suffer a infection of darkness that effected a good chunk of the siren population including a bunch of applejacks family and herself. It started with it switching on and off were they would go into schooling frenzies and attack wildlife or other seaponies and sirens. Ponies began to speak bad of sirens believing them to be showing their true nature, which only pushed applejack over the edge. she would begin hunting the waters and destroying other seaponies livelihoods and the things the spa required, even running off guest.

Starswirl has plans to take care of the siren colony that has begun to terrorize ponyville, and shining armor questions if he really has the best choices in mind and wonders if the sirens are at all like his sister and need help. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 X

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The court celebrates the last hunt.

Note: Okay, so I called in today because of my anxiety at the suggestion of my boytoy and he told me to sleep in a bit. He’s not a doctor, but he’s got a PhD (pretty huge dick) so I have to listen. But I got this chapter done last night so y’all still get your fix, lol.

Also, I have to thank you guys, I really can’t thank you enough. I am in love with this fic and truly in your discussion of it bc yall seem as invested as I am and I just love all the possibilities and how these characters are turning out and it’s all been so much fun. So please, enjoy and remember that I love you (but I will not leave my wife for you, sorry).

(also open to new moodboards for the fic or even playlists for inspo if anyone’s interested. memes always welcome.)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋 You guys rock!

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

You were never one to stand out among a crowd. Were it not for the sling around your shoulder, that would still be true. You suspected, without the king's interest, that would be even more true. But despite your simply cut gown, you could sense the eyes as you entered the hall.

The trestles were set with scarlet cloth and silver plates. You followed the other unwed ladies to the table opposite the lower lords. The king would sit at the high table with several favoured lords and ladies and those of the council not among them would sit along the next. 

You were surprised to spot your father along that group of men, though he did not wear the pin that the other counselors wore. He nodded at you from across the room as he took his seat. You were stopped before you could go behind the trestle by a servant in royal colours. The other ladies glanced over but quickly hid their curiosity.

“My lady,” The servant said. “You are to take the place of honour at the high table.”

“Pardon?” You stepped aside to let Joan pass behind you. 

“The king has declared you the Maiden of the Forest. You must take your proper seat,” The servant insisted. “If you would follow me, my lady.”

“Um,” You glanced to the ladies as they sat along the bench then to the table where your father sat. His eyes narrowed at you as he listened to Lord Callum. “Certainly. As you will.”

You waited for the servant to lead you. You climbed the short steps up to the dais that held the king’s table. Diana and Mable sat with their husbands, Anthony and Samuel, and Lord Barnes stood next to an empty chair to the right of the king’s. The royal couple themselves were upon a short platform that held them another half foot above their guests. 

The servant gestured towards Barnes. “Just down there, lady.” He explained. “With Lord Barnes.”

“Thank you,” You nodded to the man and he quickly departed for his other chores.

As you walked along the table, behind chairs both occupied and not, you stared at the king’s chair. The thought of spending the feast next to him filled you with dread. A blur of movement caught your eye and you found Lord Barnes awaiting you with a smile as you drew nearer.

“My lady,” He took your hand and bowed to kiss your hand dramatically. “The venerable Maiden of the Forest.”

“You mock me,” You accused. “Though I should wonder how a man in such a smock could find the gull to do so.”

“Oh but any silk not dull as stone would seem gauche next to your attire, my lady,” He quipped. “As a second daughter, I am certain you expected a convent but you’ve escaped the habit of yet.”

“I thought you the king’s man, not his jester,” You returned. He politely shifted the chair back for you to sit. “Though perhaps a fool’s cap would suit you better.”

“As much as a bolder shade would bring out your complexion, my lady,” He remarked as you sat. “Do you truly seek to deter the king or is this truly what you consider fashionable?”

“This is what an earl’s daughter can afford,” You said sharply. 

“If only half this court was as self-aware as you, my lady,” He sat beside you, “Perhaps then it would not be so turbulent.”

“Oh, if only,” You agreed.

“The sling, however, does brighten the look,” He added. “How does your shoulder fair?”

“Tender but not so insufferable as my company.”

You looked across the room. Rose was not among the ladies. You hadn���t seen her since before the hunt and heard even less of her. ‘I will see that she is dealt with’, those were the words the king had spoke. The promise he’d made to you though you could not untangle his meaning.

“Oh my lady, I do remember the scene in your chambers,” He intoned. “I am not the worst you must suffer.”

He grinned as you looked to him. Your retort was curtailed by the sound of a horn. You stood at the announcement of the king’s arrival and all bowed as he entered. He wore a rich green brocade slitted with gold silk. The queen’s dress was a similar shade though she did not bear the same poise. Her sharp eyes scanned the hall and fell on you. She pushed her shoulders back and averted her gaze with detest.

Barnes shifted on his feet and peeked over at you out of the corner of his eye. You raised your brows and shook your head. He was not so unconcerned as he pretended to be. The king and queen made their entrance to the blaring of the horn and ascended the dais as their subjects waited and watched.

You kept your head forward as they passed behind you and the queen’s skirts brushed against the legs of your chair. “Snake.” She snarled under her breath for you to hear. You struggled not to flinch at the word and listened as her heels clicked up the step to her perch.

“You handle it better than most.” Barnes whispered as the royal couple sat and their guests followed suit.

“What else can I do but bite my tongue and keep my eyes forward?” You returned as he reached for the decanter and filled his goblet. 

“Wine?” He offered but did not await your answer before he poured it in your cup. “And let me say, I’ve seen a dozen or so women in your position and they often resort to boasting, arrogance even.”

“In my position? And you think--”

“Oh, I know of your modesty,” He assured you as he sipped and servants appeared with platters and began to set them out between silver plates. “Though such restraint is almost unknown at this court. I suspect that’s why the king has remained so persistent.”

You drank from your cup and glanced over at the king. You worried he would overhear. He was entirely distracted by Eleanor’s whispers though barely entertained. He scowled as his eyes swept the ceiling and he huffed in response.

“He has persisted before, has he not?” You kept your voice low.

“A month, maybe two, and only after he obtained his prize.” He paused as a platter was set between you. “You only expedited Rose’s downfall but you didn’t cause it.”

“Is that your expectation? A month, maybe two for me?” You wondered. “It is not that I do not expect the same treatment, only that I’d hope to avoid the same end.”

“I don’t know what to expect,” He shrugged as he speared a slice of venison from the platter. “For so long as I’ve known the king, I’ve not quite seen him as I did in your chamber.”

“Surely he must’ve promised the same to other ladies.” You took a smaller piece and scooped some roasted veggies upon your plate.

“Jewels and fancy baubles only,” He said. “Eleanor is a princess herself, even without the marriage. What he intends is not so easily done as said.”

“And you think he truly means to do it?” You hovered your fork above your plate as you stared at him. Despite the edge of his tongue, he proved to be the most honest at court.

“I think he means to have you,” He cut into his venison, “And there is little that can stop him once he has his mind set.”

You looked to your plate and pushed a piece of potato around the silver. Your stomach knotted as you pondered cutting your meat with one hand.

“My lady,” A whisper distracted you. You looked over as the king leaned down. “I should ask after your health.”

“I am well,” You assured him. “My arm does not bother me so much but I must avoid straining it further.”

“Well enough to dance?” He ventured as his eyes lit up. “Being the Maiden of the Forest, it would be expected you take up the boards.”

“A dance.” You assured him, “But not many more. I fear the sling would make me far more ungainly than I already am.”

“A dance, a smile, I relish in all that you allow me, my lady,” His eyes flicked down for just a moment. “And what of the gifts I have given you?”

Your eyes rounded for a moment before you recalled the opal necklace still hidden in your trunk. “Oh, your highness, how forgetful I am. It has all been so hectic I’ve not even the thought to wear it, though it is the finest piece I’ve ever owned.”

“I should like that you would,” He reproached. “As a marker of my love for you.”

You looked down and nodded. “I will have to remind myself,” You said quietly. “I do forget myself so often.”

“Oh, but lady, do not punish yourself,” He said softly. “For I bear you no anger, I only wish to see you well.”

“And I do thank you for your concern,” You looked up at him. “It means very much.”

“I think of nothing else,” He assured you, “No one else.”

He bowed his head and sat up. The queen’s eyes glared across the room as she ignored her husband’s conversation with you. You sat back and took another drink. Barnes was smiling as he swallowed his mouthful.

“While I admire your grace, I know you are rather adept at rancor. Perhaps you would be best to prove the same to him.” He mused. “Oh, it might solve many problems should you speak with more than a lamb’s tongue.”

“I am honest--”

“Oh but you coat it in honey,” He interjected. “Our king is wise. Should you bite him once, he might just leave you alone.”

“And should he choose to swat me down instead?”

“Despite what you’ve known of him, he is not entirely irrational,” He said coolly. “Perhaps he might realize his wife is not so vile after all.”

“Perhaps,” You mulled as you prodded a slice of carrot, “Or perhaps it is too late for even that.”

👑

The night wore on. Your shoulder ached; from the tension, from the stiff chair, from your general discomfort. The king would lean down to speak to you every now and then and as he did, all in the hall would notice. Though they tried to be subtle, you did not miss their intrusive eyes.

Lord Barnes did not hide his awareness either. At times, he'd lean back and speak to the king around you. The queen's malice radiated from the other side of the king but she would not acknowledge her husband's obvious disregard.

When the meal came to an end, the horn sounded once more and the platters were cleared. Several courses had left guests joyous and half-drunk.

The king stood before the band could begin to pluck. He held a hand up as he waited for silence. His subjects hushed their chatter and looked to him. He smiled back, a beacon of kingly grace.

"And so we close another season. This marks the beginning of winter and the end of our most bountiful season." His voice carried easily across the hall. "As is tradition we must crown our Maiden of the Forest."

You gulped and looked to Barnes. He smirked at the king's words and scoffed. He leaned back and watched nonchalantly as Steven continued. A servant appeared at the wave of his hand.

"If you would, my lady," He nodded to you as he took a circlet of vines and petals from the servant.

You rose stiffly. He offered his free hand and you took it as he guided you up beside him. The queen kept her head high and you peered out across the hall. Your father was turned around in his chair watching proudly. The servant helped remove your cap.

"In the name of the hunt, I name you our Maiden of the Forest." The king announced as he placed the crown of flowers upon your head. "May you reign this night with grace and joy."

"Thank you, your highness, " Your voice was brittle as your head swayed.

"And to close the old season and open the new, let us dance." He declared. "Maiden, would you grant me your first dance?"

You nodded. At first, your throat was too tight to speak. The queen's hand was balled in a fist upon the table. "Yes, your highness," You managed, "If you can forgive my shortfalls, it is yours."

"Then let us dance!" He boomed.

For a moment, no one moved and then all at once, the band picked up and the nobles began to rise from the tables. They filtered out to the floor as the king led you behind the chairs and from the dais. Barnes did not rise and poured himself another cup.

The king pressed his palm to yours as you came to face each other. You felt awkward and unbalanced with your other arm in its sling. As he moved his feet, you shuffled around him. You hadn't thought your dancing could get worse.

"My lady, I am glad to see you well." He cooed. "I admit I was restless with worry for you."

"Your highness." You said curtly and looked around at the other dancers.

He was silent for a moment as you followed the music.

"Have I wronged you, my lady?" He asked.

"Have you? Oh, how can you not see what you do to me? This court reviles me due to your humiliation of the queen. Your declarations that would allude to adultery."

"My lady, I only mean to honour you and your virtue--"

"What you mean and what you have done are not the same. You would crown me with your wife at your side. You would overlook her for me. You would sully my virtue as you claim to protect it." You glanced over at Barnes as he remained at the table. He looked into his cup as he sloshed it around. "And I have treated you with nothing by reverence and yet you persist."

"I have promised you anon that the woman who claims herself as my wife is none such." He hissed. "But I must gather my evidence before I can make it known. Before I can right what is wrong."

"You promise me what you cannot give. You would rob me of my future for your present desire. Your highness, I cannot hold my tongue further and tolerate you as you are so blatant in your disregard." You pulled away from him. A little bite to warn him; to scare him away. "Your majesty I must return to my former chambers and return to you your gift accepted only under duress for I cannot demean myself for you any longer. Not so long as you sit in sin."

He reeled as if you had struck him. You stepped away as he stared at you, his nostrils flared as his eyes searched you. He lingered between fury and despair.

"My lady, you do mistreat me."

"The truth is not always painless, your highness," You said sternly. "And I do not wish to remain the victim of rumour." You lowered your hand. "It cannot be… good night, your highness. "

You bowed and spun on your heel so quickly you nearly slipped. You lifted your skirts to scurry between the bodies. Your flesh was afire as you fled into the corridor.

You took a breath and continued along the stone floor. You heard the door and looked back to the shadow that followed you. The king found you through the flicker of lanterns and turned to trail you. You rounded the corner as you picked up your feet. 

"My lady," He called after you as his boots echoed on the stone. "Please, do not run from me."

You moved as quickly as you could, the motion jolted your shoulder painfully. He was close as you reached the next corner and he caught your hand before you could evade him. He drew you to face him as he looked down at you.

"Why do you spurn me? Why do you accuse me of spite when all I've shown you is kindness?" He pleaded. His grip slid to your wrist and he squeezed. "Why do you delay me if you do not yearn for what I promise you?"

"You're hurting me," You gasped as his hold grew firmer. "Your highness."

"I give and I give and I give," He stepped closer until you were against the wall. "And you withhold yourself from me."

"You scare me," You breathed.  

"I promise you a union, a crown, and all you could desire and yet you reprimand me and let me suffer so," He was against you. He pressed his body to yours and you felt a hardness beneath his belt.

"And I have not pushed you. I have not violated you. I have waited." He ground his pelvis into you as he crushed your injured arm. "I have not taken you as I have dreamt. I have not come into your chambers as you sleep and taken what I desire." 

He let go of your wrist and grabbed your chin. He forced you to look at him. "Because, my lady, I have decided that I will have you. Not just as my mistress, but as my wife, my queen. Because I don't just want that treasure you hide beneath those skirts," He bent so that his breath was upon your face."I want everything you have because you would deny me of the one thing I asked. "

You gaped up at him and trembled. You winced as his weight pushed on your sore shoulder. He leaned in until his nose touched yours.

"And though, at this moment, I could gather your skirts and take you against this wall, I will not," He pushed his hips harder against you. "Because when I do take you, I will be certain that you shall never elude me again." 

He pressed his lips to yours as he held your jaw in place. You struggled as he seemed like to devour you. You were trapped against the stone; terrified and helpless. He pulled away slowly and rubbed along your cheek with his thumb. 

"My lady, remember my benevolence for my restraint frays." He growled. "Though in the end, my desire will not."

[ofcastora]

@lavolumnia replied to your post: i wanna read more from this AU

In which I continue the DiVerona Regency AU // Part 2 of me transforming Castora and Vivianne’s baking class into a Regency women’s archery club, inspired by this historical club and these outfits ft. Bridgerton-level historical accuracy. Also in which Castora becomes deeply invested in her mother-figure’s happiness and bears witness to a bodice ripper romance, but does not care for it at all. 

MENTIONED/APPEAR: Vivianne Sloane // @lavolumnia, Everett Craven // @evcravens, Priam Taravella // @priam-taravella, Cosimo Capulet (NPC), Silviana (NPC), the du Pont family, the Daly family

It was a truth universally acknowledged by all who had the misfortune of taking a stroll in Hyde Park in the morning hours in the month leading up to the Hyde Park Amazon’s Liston Hall showcase and ball that Lady Vivianne Sloane and Miss Castora Aguilar were very awful at archery. Nothing, sans for hanging at the Old Bailey for accidental homicide, would prevent them in their endeavors, however. 

Both ladies were quite indomitable and all members of the ton who sought a stroll and all squirrels seeking whatever squirrels sought quickly learned it was best to steer clear of them all together. On the bright side, while they made poor exhibition archers, perhaps in another life they would have made fine huntresses; neither of them had gotten anywhere near a bullseye, but they have gotten significantly closer to skewering a squirrel.

“It appears, Lady Vivianne, that we are actually getting worse.” 

“Nonsense.” Such a thing cannot be possible was the unspoken truth. 

Castora loosed another arrow. It did not land on the target, soaring high overhead and landing squarely in the tree behind it. “Perhaps you are, but I think my form is improving.” 

It was Vivianne’s turn to try; the arrow skimmed past the edge of the target, nestling itself in the dirt by the unfortunate tree that caught Castora’s arrow. 

“I can see that.” 

If the pair still had any arrows in the quiver, Castora was quite certain that Vivianne would have stabbed her with one. She gently placed her bow on the ground, fighting the impulse to break in two. It looked like Vivianne had the same thought as her. “Shall we?” she asked

This was, perhaps, the most depressing part of their practice sessions – collecting the evidence of their failures. 

“I suppose we have no choice –– unless you could hire a lady’s maid for this purpose?” 

“A lady’s maid for the sole purpose of fetching our arrows?” 

“I dare say she would have her work cut out for her.”

Castora pulled a stubborn arrow from the dirt, ignoring how it stained the hem of her dress. She took a look at their de facto practice field, something akin to distress on her face. “At least we did not lose any arrows in the Serpentine today,” she muttered. “Do you think it is too late to ‘come down with something’?” 

“Mrs. Silviana will have your head.” 

“Good. She can take it. She’s so often taken leave of her senses, maybe she’ll find use for my head,” Castora remarked. 

Vivianne raised an eyebrow, “You are quite bold to assume she has the sense to take advantage of such an opportunity.” 

They had reached the tree where Castora’s last arrow had lodged itself. Oh, damn it, she thought, seeing that it had landed about a foot taller than Castora herself. She jumped, trying to grab hold of it, but could not reach. 

Vivianne, who Castora was quite certain could reach it, stood by watching the younger woman take out all her energy on an arrow, the corners of her lips threatening to curve into a smile. 

A few more attempts occurred, each more feeble than the last. Castora leaned against the tree to catch her breath. “I simply have no wish to embarrass myself in front of the ton, Lady Vivianne – yes, I am keenly aware of the irony.”

"Surely you cannot be afraid of them?” Vivianne asked. Castora wished she could read her expressions better – was the woman surprised by this? Disappointed? 

“I am aware of the reality of my circumstances,” she said grimly. “And I feel like I have exhausted my quiver of accidents for this season.” Castora was a wit, a court jester the ton tolerated despite her father conning half of their father’s out of a not-insignificant sum of money because of powerful friends, a beautiful cousin they would all like to wed (or bed), and because someone had to provide some amusement, but their tolerance was ever-wavering tightrope. She could walk it, but she would always teeter. 

The fall was inevitable. 

Vivianne looked seriously at Castora, then smirked. “Yes, that game of Pall-Mall was certainly something.”

Castora’s cheeks burned. “It was an accident and Priam Taravella knows it.”

“If your aim with a bow and arrow is any indication of your aim in general, I believe you.” It was not. They both knew that – and Castora had surmised that Vivianne realized that she had been aiming for her future-stepson-in-law’s head, but that was to be expected when the beast knocked her own ball out of the way on purpose. “If it is any consolation, Miss Castora, I promise that I will be there with you to suffer Silviana and that exhibition together.” 

“Thank you.” She understood the hidden meaning – no one would insult her at the Exhibition with a future duchess by her side. 

Vivianne stepped forward, easily reaching the arrow. 

Snap. In her efforts, the arrow had split – the tip and a quarter of the shaft remained lodged in a tree. Vivianne glowered at the remnants of the arrow in her hand. 

“If I have to look at another arrow today, I think I might die.” 

“I quite agree, Miss Castora.” She was quiet for a long moment.  Then, she asked, “How about tea?”

--

A maid poured their tea and quietly left. Castora looked around at Vivianne’s apartments in wonder – surely, this was the most beautiful place she had ever been in. If I ever have the funds to decorate my own lodgings, I should like to make it look like this, Castora thought. 

“Who do you picture when you fire an arrow?” she asked. Vivianne sipped her tea, thinking over the question carefully. 

“Silviana,” she answered. “And a few others, but lately mostly Silviana. And yourself?”

“Silviana, too.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was not the whole truth. “I take turns picturing all the people who have made me cross.”

“And somehow you rarely hit your target.”

“Perhaps I would have more luck if the person I wished to strike was in the vicinity. There is only so much the imagination can do.”

A lull fell over the conversation. “I suppose you must quit this place when you and the Duke marry.” An odd expression crossed over her face at the word marry.

“Nonsense – this is mine.”

“Yours? How?”

“My late father bequeathed to his cousin, Philip Allard, in his will -–”

“–– The Duke of Beaufort?” 

“Yes. His only daughter, Lady Daphne, is married.” Castora detected a hint of a grimace in Vivianne’s voice. “Since the family hates London, he saw no use for the property, so he gave it to me.” 

Ah. This was as close to Vivianne’s as it could be, and yet it did not truly belong to her. It was charity. It was alms for a less fortunate relative. Castora understood. At least Vivianne owned something, bittersweet though it may be. 

“My distant cousin who inherited Uppercross after my Andrés’s passing pays for my lodgings in London for the Season.”

“Do you reside at Uppercross the rest of the year?”

“No,” Castora scoffed. Uppercross wasn’t the home she had as a child, the one she lost twice over. It did not belong to her anymore. It never did. “I usually take invitations from friends in the countryside. I toured the Lakes with Lady Pandora the last year.” 

“Your mother does not miss you?” It did not surprise her that Vivianne knew that her father was gone, but did not know what happened to her mother. No one really cared what befell Isabella Aguilar in the wake of her husband’s scandal. 

“My mother is dead,” Castora replied flatly.

“Mine is too.”

“I suppose that makes us both orphans.”

“It’s quite an ugly word, do you not agree?” Vivianne sipped her tea. “It comes from the Greek word orphanos, which means ‘bereaved.’”

“Orphanos.” Castora tested the word on her tongue. “You are right. It’s ugly. What is the best way to shed the label, orphan, do you think?” 

“Why, marriage, of course.”

Castora hesitated before asking, “Is that why you are marrying Duke Capulet?” It was odd, their match – after all, before all this Vivianne Sloane had been a spinster. 

Another one of Vivianne’s inscrutable expressions crossed her face. “No. Not the whole of it.”

“Is it a love match, then?”

“What constitutes a love match in your opinion?”

“The fool’s errand known as love, of course,” Castora replied. “But I suppose it can be a love match if you love his house, his title – I would hardly begrudge anyone a desire to become a duchess – although I would characterize that as a love arrangement, not a love match.” 

“I did not take you for a romantic – is that why you are still unmarried? Holding out for love, Miss Castora?” Such blunt questioning from anyone else would have offended her, but from Vivianne, Castora did not mind. 

“I do not wish to marry.” Only the greatest love could persuade me...or an offer from a Duke, a Marquess, an Earl, or a Viscount. Barons and men with gambling debts need not apply. Both options struck her as improbable, if not outright impossible. “It seems to me that every marriage I’ve witnessed has only brought misery...particularly for the women in the match.” Sure, her Uncle Aguilar’s marriage was quite happy by all accounts – surely, it helped that Ramona’s mother died young before the marriage had time to sour. 

Vivianne seemed curious. “What do you intend to do then?”

“My cousin, Ramona, is adored by the ton. She shall marry well.”

“And what if you received an offer from someone suitable?” 

“I would...consider it, as long as he is not a drunkard or a gambler. Actually, I believe I could deal with a drunkard. No gamblers,” she said. “Anything is better than ending up as a....governess.”

“I could not picture you spending your days tutoring children.” 

“My mother was one, actually, before she married. She worked for a good family, too. One that Vivianne was likely acquainted with. That was the other thing about Isabella Aguilar – she was intelligent. She was unfortunate, but bright. Love robbed her off her senses and killed her in the poorhouse. “She was unable to get back into the line of work with a child, however.” 

“Children complicate matters,” Vivianne said solemnly. The rumors of Vivianne Sloane’s first Season being delayed by a year floated back to the top of Castora’s head; there were whispers of a bastard child, but Castora had know interest in Vivianne’s secrets unless she chose to share them with her. 

“We do,” Castora said. “Lady Vivianne – I hope this goes without saying, but could you –– could you not repeat that my mother was a governess?” 

She nodded. “You have my word. Drink your tea, Castora. Before it gets cold.”

--

Liston Hall was a lovely country estate of middling size; it was pretty, spacious, and very green, everything a country estate ought to be, but it paled in comparison to the surrounding homes such as Campden Court. The true glory of Liston Hall was its apple orchard, where the archery exhibition would be held. 

Castora had not been to Gloucestershire since she was a child, accompanying her mother and forced to bear witness to her demise. During her year here, she had never been to Linton. The families of the other Gloucestershire estates – the Craven’s of Campden Court, the Daly’s of Aubrey Park, and the du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall – were not the type to deign to visit Linton Hall.

At least, that’s how Castora remembered them. She prayed that some things never changed. 

Whether or not the neighboring aristocrats visited seemed irrespective today – more than half the ton was here, but no one in the ton that Castora actually liked –-- except for Vivianne.

Who she could not find. 

Good God – she had one friend, or one person who was close to a friend, here and she could not find her. There was only so much small talk a girl coud do with a glass of lemonade, as anything stronger would not be served until dinner.

Leaving the hall to look for Vivianne, Castora collided into the chest of a gentleman, almost spilling her lemonade all over him.  Well, perhaps there was a splash or too on his shoes....and slight more than a splash on his white cravat. Said gentlemen did not seem angry so much as annoyed, however. Still, Castora wished she could melt into the floor.

“I apologize, sir, I am sorry,” she started, her cheeks aflame. 

“It is quite alright.” Oh no, this was worse – he was trying hard to be genteel about this. Something about his voice – and face, and countenance – looked familiar, but she could not place him. 

“Let me fetch a servant, perhaps they can....wash it?” 

He looked at her curiously, as though he was trying to place her, too. “I live at Campden Court – I shall send for a change of clothes direct.” 

Realization hit Castora like a ton of bricks. “You are Everett Craven, Marquess of Montrose.” She dropped into a courtesy and cursed every God for not answering her prayers. “I apologize again, my Lord.” 

He had come into the title several years ago with the death of his father and was one of the most desired bachelor’s in England –– and one of the most skilled at fending off ambitious mamas. He was almost more desired because he was, by all accounts, a proper gentleman who left rakish activities to the rest of his peers; it truly was a miracle he left London alive and unmarried.

She had heard more fearsome stories about him, however. The Season before her and Ramona’s debut, he accompanied Catherine Daly to London, as Lord Daly was unwell at the time, and practically bit off the head of every man who came near her.

“I am. Pardon me – have we met before, my lady?” 

Yes. See, while Isabella Aguilar was unable to find work as a governess, her former employer, the damned du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall, had found employment for Isabella at a lady’s maid to Lady Daly of Aubrey Park. She told them she was a widow, and with Bastian du Pont’s introduction, they accepted a lady’s maid with a child of the right age to be a playmate to their three daughters. 

Melting into the floor suddenly seemed insufficient. Perhaps she could suddenly collapse and die, like a lady in a novel, and be reincarnated as a bee. Yes, that seemed good. 

“No, I do not believe we have had the occasion, my lord.” She shook her head again, “Just Miss. Miss Castora Aguilar of Uppercross.”

“Castora? That is quite an––” 

"–– You can say unusual, my Lord. I cannot take offense since I have ruined your cravat.” At least it didn’t spill on his pants. 

He looked at her again. “Are you sure we have not met before?”

“Perhaps in London?” Castora lied. “London is full of faces and names, it’s hard to keep them all straight. Especially during the Season.”

Just as he was about to say something again, Vivianne rounded the corner. “Miss Castora, there you are ---” Whatever words were on her lips died when she saw the Marquess. It was quite a spectacular (and quite unsettling thing) to see Vivianne Sloane rendered speechless. 

She looked at the Marquess. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Is it too late to melt into the floor? Castora wondered, thinking about how to best extricate herself from the situation. 

Suddenly the lemonade-stained cravat seemed like the least of everyone’s problems. “Lady Vivianne,” the Marquess greeted. 

“Lord Montrose,” she said, similarly stiff. Neither pair seemed to notice Castora. They only had eyes for one another. God, now would be a lovely time to answer my call for death. 

She took a step backwards in the hopes of sneaking out and leaving them to...whatever was going to happen, but unfortunately, Fate had other plans for them as a person – namely, Duke Capulet – had rounded the corner in search of his wife-to-be. 

Duke Capulet was tall and distinguished with greyed hair; age suited him. He walked like someone who never doubted his importance and was unused to being denied. Castora had a difficult time thinking of him as anyone’s husband, or father, or guardian. 

“Montrose,” he said in greeting, falling back to Vivianne’s side. The man appeared jovial and pleasant, but there was an air of darkness about him – and he appeared to be in quite a fowl mood.

“Capulet,” the Marquess replied. Castora searched Vivianne’s eyes for a single clue as to what was happening. The future Duchess gave no indication that anything odd was going on. 

“What on earth happened to you, Montrose?” the Duke asked, gesturing to his clothes. 

“I was not watching where I was going and collided into the young lady whilst she carried some...water?”

“Lemonade,” Castora quietly corrected.  “The Marquess is too kind. This is my fault.”

“Regardless of whose fault it is, I hope you shall excuse me to get this matter sorted with.”

“Of course. Shall I see you at the exhibition, Montrose?” 

The Marquess nodded, made his courtesies, and left. 

The Duke’s attention fell to her, “And who are you?”

Vivianne answered for her, “Miss Castora of Uppercross, dear. She is in the Hyde Park Amazons with me.” The Marquess of Montrose seemed surprised at the revelation that Vivianne was in an archery club.

“Right, of course. You and Lady Vivianne have been hard at work these past few weeks, I have gathered.” He looked at her. “You are Aguilar’s girl, are you not?”

“His niece,” Castora said quickly, pretending not to know his meaning. “He passed away several years ago.”

The Duke did not stop. “Your father was an interesting character, more than what one would expect from one of Montague’s whelps. I think he tried to swindle me during a game of vingt-et-un.”

“My family is very lucky to consider the Montague’s our friends, my Lord,” she replied diplomatically, keenly aware that she could not afford to offend one of the most powerful men in the country.

“For your sake, Miss Castora, I pray the apple falls far from the tree. My dear, see that you never play cards with her,” he said with a snake oil smile. Castora supposed it was a charming smile, if one could ignore the malice hiding in his words. Still, she laughed at his joke.

And I pray the same for your daughter, you wretched man.

“If you will pardon me, my Lord, I think I am going to replace my lemonade.”

“Let me accompany you, Miss Castora,” Vivianne said. “We have much to discuss before the exhibition.”

They returned to the main hall, arm in arm. Castora squeezed Vivianne’s hand, and the woman squeezed back in silent apology. What reason is there to marry this man? Surely a duchy is not worth it? 

“I apologize for the Duke. He is not himself after travelling.”

There was something odd about resorting to pleasantries with Vivianne – they had so often bypassed them in their conversations in Hyde Park. A cold sensation settled into Castora’s bones.

“No apologies necessary, Lady Vivianne….how do you know the Marquess of Montrose?”

“Hmm?”

“It looked to be like you two knew each other.” 

“A lifetime ago. I did not think he would come.” Castora quietly wondered if Vivianne had been making the same prayers she had made on the journey over.

--

Castora was lined up with the other ladies of the Hyde Park Amazons...in the very back of the group, where no one could see her miss the target. Vivianne was not there. 

“Mrs. Silviana, have you seen Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana startled at Castora’s voice. “Oh, you are here.” 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” She remarked before asking again, “Where is Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana’s eyes narrowed. “She has a headache and she is unable to join us. I am quite surprised, Miss Castora, that you do not have one as well.” 

Damn her, Castora cursed, Damn her for leaving me to fend for myself. Damn her for breaking her promise. 

“Are you alright, Miss Castora?” Silviana asked. 

No. I feel rather foolish, you useless twit, she thought bitterly. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Right, dear. And – do remember to aim, please?” She nodded and glared at Silviana’s retreating figure. Aim. She could do that. 

--

At last came time for the Exhibition. Gentlemen and ladies of the ton and other appropriate social circles gathered around the Hyde Park Amazons at a respectable distance, mostly on the sidelines by the tree. For this exhibit, the ladies were to fire five arrows and hit their targets. The more advanced archers would perform in a play about Artemis and her huntresses later in the day.

Five. You only have to get through five. 

On the first arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. Predictably, she missed – not as poorly as usually, however. On the second arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. She missed again.

On the third, Castora vowed to clear her mind. Do not aim for anything but the target. When the last thought melted away, Castora closed her eyes and fired the arrow. The audience gasped. 

Did I hit a bullseye? She opened her eyes to find that no, she had not hit the target. Her arrow was nowhere near the target. In fact, she could not see it all. Why is everyone staring at me?

The Hyde Park Amazon next to her, sensing Castora’s confusion, helpfully pointed at an apple tree towards the edge of their circle. Pinned to the tree by Castora’s arrow was a gentleman’s hat. One of the lower hanging apples helpfully fell to the ground. 

And not just any gentleman’s hat. No, it was Duke Capulet’s hat. The man was positively glowering at her. 

“Oops.” She swore quietly under her breath using a word she learned from Marcelo that no lady was supposed to know. I almost killed a duke. I almost killed a duke. Fuck, I almost killed a duke.

But she did not feel so bad for Cosimo Capulet after all. It wasn’t like she had stabbed him. It was only a hat, after all. It could be worse, Castora thought to herself. I could have swindled him during a game of vingt-et-un. 

Suffice to say, while the play continued without incident later in the evening, the ladies of the first exhibit did not fire their fourth and fifth arrows. 

--

After profusely apologizing to the Duke several times over, each time more insincere than the last, Castora excused herself from the luncheon with, appropriately, a headache. There

There was a knock at her door. Castora cautiously opened it to find Vivianne, standing in front of her right as rain. “Did you or did you not try to kill the Duke?” 

Castora ignored the question. “How is your headache, Lady Vivianne? I do hope you will be able to attend the ball.”

“Castora – did you try to kill the Duke?”

“No, of course not! Not intentionally at least! The only thing I ended up killing was his hat, and a trip to a good haberdashery could fix it right up!” She insisted.

Vivianne closed the door to Castora’s guest chamber behind her. “You deeply offended him, Castora,” she said seriously. 

“I was aiming for the target. I missed. That is not out of the ordinary for me, Lady Vivianne. Nor is it for you, and if you had shown up, you may have done worse!” 

“Perhaps, but as it stands, you are the one who accidentally attacked a duke. You also accidentally hit his future son-in-law in the face with a pall-mall ball several months ago – an incident of which the Duke is very much aware of. You can see why this...why this is problematic.” 

“It was an accident. I have offered to pay to replace the hat, an offer which the Duke said he is considering.”

“Castora, the Duke has strongly suggested to me that I find another hobby outside of the Amazons.”

Her face fell. But you’re my friend, the girl wanted to protest.  “He is not your husband, yet. He cannot make you do anything...unless you wish to leave.” 

“In some matters of life, what you want does not matter.” 

“Surely it does in this one?” 

Vivianne smiled bitterly, “Dear Castora, I forget how young you are sometimes.” 

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. Castora did not know why, but she had the sudden desire to cry for the first time since her mother’s death. 

--

There is absolutely no way this evening can get worse, Castora thought to herself as she prepared to enter the ballroom for the evening festivities. No chance in hell. 

Still, halfway to the ballroom she turned on her heel and thought best not to risk it. On the way back to her room, Castora decided that she did not want to sit in her room all evening and decided to visit the Liston Hall library. 

Scouring through the library, Castora settled on The Mysteries of Udolpho, a novel she had greedily consumed several years ago because Ramona suggested it. She had not liked it much, as Castora was not one for Gothic romances, but she was in no mood to explore. Take me away, Mrs. Radcliffe, to a world far less complicated than ours.

Settled by her desk, she was halfway through the second chapter when she heard two voices, one belonging to a man and the other to a woman, deep in the throes of an argument. The man dragged the woman into the library.

Castora froze – it was Lady Vivianne and Lord Everett. They did not see her from her position, and so they kept on spitting venom Castora did not comprehend at one another. Wishing to avoid another awkward encounter with the both of them, she simply sunk behind the desk before they could see her and waited for them to leave. 

About ten minutes later, they were still arguing and Castora still had no idea what in the hell was going on because she was trying not to eavesdrop, but sometimes she could not help it. 

But what she did hear was the Marquess of Montrose, voice laced with pain, asking Vivianne why she was marrying him. It did seem to be the question of the day. 

“Someone knows about Cyrus.” There was an eerie silence across the hall; Castora resisted the urge to emerge from her hiding place to ask Who is Cyrus? “They are trying to exhort me for money, but no one would dare come for me, or Cyrus, if I am Lady Capulet.” 

“How much? Who is blackmailing you?” Reasonable questions.  

“It matters not, Everett.” I fail to see how that is true.

“Vivianne, how can you say that?” Castora quietly noted the use of their Christian names, and quietly prayed to God for the upteenth time to day, that they would finish their argument somewhere else. 

“Because what is done is done. I cannot break this engagement.” Fair enough.

“You did not seem to have much of an issue with that before.” Ah, okay. There is that mystery solved.

“Don’t you dare. This is not remotely the same situation. If I do not marry Cosimo, then I will be ruined. Cyrus will be ruined. By association with me, Juliana will be ruined. I cannot have that.” A love arrangement, Castora realized. 

“I loved you,” the Marquess said. To Castora’s ears, it did not sound like his affections were in the past tense. Vivianne did not respond to Everett with words, but with actions. 

Oh no. Oh no. Dear God. From her hiding position under the desk, Castora saw the Marquess’s – clean – cravat flying off. Their….noises grew closer, and she heard someone place the other on the desk, knocking the copy of Udolpho off the table, but too far out of reach from Castora. 

How generous, Castora thought dryly, realizing that there would be no escape for her now. 

Castora covered her ears and cursing God, she laid back, and tried to think of England.

--

Much to Castora’s surprise, Silviana welcomed her back the following Thursday to the Hyde Park Amazons, remarking something along the lines of “At least we know you can hit something now, Mis Castora.” 

To everyone’s greater surprise, and Mrs. Silviana’s palpable disappointment, Vivianne showed up for practice. “I hope you are feeling better, Lady Vivianne. You can go and practice with Miss Castora in the back,” the instructor commanded. 

“I know the place,” the future Duchess replied, unable to keep the hint of bitterness out of her voice, before  walking over to her and Castora’s usual spot. 

Castora could not look her in the eye. She refused to do so, for if she did, she would admit to all she saw and heard. Around 15 minutes went by of excruciating silence, before Lady Vivianne chose to break it. 

“How are you, Miss Castora?” 

“I am well.” I want to die. “How are you, Lady Vivianne? How is Lord Capulet’s hat?” 

“We are both fine,” she responded wryly. “Once the Duke calmed down, he did not object to me continuing on with the Hyde Park Amazon’s...you can look at me, Miss Castora, I will not bite your head off.”

Do not say anything, she commanded herself. Do not –– “Lady Vivianne, I was in the library during the Liston House ball.”

Vivianne, who was preparing to fire an arrow, loosened it without bothering to see where it landed. The blood drained from her face. “I do not know your meaning, Miss Castora.” 

“I wish I did not know my own meaning either.”

She lowered her voice, “How much did you hear?”

Too bloody much. “All of it, unfortunately. I did not intend to. I truly, truly did not intend to. I decided against going to the ball, and was trying to read when you and the Marquess entered. I thought it best to hide until you two were finished ––” Everything seemed like a poor choice of words, but Castora persisted. “–– And I did not intend to hear….so much.” 

Vivianne was silent for a long time. The girl in front of her was so distressed that she could not help but believe her, and then, “The Mysteries of Udolpho, really, Miss Castora?”

“I am not proud of it either. Listen, Lady Vivianne, I want to assure you that I...I will say nothing of...of, well, anything, to nobody. I do not know, or care, who Cyrus is. Or that you were once engaged to the Marquess, or that you two appear to still love each other very much.” 

“I appreciate your discretion, Miss Castora, but I must correct you on the last point. Whatever we had was in the past.”

“From where I stood, what was past seemed present.” 

“I would prefer if you did not discuss myself and the Marquess anymore.” 

“As you wish, Lady Vivianne –– however, there is one point, I do have an inquiry on. Who is blackmailing you and is there any way I can help?”

“No, dear girl, there is not.” 

The pair were quiet for a long moment. “I think you would be a better Marchioness than a Duchess. Marchioness Vivianne sounds better than Duchess Vivianne, does it not?”

“That is your opinion.”

“And what is yours?”

“Miss Castora, I thought we agreed not to speak about the Marquess anymore.”

“Yes, but in all honesty, I like him more than the Duke and I think you do, too. He is titled, wealthy, and is capable of weathering scandals. The Craven family is powerful. No one would dare come for a Marchioness of Montrose, either. If Duke Capulet was ever unwise enough to gamble with my father, I do not know how wise he will be in the future. And Juliana Capulet is set to be married in a month to a powerful, wealthy man. She could weather her father’s broken engagement if done with grace.”

“There are more forces at play here than you understand, Castora.” 

“Yes, but I understand enough to know that you do not deserve the misery that is to come with a life chained to Lord Capulet.” Yes, but after everything I was forced to witness in that library, this the least you could do for me. 

“And you are convinced the Marquess is a good man from the five minutes you saw of him?” 

“He is always kind to those lower than himself.” 

Vivianne laughed, “You are a romantic, after all.”

“No, I simply believe that the only reasons to marry are for great, true, unshakeable love, or comfort and protection. The Marquess appears ready to provide you with both,” Castora said.

“I did not realize you cared so much.”

I saw my mother collapse in on herself from misery; I will not see it happen again. “I--I like my friends to be happy, Lady Vivianne.” 

“Happiness requires miracles. You and I both know too well to believe in them.”

Castora could not argue with Vivianne on that point.

Mrs. Silviana screamed and ran up to the region her two least favorite students were exiled to. “Oh my God, you did it! Which one of you did this?” 

The pair followed her gaze to the target where the last arrow Lady Vivianne fired had landed in the center of the target. A bullseye. 

For a moment, Vivianne Sloane and Castora Aguilar both believed in miracles. 

[asynca]

Prompt: “Poisonous” - 2k words

For a woman whose mother was a whore and whose father was presumably a sailor from abroad (or possibly the Friar, since everyone always said I had his ears), I came to lead an incredibly privileged life.

It started off not so well. As you can imagine, children were not exactly welcome in the whorehouse. I spent much of my childhood either under my mother’s bed while the springs above me squeaked and strained, or in my little bed inside my mother’s clothes closet, on top of her winter coat. To keep me quiet, she’d give me sweets—anything I asked for.

As a result, I can’t really say I wasn’t a remarkable child, but I wasn’t remarkable because I was especially sweet or pretty. I was remarkable because I grew soft and fat in a way none of the other children were. Their spindly legs poked out under their too-large smocks while I filled mine like a full sack of flour, huge and round. Their big eyes stared out of sharp, thin faces while mine were buried deep in my cheeks.

Everyone called me ‘Little Piggy’, but I didn’t care. They were just jealous of my sweets and the fact they went to bed hungry at night. In the end, those sweets were the best gift my mother could have bought for me.

When I was somewhat older (and starting to attract the sort of attention of men that led me to worry mother’s madam would start the bid for my virginity soon), I was browsing the morning market for lunch when two soldiers came marching towards me.

Guards and whores’ gets don’t typically have the best of relationships, so naturally, I ran for it.

I wasn’t particularly slow for my size—in fact I gave them rather a good chase. I thought!—but they eventually caught me and held me still.

To my surprise, a noble I recognised as the King’s hand came wandering up behind them at a very leisurely pace. He was old and rather unpleasant to look at.

“Like to eat, do you, girl?”

I nodded.

A sly smile spreading slowly and obsequiously over his crackled old lips “How would you like to eat all the delicacies in the world?” he asked, in the sort of voice I’d often her customers talking to Mother in. “Pork roasts with crackling, steaming beef stews, dumplings, cakes, and every single tasty dish you could imagine for every – single – meal?”

Honestly, he was making a good case for whatever it was that he wanted from me. I had thought he was probably after my virginity (for those things, I’d considered giving it up for him), so I was surprised when I nodded and he simply said, “Good. His Majesty’s old taster has suffered an unfortunate…. accident. We’re in the market for someone who can eat on command.”

So that was how I become the King’s Taster.

Honestly, it was wonderful. Our King was well-liked so the danger to him was quite low. He also had the same sweet tooth as I did, which meant I was able to enjoy spiced fruit cakes with marzipan icing, beautifully sugared oranges and sherry almost whenever I wished. On most occasions, he liked to try everything on the table which meant that I was able to as well, and sometimes, when the Queen wasn’t looking, he’d ask me if there was anything particular I liked the look of and he’d order it for himself when she wasn’t paying attention.  

It ended up being him who took my virginity. Shortly after my nineteenth birthday he ordered some supper in his bed chamber and had me escorted up there for it. It was ice cream, so I was disappointed when instead of actually eating it, he seemed rather more intent on consuming me. Before long, my dress was on the floor and I was on the bed, and he was whispering all sorts of sweet words to me as he bounced heavily on top of me. He finished rather quickly and then spent a curious amount of time burying his face in all of my soft bits and rejoicing the roundness of them. Then, once he’d tired himself out, he bid me leave before we were caught.

I think the Queen suspected because after that, she slept in his bed chamber. Truth be told, I wasn’t that sorry. He was nice enough, but he was fifty and I had everything I wanted in the world already.

I was more sorry about what had happened when the following month, however: I didn’t bleed. Nor the month after that, nor the month after that. Having been brought up in a whorehouse, this was little more than an annoyance to me—just as it had been to my mother and the other women I’d grown up around. I knew how to hide my sickness and fix my dress to conceal a bump; not that a bump was really my biggest problem. I was lucky enough to be plump in a way that would conceal the fact I was with child, possibly indefinitely. The birth itself was more of a concern; I’d have to do it by myself, of course. There was no way that I’d be able to sneak out of the castle and find Mother. I just hoped my waters wouldn’t break while I was standing beside the King at the supper table.

I was into my fifth or sixth month when everything took a sudden turn.

It was the Queen’s birthday, which was something she was growing increasingly less keen on celebrating. Every year brought her closer to a time when she wouldn’t be able to produce an heir at all, and people were beginning to worry than she would run out of time. However, despite that, the King obviously loved her and insisted on throwing a big party for her. The banquet hall was decorated, all the court and several foreign visitors were invited, and the kitchen was abuzz for days with all sorts of people preparing all sorts of food. Guest cooks meant new dishes, and so I hovered around the edges, trying to figure out what sort of exotic culinary art they might be creating.

I didn’t get to try any of them at all until the actual day of the banquet. Even then, the King had made an effort to provide his Queen with all sorts of entertainment and had allowed the nobles to offer her gifts, so I had to stand quietly through an hour or two of those being presented until he finally decided to eat.

The first course was not was as exciting as I’d hoped. The King was too distracted to guess the things that I’d like to try, so I ended up just testing rotten old mushroom soup, roast meat and vegetables. These were things I’d ordinarily have on any given night. There were so many dishes with fine-cut pasta and fried breads and things that I’d scarcely had the opportunity to try before that it seemed a cruel turn of fate that he didn’t even want to try them.

I suffered through two courses where he didn’t eat a single thing, until he finally finished with a crème brulée. I’d enjoyed those many times before, and I expected I would enjoy it then.

How wrong I was.

The moment the innocent-looking crème brulée passed my lips I knew something was awry. I’d had no more than a tiny mouthful but I could already feel a tingling on my tongue. The court, milling about and entertained by the Jester, didn’t notice my surprise. They certainly didn’t notice the knife-point pressed against my side or the red, red lips at my ear whisper, “Swallow it and smile, honeypie.”

Paralysed by shock, I could do nothing but obey. In a moment, she was gone.

The King threw only a cursory glance at me before returning to enjoy the Jester’s keen impersonation of him. He broke the seal on his brulée, selecting one tiny shards of sugar glass with the tip of his spoon and chewing it.

In my mouth, I could already feel the burn setting in. I wanted to gag, to cough, to spit out whatever remnants of it were in my mouth, but I was too afraid of that woman with the knife. What if she came back? Instead, I pressed my lips desperately together, staring intently at the King.

Don’t! I willed him, hoping he’d be so distracted by the jester that he’d discard the dish. Don’t eat any more!

Oblivious, he picked another shard, then another. Then, while the jester bowed to thunderous applause, the King looked back toward his dessert, chuckling to himself. He took a big scoop of crème. I watched him slowly lift it to his mouth place it on his tongue and then swallow, and time seemed to slow.

He took a big gulp of sherry, pausing for a moment to salute the jester with a silent toast.

Then he took another mouthful of the dessert.

And another.

He was on his fourth when I saw his spoon freeze mid-air and his brow crinkle.

Swallowing, he placed the spoon down on his plate and took a big, long gulp of water from his goblet. When that didn’t help, he licked his lips, cleared his throat and then, from deep inside him came this terrible retching gag.

The cheering fell silent, and everyone turned in horror toward him. He stood in panic, throwing his heavy chair back and spilling his sherry, clutching at his throat.

It was when he finally looked in terror at me that I could hold it no longer and fell to my knees, spluttering and gagging myself. I knew it was over.

“Poison!” The Queen exclaimed, her voice straddling two octaves. “My King, he’s been poisoned!”

What happened next, I struggle to remember. Someone shouted to seize me, and I was grabbed by my shoulders, tied at the wrists and pigeon-marched out of the banquet hall. I was already sweating and somewhat delirious and couldn’t fathom where I was going—just that there were so many corridors—but then there was a dull thump and a gargle beside me. Warm liquid splashed across my arm, and it took me a couple of seconds to realise it was blood.

While I was staring at my arm and hoping the blood wasn’t mine, a woman’s small hand grabbed me. “Come, honeypie,” she said, grasping my jaw firmly with her other hand and pouring something cool into my mouth. “Swallow.” She held it shut until I did. “Good girl. Let’s go.”

I fell unconscious.

[circe-poetica]

Mercury trines Chiron today 9/8/20

 This quality of time will help you to develop a deeper understanding of those psychological areas that are connected with the experience of pain, suffering and rejection. This influence is especially well suited to so deepening the understanding of these interrelations that the first inklings of how to carry out a healing can be perceived. During this phase it is important to talk to other people who are interested in this theme. This time is well suited to penetrating the complicated connections and dependencies between human behavior, the psyche and early injuries – to differentiate between cause and effect -, whether for yourself or for someone who has confided in you.

Mercury trines Chiron Your communication skills are at peak performance today. You can masterfully clarify your haziest thoughts. Express yourself; what seems obvious to you can be a revelation for someone else.

Mercury trine or sextile Chiron You find it easy to understand and communicate spiritual realities and experiences outside of linear time, as well as holistic healing concepts and the mind/body connection. Your mind is a very effective tool for self-healing, and as you use it to advantage for yourself, you discover keys that you can communicate and share with others.

CHIRON IN ASPECT TO MERCURY

Chiron in aspect to Mercury balances right and left brain perceptual skill and quickens the deeper levels of the mind. This native has potentially great intuitive skills if he or she can begin to trust the thought processes, and this native can read minds easily. He or she knows what to say and how to respond to people without knowing much about them and therefore can become an adept at communication skills. The Virgo rulership of Chiron is very stabilizing to the thought processes, and this native has the potential to be very precise and still be intuitive at the same time. Chiron trine Mercury brings in powerful occult and healing skills. These natives are naturally in tune with the ancient times, and they remember the old healing skills whether they ever actualize them or not; these natives are wise old souls. If they do not discipline

themselves and actuate the trine, they will only remain very much in tune with ancient cultures and healing arts and no more. This intuitive knowing will be a source of pleasure for them. These natives love books about Atlantis and Egypt, for example. If they actuate the trine by disciplining them-selves as healers, and occultists, then great skills will manifest with training. Chart 29 is an interesting case with Chiron at the top of a T-square, the opposition between the Moon in the eighth and Jupiter in the second, with Chiron forming the trine with Mercury quincunxing the Moon. He has done well financially, but he came to me shortly after Uranus opposite Uranus because he felt depressed and empty, and his life was meaningless. Due to the power of Chiron in the fifth in Cancer at the top of the T-square, and Pluto retrograde in Leo in the sixth house of healing, I felt he needed to be initiated into one of the healing orders. The appropriate one was Weighing the Heart of the Soul, and now he is a wonderful AIDS counselor, helping suffering gays who are dying. His whole life has meaning now. Mercury/Chiron Aspects Pain associated with speaking, writing or other forms of communication. Extreme sensitivity to communication – what people say, how they say it and when they say it. Words most definitely can hurt you. Learning how to use voice, thoughts and language for healing purposes. Feeling pain from not having your voice heard. Using words and language to heal yourself. Using storytelling as a way to heal yourself and others. The journey of getting in touch with your unique voice. Learning to open up and talk about your problems. The need to talk about your “pain point.” Talking is painful. Expressing your thoughts through words is painful. Guiding others with your words and thoughts. Playing with language. Tricksters. Court jesters. Deliverers of messages that others may not want to hear. You act as an antidote to self-importance – your own and others’. Puncturing egos with words. Facility with non-rational logic. Maverick communications. Sticking your foot in your mouth. The ability to embrace paradox. The ability to synthesize conflicting information and perceptions. The ability to reconcile opposites. No need to choose either/or. He (Mercury) loves to see pride come before a fall, and is a natural antidote to the self-importance, pretensions and inflations encountered in the quest for consciousness and integration. The more we endeavor to reach our highest, to become godlike, to actualize our potential, the more this figure constellates quietly underneath ready to trip us up at any point should we dare to forget the chaotic origins of our hard-won sense of order, personal integration and consciousness. ~ Melanie Reinhart, Chiron and the Healing Journey Siblings with disabilities or illness. The need to heal relationships with siblings. Pain associated with siblings. Feeling wounded by a sibling. Pain experienced by being the brother or sister of someone else. Flawed education. Feeling that your education was missing something. Needing more non-rational learning opportunities. Synthesizing all information in a learning environment. The ability to present information in a variety of formats. Seeing no conflict in differing learning styles. Letting your way of learning take you on a journey. Embarking on a self-healing journey through words and language. Telling a story of pain. A healing journey through information and learning. Embracing a self-informed learning style. Self-taught. Taking responsibility for your own education. Creating the information that you need. Realizing that there are gaps in the available information, or in the way it is presented. Taking it upon yourself to fill in gaps in learning and education. Searching for the missing links and connections to make information come together. A sudden epiphany – and then you get it. It is the most delightful thing that ever happens to me, when I hear something coming out of my guitar and out of my mouth that wasn’t there before. James Taylor I believe musicians have a duty, a responsibility to reach out, to share your love or pain with others. James Taylor Synchronized timing with remarks and jokes. Saying the right thing at the right time. Saying the exact wrong thing at the wrong time. Subtle communication powers. The ability to pay attention to information that others miss. Learning by tripping yourself up. Having a knack for sticking your foot in your mouth. Being forced to think differently about the affairs of Mercury and Chiron’s house. Non-verbal assimilation of information. Knowing that a piece of the puzzle is missing. The ability to find a loophole in any logical thought pattern. The ability to learn through multiple channels. The way you think is somehow flawed according to convention. Your mental processes are not “normal.” You have the ability to open doorways of thinking that others would never have considered. You have unique perception. You have a way of putting information together that is wholly your own. You find opportunities in misses and near misses. It makes me believe in fate. In most cases, the readings where I’ve been really bad have usually been the ones where I got the part. Robin Wright Penn The fragmented mind. Sectioning and compartmentalizing experience and perceptions. Lack of awareness of the greater whole. Learning to heal your fragmented perception of the world. Learning to bring all of your thoughts together. Bringing your various learning experiences together into a cohesive whole. Creating new learning disciplines and paradigms. Reclaiming missing memories. Extreme nervous energy and over-sensitivity to what people say. Inability to get over upsetting thoughts and concepts. The key to healing is reconciling your differing perceptions. The key to healing is reclaiming missing and fragmented observations, memories and connections. The key to healing is talking about what gives you pain. The key to healing is finding an outlet for nervous mental energy. The key to healing is learning how to relax your mind. The key to healing is resisting the urge to cut off from unwanted observations and thoughts. The key to healing is to recognizing and accepting all of your thoughts as part you. The key to healing is practicing mindfulness. Share this:

[siren-dragon]

1,001 Lucian Nights -- Somnus x F!reader fanfiction (Ch.4)

Hello again everyone! Sorry this has taken so long, I am still packing boxes for a move and suffered from a brief writer’s block XD. Anyway, here is the newest chapter and I hope you all enjoy! I am actually very surprised how many people have been wanting a Somnus fanfic and are enjoying the story, so thank you for your support! Also a big shout out to Wild_Sylleblossom on AO3 for being so wonderful! ^_^

Also, for those who want to start from the beginning, I posted links to the chapters but you can also read it on AO3 as well. :)

Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

“Is that the end of your story?”

Your eyes immediately snapped open before blinking slowly and sleepily as you tried to process your companion’s question, the late hour and limited sleep you gained the previous evening now finally taking its toll on you. Mentally you chased away the welcoming embrace of sleep in favor of directing your attention to the man that sat across from you. Somnus still appeared to remain unaffected by the lack of rest, his mouth set in an expressionless draw as the edge of his thin lips tilted downward in the slightest appearance of displeasure. It seemed that the rest the king so desperately craved still alluded him as the fear of nightmares still kept its grip upon his mind, despite the work of your story.

“No… no, it is not the end,” you replied as you fought the urge to yawn.

“Then what happens next, Lady (f/n).” Somnus spoke, his words more a demand than an inquiry.

It felt as if time had stopped as you let your gaze settle to the ground while you tried to find a way to continue your story. You let your eyes wander across the beautiful carpet that lay beneath your skirt, tracing the outline of a few embroider flowers which were woven into the carpet. The elegant craftsmanship of the flora design was so impressive, it almost seemed as if you were sitting among real gladiolus’.

Your eyes brightened as another story began to come forth to your mind. “There were a number of guests who attended Prompto and Cindy's wedding, two of which were a man named Gladiolus and his sister… Iris, who hailed from Keycatrich. Gladiolus had designed the bouquet and garlands for Cindy and Prompto to wear for the ceremony, he was one of the greatest gardeners within all of Leide- for the greenery that he sowed held a beauty grander than any precious gemstone. But both he and his sister often gave the impression that they would be best suited for a career in combat rather than gardening.”

Though Somnus remained silent as he lounged against a set of pillows, he listened intently as you continued your narration. “At the wedding, they happened upon an old friend they’ve not had the pleasure to see in years….”

“And who might that be?”

You paused, trying to draw an image to your mind of what this new character should appear as. Glancing to the balcony you noticed a flock of birds soar across the skyline in the distance, their silhouettes barely visible beneath the evening sky. “It was a man named…. Crow. Kenny Crow.”

=======================================================

“Despite how closely he resembled an apkallu, Kenny Crow liked most things about himself, including his unique appearance. Without it, he might not have become the Leiden king’s favorite jester.” You explained with a slight laugh, “anyway, back in Keycatrich Gladiolus and Iris had invited Kenny Crow to dinner at their home. And Kenny never turned away a free meal…”

A loud, rambunctious peal of laughter could be heard from within the now closed flower shop. Within the living quarters that remained on the upper level of the simple establishment, a well-lit dinning room that played host to three individuals, two of which were the source of the laughter. On the right-hand side of the table sat a tall man with a large and muscular physique, a telling sign of the long hours he had spent in the sun and working in fields, while beside him sat a much smaller young woman. Though their appearances seemed polar opposites of each other, both held the same dark brown hair, cinnamon colored eyes, and bright smile- traits one would only see among a pair of siblings.

Across the table was the third attendee of the small dinner party, a man who looked startlingly different from the two siblings. His hair was a deep shade of black that was the same color as his wide, unblinking eyes- which seemed eerie with the thick, jet-black eyebrows that rested above them. His nose appeared almost beak-like and lead to a wide grin; his unique appearance nearly resembling that of a bird….

“So, I said ‘Caw, it’s me Kenny Crow!” The black-haired man spoke, tears beginning to well up within his eyes from laughter.

Gladiolus and Iris screamed with laughter, both barely able to speak as they tried to catch their breath. “By Shiva, what did he do next?”

“He sprung from his chair, releasing the loudest squeal of surprise and showing off a strong pair of lungs with that shout. The prince was so loud he could have made a behemoth moan in agony at his screech!”

Another round of laughter drowned out the remainder of the conversation between the three friends, neither quite sure if it were from the humorous jests or excessive wine. However, the once cheerful sound of amusement quickly altered to one of pain and gagging from Kenny Crow; his face turning red as his dark eyes went wide in panic and fear until they fell limp. The bird-like jester quickly slumped forward, his face landing upon the plate of food before him which only prompted Gladiolus and Iris to laugh even louder; assuming the action to be deliberate. One minute passed, then two, and by the three-minute mark, the siblings began to feel a slight bout of concern for their now motionless friend.

“Kenny? Kenny?... Are you alright?” Iris asked, rising from her seat and shaking his shoulder gently.

Gladiolus grinned, “what’s this? You can’t hold your liquor anymore hmm? Looks like you’ve become a light-weight after working for the king Kenny.”

Iris frowned at the lack of response and moved to grasp Kenny’s head, rising it upward to see if her friend was sleeping. Vacant and glassy eyes stared blankly back at her while his mouth remained slightly parted; but it was his skin that bothered Iris the most, it was paler than before and cold…too cold. She immediately dropped the head in fright, causing it to fall into the plate of food once more, before she shakily turned to face her older brother. “Gladdy…. I-I think he’s dead.”

“What? Iris, that’s ridiculous.” Gladiolus shot back with a laugh as he rose from his seat and moved to awaken his friend. “Come now Kenny, you’re just fooling us now. Wake up, you old fool.”

The moment Gladiolus let his hand set against the other man’s shoulder, he quickly snatched it away as if his flesh had seared from the touch. Kenny’s body was ice cold- as if he had stood within Ghorovas Rift for hours on end instead of the cozy dining room they currently occupied. Instantly Gladiolus went to find a pulse and backed away in shock to find that the man was indeed dead.

“He’s dead… how could this have happened?”

“Maybe a bone got stuck in his throat and he suffocated,” Iris suggested, looking sadly at their now departed friend. “Poor Kenny Crow, we will have to tell the authorities.”

“What if they blame us though?” Gladiolus shot back.

“It was an accident!”

“They’ll still blame us; he was the king's favorite. There they go: the people who killed our poor Kenny Crow.”

Iris’ eyes widened in alarm as she turned to face her brother, “Gladdy… what if you lose your customers over this? Even if we didn’t do it, a dead body appearing is not going to bring patrons. What are we going to do?”

Gladiolus sighed heavily as they both stared at the corpse sitting at their dinner table. It was in that moment an idea struck, one that may save their hides yet; despite its dubious nature. “I have an idea but… it’s not an honest venture.”

“What is it?” Iris asked curiously.

“Well, there is a physician just down the street from our home. We could take him there.”

The brunette girl let loose an exasperated chuckle as she gestured to the corpse sitting at their table. “It’s a little late for a physician Gladdy, we’ll need an undertaker-“

“And leave him there,” Gladiolus finished.

“You mean to let another take the blame?”

“It’s not my first choice but it’s the only plan we have.”

Both siblings stared at the motionless body of Kenny Crow, whose vacant eyes reminded them eerily of a child’s doll, for a few seconds before finally reaching an agreement. “Then let’s do it,” Iris replied.

As quietly as a scurrying mouse, Iris eased open the front door of their home, glancing down the dark and deserted streets of Keycatrich. Breathing a sigh of relief at the lack of patrolling guards, Iris quickly gestured for Gladiolus to follow after her as he half-carried, half-dragged Kenny Crow out of their home. With every step they took to the physician’s home, the brother and sister nervously watched any sudden movements in fear of a soldier or wandering resident to step from the shadows and question their late-night venture. After what felt to be an eternity but in truth was a mere five minutes, the trio climbed a narrow wooden staircase to a mahogany door; a plaque sat on the right-hand side beneath a lite lantern allowing one to read the words Ignis Scientia, Physician to the Court.

“Just put him by the door,” Iris whispered, the sound barely audible due to their fear of being overheard.

“Alright…there.” Gladiolus spoke, leaning the body against the wall beside the start of the stairs. “Now let’s go before we-“

“Whose there?” A voice spoke before the door swung open to reveal a woman clad in an elegant dress of silk with a crimson robe and leather belt bearing a small dagger, her simple attire doing nothing to mask the shapely body beneath it. Silver-grey locks fell straight down her back and came to an end just past her shoulders with a small kink in her hair, as if she just removed it from a binding or braid. Gladiolus and Iris stood frozen on the steps as sharp green eyes narrowed suspiciously while she folded her arms across her chest; making her seem rather intimidating despite her short stature. “Can I help you two with something?” She asked in a slight drawl, as if she wanted to do anything but help.

“We came to see Doctor Scientia… for our friend. If it’s not too late.” Gladiolus explained, gesturing to the slumped figure resting against the wall. At the woman’s lack of movement and unchanged expression, Gladiolus went to retrieve a few gil from his pocket in offering. Immediately the silver-haired woman smirked while green eyes brightened at the sight of the money before she took hold of the coin payment, “it’s never too late for Doctor Scientia.”

“You wanna bet?” Iris muttered dryly under her breath, which only Gladiolus heard.

“I’ll go and get him, wait here.” She glanced down at Kenny Crow and gave a grimace, “your friend looks like shit.”

When the door closed once more, Gladiolus and Iris raced off into the night toward their home as quickly and quietly as physically possible…

===========================================================

“Ignis? Ignis, are you still awake? You have a customer.”

Sitting within a brightly illuminated study that was filled with stacks of books and manuscripts consisting of topics that ranged from herbal medicine to culinary techniques was a man. He was nearly buried behind a stack of paperwork at his desk; only his spiked caramel-blonde hair was visible due to the barricade of books and paper. At the sound of his name, Ignis shifted his eyes; which were a color of green and hazel toward the woman standing in the door way of his study. “A customer at this hour? It’s not some drunkard who got lost again is it Aranea?”

Aranea gave a sly smirk to her lover, happy to showcase the money she received at the door, “not this time Specs; this fool actually paid for once.”

Ignis sighed, giving Aranea a look of exasperation despite the relief that was evident in his eyes. “Is it really necessary to call the patients fools, Aranea?”

“Only when they don’t pay,” she replied dryly.

“Then you’d best show him to me before he can get away.” Ignis answered with a small smile as he rose from his desk.

Together the two approached the front door and opened in wide enough for Ignis to step out and have a look at their new patient. Unfortunately, the dim-lighting was not able illuminate the path fully and Ignis ended up tripping on Kenny Crow’s legs. With a cry of alarm, Ignis’ arms flailed out in a panic as he moved to grasp any manner of support to steady himself; which just happened to be the jester’s arm itself. Within the span of a few seconds the young physician found himself and his waiting patient tumbling down the flight of stairs before their home; only to come to a crashing halt on the ground in a tangled mass of limbs.

“Ignis!” Aranea cried in alarm, all pretense of her jesting behavior gone as she hurried to Ignis’ side. “Ignis! Come on Specs, talk to me: are you alright?”

“Ugh… I don’t know.” Ignis groaned, slowly sitting upright and wincing in pain.

“You don’t know? You’re a physician.”

Ignis huffed irritably as he rubbed the new bump on his head, “so what if I’m a physician, it’s not like I can examine myself at the moment.”

“Let me take a look at you then… no broken limbs or bleeding from what I can see. I suppose the only thing you’ll take from this fall is a horrid headache tomorrow, thank Shiva.”

“I just hope our patient didn’t suffer anything worse,” Ignis replied. He frowned at the motionless body beside him and soon leveled his head against the man’s chest to check his heartbeat and breathing.

Aranea sighed, “we apologize for this sir, but whatever is afflicting you I’m sure Specs- er… Doctor Scientia will be able to help.”

“No, that… won’t be possible.” Ignis replied slowly, staring in horror at the man laying prone before them.

“Yes, you can Ignis; you’re the best in the city.”

“Aranea… he’s dead.”

A stone-cold silence fell between the two as they turned to stare at the corpse resting beside them. The first sensation that filled the minds of both Ignis and Aranea was shock, only to be briefly accompanied by panic. “He… He must have been injured in the fall down the stairs,” Aranea uttered in disbelief. “Ignis, if word gets out that a patient came here and ended up dead; your reputation will be in jeopardy.”

“I believe the consequences of this accident will be far worse than that Aranea… this is the king’s jester Kenny Crow.” Ignis spoke, his voice faltering slightly.

Aranea cursed, “despite what we say we’ll be blamed for this. And I doubt the king will believe two foreigners claiming this was a mere accident.” Both we’re regretting the death of the jester and panicking at the subsequent punishment they would suffer from for ‘inadvertently’ causing his death.

Ignis took hold of one arm and gestured for Aranea to grab the other, “we have to move him now; help me carry him upstairs.”

‘It is amazing how quickly a person can improvise when necessary.’ You explained, noticing the amused smile on Somnus’ face at the twisted humor of your story. ‘Ignis and Aranea had to take a gamble… forgetting all too quickly that gambling is merely a way of getting nothing, for something.’

As Ignis and Aranea dragged the body of Kenny Crow from the steps of their home, a few streets down resided the most skilled blacksmith in Keycatrich; Cid Sophiar. The steel he crafted in his prime was legendary, sought after by many nobles and swordsmen alike- but such times had long since past as the old craftsman now enjoyed maintaining a smaller smithy. Having retired for the evening, Cid groaned slightly as his back popped, causing the elderly smith to grumble. “Ugh, if I keep getting to many orders, I might just move the blasted shop to the middle of the desert. At least then I can enjoy my retirement in peace.”

Meanwhile, high atop the sprawling rooftops of Keycatrich, the physician and his companion dragged Kenny Crow’s body beside the twisting flues, weaving across every building similarly to the streets the stood above. Ignis and Aranea soon came to a halt at an ideal location to hid the body; a sole chimney on a lone rooftop that did not expel smoke. “Here, lift his arms higher so he slides down easier…agh!” Ignis cried out, shuddering at the vacant gaze Kenny Crow that loomed over him as the body smack against the brick chimney.

“Are you alright Ignis?”

“I’m fine, though I am certain that he would not enjoy what it is we are doing.”

“Nonsense, he’d see the funny side of,” Aranea panted in exhaustion as they slowly and steadily lowered the heavy body into the chimney. Glancing at each other they silently counted to three before releasing Kenny Crow and watching the deceased jester vanish into the darkness….

===========================================================

A loud rumble began to echo from within the chimney of Cid’s small parlor, only to be immediately followed by a limp figure falling from the flue and landing within the empty hearth. Cid nearly spat out his tea at the sight and with a look of outrage and anger, grabbed the nearest discarded tool from his wooden desk and hurried forward. “Thief! You think you can come here and steal my work? Think again!”

The silver-haired man slammed the tool within his grasp, which happened to be a wooden mallet, against the side of the thief’s shoulder. As if a leaf being gently blown from an autumn wind; the would-be thief’s body collapsed to the ground, with Cid managing to land another blow to the man’s neck on his way down. “Had enough yet, you brat!” he shouted, glaring down at the intruder as he waved his impromptu weapon threateningly. A few seconds passed and when the man did not move from his position on the floor, Cid frowned in confusion; surely the thief wasn’t in that deep a sleep? Kneeling down beside the prone figure Cid lifted to fingers to the man’s throat and immediately jumped back at the feeling of cold skin and no pulse.

“Dead… I warned you punk.” Cid grumbled as he observed the body, now covered head to toe in soot an ash from his fall through the chimney. “Wait…I know you; you’re Kenny Crow. The king’s jester…”

Cid immediately jumped away from the body, a look of shock and irritation twisting his face. “Why would you come down my chimney?!” He cried in disbelief, gesturing in exasperation toward the fireplace with the wooden mallet in his hands. Yet soon Cid’s expression revealed a crooked grin as he began chuckling nervously, “it’s a damn joke isn’t it; to get the whole town laughing at Old Cid. Well the laughs on you, Kenny Crow!”

But as the body of the comedic man remained still and motionless upon the floor of Cid’s parlor, the blacksmith’s grin faded as concern and alarm filled his veins. “No, the laughs on me. They’ll say I murdered you and I’ll hang! There has to be something I can do, think of something Cid; think of something….”

Opening the front door of his shop and glancing down the deserted streets of Keycatrich, Cid quickly moved to retrieve Kenny Crow’s body; groaning in pain from the dead weight the corpse on his back. Having not the strength to carry the jester nor a calm enough mental state in which to find an ideal location to store the body, Cid found the nearest shadowy alleyway and propped the body against the wall. It was then however, that the sound of singing caught the ear of the old smith; yet this music was not a melodious tune that would even charm a siren, but a rather appalling and extremely off-key ballad coming from a stumbling drunkard not 20 feet away. Cid immediately raced away from the alley, only to slow his gait when the singing man passed by him before sprinting back to his shop as fast as his legs would carry him.

The intoxicated man was so deep in his cups and far too preoccupied with the musical lyrics he was butchering in his loud, toneless voice that he did not even notice Cid pass him by. He stumbled along the stone walls of a nearby building with a splash of crimson coloring his bearded face; the alcohol accentuating the red flush on his sweaty face. As he shambled further down the dirt street, the man continued his song until his hand rested against what appeared to be cloth; only to have a body fall upon him.

“Ah, help! I’m being attacked!” The man screeched, the sensation briefly pulling him out of his drunken daze. “You’ll not get a single gil from me!”

Using what little strength that he possessed, the drunk grabbed his assailant’s shoulders and slammed him against the stone and mortar wall. With each hit against the building structure, Kenny's head let loose a sickening crack that would have alarmed the man had the alcohol not dulled his senses. At last, the drunkard’s strength wore out and the body fell to a heap on the road as the man shouted aloud, “guards! Guards, seize this man! H-He just tried to kill me!”

As the two patrolling soldiers hurried over, one knelt beside the fallen body and checked for any signs of life. “No, he’s dead- you killed him.”

“Oh, thank Ramuh,” the man chortled.

One of the guards bristled angrily at the drunk's carefree attitude. “You drunk; this is Kenny Crow. The king’s jester… and you killed him.”

“Wha- Why should I kill him? We haven’t even been properly introduced.” The man laughed, as if it were all merely some joke.

The guard smirked cruelly at the short, fat drunk. “That us for a judge to decide. And when he does…we'll hang you.”

And within an instant, the poor man’s face fell as he was dragged the city dungeon to await his fate.

========================================================

‘The trial of Vyv Dorden was the social event of the season, the stands in the courtroom filled to bursting to view the man who murdered the famed jester. The judge who presided over the trial was none other than the renowned Judge Calligo. Of course, Judge Calligo was completely incompetent, but being a judge; no one even noticed.

“Why did you kill him?” Calligo questioned, staring down at the shackled man sitting in the chair before him.

Vyv, whose face was now as white as fresh linen, trembled within seat as the spectators eagerly looked on. Gone was the bold and brash man from the previous evening, now replaced with a frightened and confused man awaiting judgement. “I thought he was trying to rob me.”

Across the chamber laughter erupted from nearly every attendee, only causing Vyv to shrink slightly within his seat. Calligo snickered at the answer given to him and he smirked cruelly at the poor man. “Kenny Crow, trying to rob you? Fourteen years I’ve sat on this stand hearing claims of innocence and you, Vyv Dorden, have had the worst excuse.”

“B-But I made a mistake.”

“You certainly did,” Calligo snipped coldly. “All of Keycatrich will mourn the loss of poor Kenny Crow, we will never see the likes of one like him again. Kenny Crow lightened our lives and gave us laughter, laughter from the heart. We knew him, we loved him, we laughed with him.”

Judge Calligo’s somber speech had managed to even invoke several sobs from few of the onlookers, the obvious sorrow felt at the loss of the jester causing far severe an impact than one would expect. Yet not a moment after the strange and awkward expression of emotion, Calligo’s face became twisted by rage as he glared hatefully at Vyv. “For your crimes against this city, Vyv Dorden, I sentence you to hang.” A round of cheers shouted in agreement at the verdict, eager to see Kenny Crow’s murderer pay for his crimes.

“No!” A voice yelled out over the crowd, causing several people to frown in confusion as Cid stumbled toward the center of the court room. “No, no, no you idiots!”

“Wha- who is this old fool?!” Judge Calligo asked in bewilderment.

“He didn’t kill the jester, I did. I stuffed the body in the alcove where it fell on him,” Cid explained.

“No!” Another voice cried out as the crowd parted to reveal Ignis and Aranea, hurrying forward to stand beside Cid and Vyv. “No, I killed poor Kenny Crow. And then I stuffed his body down the blacksmith’s chimney.”

“No!” The booming voice that belonged to Gladiolus bellowed as he and Iris stepped forward, both bearing grim expressions as they joined the growing list of accomplices. “I killed poor Kenny Crow.”

Judge Calligo’s look of bafflement shifted between the six people, now unsure as to who to sentence with so many clashing confessions. “But I…I don’t understand-“

“I killed him; warned him never to mess with an old smith!” Cid interrupted, waving the wooden mallet in his hand as if he were belittling Judge Calligo.

Ignis shook his head, “no, I tripped over him in the dark and we fell down the stairs.”

“He’s very short-sighted, you can’t hang a man for that.” Aranea admitted while Ignis face flushed pink in embarrassment at his companion’s bluntness.

“It was a bone, a fish bone I think!” Iris argued.

“And I’m still the best gardener in all of Keycatrich!”

“Gladdy, now is not the time-“

As the six continued to bicker over who was the true killer, a blaring horn rang out across the courtroom, causing all to fall silent and turn toward the entryway. The doors opened to reveal a vast armed escort alongside the King of Keycatrich himself; prompting all in attendance to kneel in reverence to their sovereign. “Your Majesty,” Judge Calligo greeted, bowing deeply.

“…Who killed my funny man Kenny Crow?”

“I did!” Gladiolus, Iris, Cid, Ignis, Aranea, and Vyv all exclaimed simultaneously.

All watched on in silence as the king walked forward to observe the six people who had confessed to their crimes. “Who do I hang, sire?” Judge Calligo asked hesitantly.

“Nobody,” every person within the courtroom gasped in surprise at the merciful verdict. “It was an accident. Besides being my jester, Master Kenny Crow was also my friend and if I knew him well; he would have appreciated the manner of his death. It was his final jest. Dear Kenny didn’t have to be alive to be funny, even dead he managed to make us laugh!”

It was with those words that the tension within the court room faded causing a sea of laughter to ring out across the attendees. For even though none suffered the consequence of an accident, there was no denying that Kenny Crow’s final joke was certainly one to remember….

=========================================================

A deep and joyous chortling filled the air as you watched Somnus laugh while your second story finally came to an end, though the sound was now a bit coarse from his constant laughter throughout the story. His wide grin and genuine happiness reminded you a bit of a child; one who could not stop finding the glee within a well-told quip. The rare sight made a sad smile drift across your lips, as you couldn’t help but wonder when was the last time the king was able to laugh so freely?

“Is that the end of the story?” He asked, the drawl in his voice showcasing not only his amusement, but also a sluggish exhaustion of someone truly tired.

“Not quite, but for now it will have to wait till tomorrow night.”

“Do not try to trick me again and leave your tales unfinished, Lady (f/n),” Somnus snapped sharply, all traces of humor now gone as half-lidded blue eyes glared at you; the young boy you briefly saw now buried behind the façade of a ruler.

“There are more to stories than simply concluding the tale, your Majesty. For every good story has a moral woven into their words.”

“And what could possibly be the moral of Kenny Crow’s death.”

“Well, Gladiolus, Ignis and the others learned to take responsibility for their actions. As we all should.”

Somnus scoffed, blinking slowly as sleep began to once more overcome him, “but if they had, Kenny Crow’s final jest wouldn’t have been realized. Nor would his destiny to make people laugh even when he was dead be known.”

“That’s true,” you replied, giving a soft chuckled. “Stories, much like life, are far more complex than we think they are. But this new story is filled with excitement, thrills, and adventure… and it can wait till tomorrow night, your Majesty.”

“…Why do you help me, Lady (f/n)?”

“I am bound to aid my sovereign whenever he requires it, your Majesty.”

“Is that the only reason? A sense of duty you feel.” Somnus murmured softly, his body beginning to relax as he finally allowed the need for sleep to take hold.

You shook your head, “no. I suppose I stayed because I am concerned for you, your Majesty.”

“Why?”

That simple question had more impact upon you then you realized, curious yourself as to why you even bothered with such actions. It was true that you were obligated to assist Somnus because he had ordered you to do so, with a veiled threat to the consequences you’d suffer from if you did not comply. But as you sat and illustrated your story to the king you couldn’t help but take notice of the kind smile on his lips are the way his face softened as he relaxed, the hard lines that always remained on his face gone and making him appear younger and… handsome.

You felt your face burn with a light blush as you turned to face Somnus, who had fallen into slumber once more. Retrieving a stray blanket, you laid the soft duvet over the Lucian king, still pondering his question as you doused the oils lamps. “I care for you, Somnus…perhaps more than I once knew.” You whispered softly before you exited the bedchamber. Gilgamesh immediately hurried toward your side at the sight of the opening door, “are you alright Lady (f/n)?”

“Yes, just tired is all.” You smiled weakly, finally feeling the fatigue of the evening’s events.

“I shall escort you back to your chambers. And Lady (f/n)… thank you.”

“It is not over yet Lord Gilgamesh, but he is improving. We can only hope it is for the better.”

As the two of you continued your walk down the corridor to return to the East Wing, neither of you noticed the figure hidden within the shadows of a marble column. Quickly the figure hurried away from their hiding place and down the empty corridors of the Citadel, careful not to make a sound. Soon the approached a large wooden door and hurried inside. The room happened to be a guest chamber for visiting nobles and was currently occupied by none other than Lord Aldercapt himself. He glared at the servant he had managed to bribe, less than pleased at their late arrival and doubting if they were even worth the coin he spent on them. “What is it you’ve learned?”

“His Majesty seems to be unwell, my lord, and the Oracle’s attendant has been meeting with him every evening.”

“Is that so? None would abide a weak and ill king… Perhaps his Majesty feels the burden of his throne too much to bear. As his loyal subjects, I believe it time we relieve him of his calling.”

“B-But he was chosen by the gods themselves, Lord Aldercapt-“

“And now, they will choose another far more worthy of their power.” Aldercapt smirked maliciously, greedily wondering how wondrous the Ring of the Lucii would appear upon his own hand…

[fluffymusketeer]

The Thorn Beneath the Rose

In which Eren is a handsome prince trapped in a cursed tower... and Levi is Levi. 

Happy Valentine’s Day @ackermission​! I am your Love Buddy! I hope you enjoy this little fairytale I wrote for you hun, thank you for being a part of the ereri fandom <333 - and thank you to @ererievents for the hard work!

Now available to read on Ao3!

“Oh dear. There goes another one!”

The sight of a hapless knight far below, tossing weaponry and fleeing for his life from a spectral court jester, is — at this point — rather insulting.

Eren huffs and plucks yet another pearl from his increasingly threadbare doublet. “I really thought this one would last a bit longer,” he grumbles. “And a court jester? Honestly!”

Armin hops out of his water bowl along the window ledge, leathery skin glistening in the dawn sun. He croaks in victory as Eren hands him the pearl. “Nightmares are manifestations of the unconscious mind, Eren,” he says. “There is no rhyme or reason to them. Didn’t you read that book Mikasa stole for you?”

Up in the rafters of the tower, Mikasa ruffles her silky black feathers in annoyance. “Of course he didn’t!” She snags a spider from its cobweb and gulps it down.

Eren tries not to gag.

He turns back to the window and rests his chin on his hands. At this rate, he’ll be stuck in this stupid old ruin of a tower forever.

The dark tangled forest below stretches as far as the eye can see, mists rising off the quagmires with the sun. Deceptively quiet, but Cursed to it’s rotten core, and Eren along with it. A prince trapped in a tower, a ruler without a realm, forced to watch countless brave knights battle their own nightmares to rescue him... and fail.

And worst of all, he’s down to four pearls. A perfectly good doublet ruined!

That sneaky little toad.

The nightmarish apparitions are often amusing. Slithering snakes, giant cockroaches, sudden nakedness, and so on. But every now and again a knight comes along whose nightmares are something else altogether; the knight who was forced to confront their father’s fist, the knight who had to relive his parents’ murder… it is at such times when the cobwebbed old room at the top of the tower falls silent. Mikasa will flutter her wings and disappear through the hole in the roof, not returning for days. Armin will declare he’s off to the well, but really he’s just hiding his tears.

And always, Eren is left alone, the blackness in his heart growing, the despair threatening to drown him.

So when another knight appears at the edge of the woods the next day, his forest green standard hanging limply in the drizzling rain, Eren doesn’t have much hope. There’s a quality to the silence, as if the Curse knows it has found its next victim, and it’s going to be a juicy one.

“He’s a bit short for a knight,” Mikasa comments, preening her feathers.

Armin croaks in agreement.

“I have a bad feeling about this one,” Eren admits, shrinking into himself on the window seat.

“Uh oh,” Armin ribbits.

Eren can hardly bring himself to watch as the knight jumps down off his uneasy horse and removes his helmet to contemplate the swamp and it’s unnatural fog.

He has dark hair mussed up with sweat and rain. “Turn back,” Eren mutters under his breath. “I’m really not worth it.”

“I bet two sapphires from your mother’s brooch that he scarpers before reaching the footbridge,” Armin declares.

“One,” Eren counters, settling down for the show. “She was wearing that when she died, you monster.”

Armin holds up his little webbed foot and they delicately shake on it.

Eren can already sense the Curse coalescing, its tendrils snaking out towards the knight, reaching for his deepest fears. The knight draws his sword in anticipation.

“People?” Armin says, munching on a bug.

“Soldiers! They’re soldiers! Wait, what?” Eren leans forward.

He has never seen a knight with a fear of soldiers before. Dozens of them are forming, translucent foggy ghouls in the shape of a royal regiment. But why would a knight be scared of soldiers? They are all on the same side!

That does not stop the knight from stepping forth, planting his boots into the muddy thickets as he brings down his sword for the first time, slicing through the head of the nearest spectral soldier. Again... and again.

“Wow,” Armin croaks after a while.

Wow indeed.

“Hey, Mikasa, come look at this!”

“Damn it Eren, I’m a crow, not a lapdog.”

But Eren isn’t listening, unable to tear his eyes away from the knight cutting a swathe through the soldiers, unexpectedly agile even in armour. In the distance, a hiss of displeasure ripples through the dark forest.

The soldiers dissipate into a shower of droplets.

The Curse must try another tactic.

Mikasa flaps down to the window ledge, trying to act casual. Eren makes room for her, and the three of them watch as the knight pushes soot-black hair out of his eyes and scans the swamp.

“There!” Mikasa squawks, beak pointing behind the knight.

Armin is practically hopping on the spot. “It’s another person!”

And a tall one at that. Towering over the short knight, silent and deadly as only the mist can be (for the Curse may look harmless, but there are more than just physical wounds to be had in this forest).

The knight hasn’t seen, he hasn’t seen — “Look out!” Eren cries.

His voice, of course, is carried off by the Curse, away into the wind, but maybe it has some effect after all, for the knight goes rigid, and just in time he rolls away. The tall spectre’s arms grasp at nothingness, and the knight turns to face his newest foe.

And falters.

“No,” Eren whispers.

But the split second hesitation is all the spectre needs, and it envelopes the knight in a cloud of fog.

“Well, that didn’t last long.” Armin holds out a webbed foot. “Pay up, Eren.”

“I really thought this one seemed different,” Eren sighs, reaching for his brooch.

“Wait,” Mikasa says.

“Why?”

But Mikasa is right. The tall spectre is beginning to quiver, the mist struggling to keep its shape. He’s fighting it! Eren thinks, heart soaring.

It takes long minutes, but eventually, with a fatal downward stroke of his sword, the tall spectre is vanquished. The knight has gone pale, his forehead shiny with a cold sweat. He glances up at the tower and Eren can almost feel his grim determination. What brings you here? Eren is more intrigued by this knight than any other, wants somehow to climb down and urge him onwards.

The knight’s shoulders are hunched as he crosses the rickety footbridge. Eren smiles at Armin triumphantly.

Moments later, Eren’s smile vanishes.

The soldiers have reappeared.

This time they hold between them a woman. Her knees are forced into the mud, her long dress is torn and tattered, her long hair whips about in the wind. She may only be a ghostly apparition, but Eren can tell she is beautiful… and suffering.

As soon as the knight leaps into the fray with a cry, Eren knows. For he too lost a mother, many years ago. He knows that look, that shout of raw pain that rings out across the clearing.

He puts his head in his hands. “I can’t watch.”

Armin provides a running commentary. “Now he’s doing a sort of… kicky thing—”

“Roundhouse kick,” Mikasa interjects.

“Roundhouse kick. Oh, he just killed another one! He sure is flexible in that armour…”

“Oh dear,” says Mikasa.

“Oh no,” says Armin.

“What, what?!”

“The woman just drew a sword,” Mikasa informs him somberly.

Eren curls in on himself, staring at the dark room he’s been trapped in for an age with naught but a crow and a toad for company. “I hate this Curse.I hate it.”

“Eren, I don’t think he can do it,” Armin says sadly.

“Of course not. It’s his mother. No one should have to kill their own mother.”

Things grow quiet. Eren can feel the Curse feeding itself with monstrous fear, growing thick and slimy, tangible in the rotting air. Armin and Mikasa are holding their breaths. He tries to send his strength to the knight. Take it and run.

Quietly, Eren rises from the window seat, and goes to put his mother’s brooch away in the privy. It doubles as his meagre dressing room, where he keeps outfits which were once (before the moths and the mould got to them) fit for a prince.

“Eren!” Armin screeches.

“It’s alright, Armin, I’m used to it...”

“Eren,” Mikasa interrupts. “He’s done it.”

“What?!”

Eren trips back to the window, hardly daring to believe. There, down, down, down at the foot of the tower, at the door which only opens from the outside, stands the knight. For the briefest second, even at this distance, Eren could swear their eyes meet.

Then he opens the door.

“I— I— I need to change!” Eren darts for the privy.

Several minutes later, as he’s fumbling with the sapphire brooch, he hears the trap door creak open and footsteps in the room beyond. Footsteps. In my tower!

“Fucking hell,” a voice says, deep and annoyed.

Eren’s heart flutters. That sounds like a sexy voice! He takes one last glance in the cracked looking-glass, tosses his chestnut brown hair in what he hopes is an artfully dishevelled, princely kind of way, then he goes to announce himself.

“Good morrow, fair knight!” He’s practised this speech for years. “I, Eren of the House of Yeager, do formally congratulate you on your noble and heroic… ah… deed, and formally accept your rescue… and… now I shall proceed to… er, what are you doing?”

The knight puts down the dustpan and broom. “Who the fuck are you?” he snaps.

“I’m, um… Eren... of the House—”

“Yes, I heard you the first time. You look like a bloody pauper.”

Eren wilts.

“That damn four-eyed hedgewitch! She told me I’d find treasure at the top of this tower. Some treasure you are.”

“You’re… not my knight in shining armour?”

“Tch.” The knight (...probably not a knight) squints at Eren’s brooch. “Are those real sapphires?”

“It was my mother’s.”

“Oh.”

Armin curls protectively atop his hard-won pearls. Mikasa squawks indignantly. Eren sighs, despondent.

“Well, come on then.” The knight (mercenary, Eren supposes) puts his hands on his hips. “Maybe there’s some sort of reward I can claim for all this.”

“Wait… you’re still going to rescue me?”

“I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Well… thanks, I suppose.”

The knight (mercenary, asshole, whatever) rolls his eyes and holds the trapdoor open. Mikasa and Armin hitch a ride on Eren’s shoulders, all the way down, out of the tower, and across the swamp.

The Curse is grumbling in the background, but just like that, it lets them go.

“I’m Levi, by the way.”

Eren tests the name on his tongue. “Levi.” It feels nice.

“Alright, don’t wear it out.”

Levi’s horse whinnies excitedly when they reach it, prancing on its hooves and looking rather more spritely than Eren remembers horses being. Mikasa flies off in a huff, intent on using her own method of travel.

“Well?” Levi says, vaulting atop the horse. “Hop up.”

“Right,” Eren replies. “Right.”

Once he’s on the horse, after several undignified attempts, he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. He flops them about, wishing he was a crow too.

“For god’s sake.” Levi takes Eren’s arms and wraps them around his waist. “Just hold on, your highness.”

“You’re really not what I expected.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Kind of cute though—” Eren claps a hand over his mouth in horror.

Levi glances back, sooty bangs falling over his eyes, and raises a sceptical eyebrow. “You’ve been in that tower a while, haven’t you brat?”

Eren nods slowly.

To his bewilderment, there is a blush creeping up Levi’s neck, where fine black hair meets pale skin. “Better hold on tight then,” Levi says gruffly, and kicks his horse into a gallop.

“Alright,” Eren whispers.

And neither of them look back.

~ THE END ~

[commoncoral]

Recollecting 1/2 (Jevil x Seam)

Seam sits back on his chair waiting for the next traveler to arrive to his little Seap, however due to the current state the underground is with the spade king ruling, there hasn't been much darkners buying his wares because of poverty rampant through the kingdom.

Seam had a lot of time to think to himself. He usually passed time by finding all trinkets he could find in the underground to sell or play a nice round of chess with himself. Seam could always find another darkner to play with but that would be unfair since nobody in the underground ever bested him when it comes to his games.

Well, except one.

Seam drinks his tea, glances over at the broken key sitting on it's lonesome gathering dust, and started to think back on the days where his body wasn't so torn and raggedy, back to the days where he had both of his button eyes and not the gaping hole that remains now .

In his youth he was the court magician, a powerful and sharp-sighted one too. He made a hobby out of playing all kinds of games and was quite adept at it too.

The court jester Jevil was a funny little man who loved games even more then Seam did. Seam did not know how to describe their relationship together since it had always fluctuated from intense rivals, best partners, and something more.

Sometimes they'd battle each other for days to see who would come out on top in a game of old maid, sometimes they just plain out (tickle) fight with each other playfully to see who'd say uncle first, sometimes they'd caused chaos together by pulling pranks, and other times Jevil would cuddle up to Seam when he was about to take a nap, holding his giant fuzzy tail or his arm.

Seam enjoyed being with Jevil and knew that Jevil felt the same too. They never really said it out loud at first until one day, Seam was practicing his magic when Jevil waved from the distance, catching Seam's attention and Jevil shouted,

"I LIKE YOU SEAM!"

Whatever magic Seam was conjuring in his hand suddenly blew up in his face. Both Jevil and Seam had a moment of shocked silence before Jevil started running off and Seam chased after him yelling. Seam wasn't angry, in fact he was laughing. They were both laughing.

Seam used to be very agile and quick, so he caught up to Jevil and tackled him on to the ground. He trapped Jevil and prevented him moving by laying his whole body weight on top of him.

"You aren't going anywhere until you sew up my eye", Seam laughed and wiggled his now loose left button on his face. Seam often had to sew it back on and it was pretty difficult to without a mirror.

At first Jevil sewed the button to close to his other eye, then too far apart and Seam didn't mind at all as they were both laughing loudly together. Jevil patching Seam up became a common thing between them and he quickly became a natural at sewing buttons. Seam laughed to himself quietly as he remembered that one day when Jevil started sewing random things on every darkners clothings.

The trio of the so called heroes broke Seam from reminiscing. When they mentioned the strange prisoner Seam went into a shock and hesitated releasing Jevil a bit but came to the conclusion that it didn't matter. Seam couldn't do it himself when he was young, so why not let the new youths try their hands at it. Even if Jevil escaped to have his revenge on Seam, it would be most fun Seam had in his long lonely years. Seam sent the heroes on their way and wished them luck, with a laugh ending his sentence. Seam continued to laugh to himself, now with a sad smile.

Of course all that remembering would all come back to that day. He saw Jevil talking with that strange man when Jevil came back, Seam recalled Jevil having a stare that was far away and a laugh that seemed uncaring.

For the past few days Jevil rambled on about being free, how he can do anything and in the end it wouldn't matter. Nothing mattered. Seam didn't know how to feel about this.

The next few days Jevil got progressively worse as his pranks were injuring innocent citizens and nearly killing some. Seam could only watch from the distance as chaos was unfolding before his eyes. Seam couldn't do anything, he didn't want to. As the chaos continued the kings ordered him to take care of Jevil, as the soldiers and the kings themselves couldn't bring a stop to Jevil's game.

Killing or imprisoning him forever were the only choice he had unless he wanted to be charged for treason for allying himself with Jevil.

He didn't have a choice to talk Jevil out of his madness and even if the court allowed him to deal with Jevil peacefully, he knew he wouldn't be able to make Jevil stop as he been trying to get through to him for days now. Each attempt to talk to him was met with a laugh from Jevil before he disappears off somewhere.

Seam told himself this was for the good, that this was so that the darkners could stop suffering. Seam travelled to the most recent disaster that Jevil caused, readying himself for the battle.

There he saw the jester making his carousel go round and round, destroying houses while people ran as fast as they could.

Seam walked closer to Jevil having his back turned to him only to to a spade shot in his direction. Seam dodged out of the way and called out to him.

"Jevil you have to end this madness, people are getting hurt and the court wants you dead!" Even now Seam was grasping on a hope that Jevil can stop.

The jester turned to look at Seam and cackled."The kings wants to play too? How fun!"

"Jevil this is not a game! People are getting hurt!"

Jevil summons the Jevilknife and launched it at Seam, "The more fun it is!" Seam dodges again. What did the strange man say to Jevil? Seam thought.

"It seems like you want to play too, magician!" And he launched barrages of clubs. Seam quickly dodged all of the projectiles, the battle began.

In Seam head he knew the only conclusion that he'd be ok with is to lock Jevil away. He had a plan, to tire Jevil out, pacify him for the while with a sleep spell, and lock him up in the castle prison.

And so, Seam kept dodging and casted the sleep spells over and over. For a while when he was escaping Jevil's attacks, Seam pretended that he was doing his old performances with Jevil to entertain the crowds of darkners to comfort himself. But the a slice from the Jevilknifes broke Seam fantasy.

The battle went on and on, with Seam gaining more tears through his body and Jevil progressively getting more tired. Seam was also progressively closing the gap between them, attempting to try to stop their fight.

Seam sidestepped all the diamonds shot in his direction and opened his mouth to speak.

"Jevil, I don't want this to happen, I don't trap or harm you, there is no reason to cause this harm on innocents."

"...My dear magician, dont you realize that whatever you'll do is meaningless? Obviously there is no reason for me to do this! I can do anything!" The jester laughs loudly as Seam listens and doesn't understand what is coming out of Jevil's mouth. Jevil also never had refers Seam as “magician” before.

"Our world is just a plaything, everything is set in stone no matter happens! The court will disappear and one will remain!" Jevil kept on speaking and dancing as Seam stood.

"The dark world will grow darker and darker and will end in a giant chaos! How fun!"

In a split second Jevil suddenly appeared in front of Seam and grabbed him by the collar. In that moment Seam looked into Jevil's eyes and found that his lover wasn't here anymore.

"Now my fair magician, I grow tired and bored! Things must end to be fun!"

Jevil threw Seam to the ground and when he got up, Jevilknifes fell from above, Seam was quick enough to escape the direct hits, barely got it through the lasers that came afterwards, but couldn't escape the barrages of spades.

Every spade sliced his body and one spade in particular made the left side of his vision go dark, Seam dropped to his knees and saw his button eye on the floor cracked in half. When he looked up he saw his once partner silently staring into his eyes. Seam thought to himself that his life was about to end here.

It was usually hard to tell what kind of emotion was on Seam face, his big button eyes could hide whether his eyes showed tiredness or anger. With just a smile, Seam could always seem like a person who never gotten a really bad day in his life.

In the jester mind, there were no remainders of Jevil. A jester laughs at everything, anything is funny to them. However, when the jester saw Seam tired and sad eyes on the verge of tears, Jevil felt a clearness in his head and was frozen in place.

He did this to the person he loves, Seam.

Before Jevil could think about his actions the words from the strange man suddenly came rushing back and the jester opened his mouth to laugh then speak.

"bullseye! That was fun magician but now I must lea-"

Seam swiped his claw at the Jester and since the jester guard was lowered, the attack should of killed him. It should of, but Seam, even while angry couldn't strike down his partner.

The jester was one hp close to death and started laughing the loudest he could. "YOU CHEATED!" he then said before he fell to the ground exhausted when Seam casted the pacify spell.

Jevil, laying on the ground used all of his energy to speak what was left on his muddled mind. "Seam..." he muttered so quietly that Seam almost didn't hear. His eyelids were fluttering shut, Seam wrapped his arms around Jevil and embraced him gently.

"..."

Seam listened to the quietness as Jevil was now in a deep sleep. Seam stayed in that position for a long time, pretending that fight never happened. He pretended that they were just tired from doing a performance together and were taking a well-deserved break.

Eventually, Seam had to break that fantasy of his. He picked up his broken button then carried Jevil all the way to the castle prison, it was a special prison as the kings made a secret floor so no one could ever go near Jevil in a very very long time.

>

[saltineofswing]

A REVUE IN THE COURT OF WORMS

For @ir-anuk

“If we ever meet again, perhaps my answer will change.”

“‘If’ we ever meet again?”

“Ego was ever your downfall, darling.”

*** *** *** *** ***

The thundering roll of the methane sea below her jumpship did not break Eris’s fixation on Titan’s horizon line. Sometimes the waves crested high enough to crash against the shields that warded the underbelly of her ship, and the craft bobbed gently in the wind as the thrusters compensated and kept the mottled green-grey thing from drifting away. Titan was dark, rainy, and cold; below her, somewhere deep beneath the surface, something large enough to swallow her and her ship whole writhed in the deep and made Eris’s eye sockets ache.

It was beautiful.

“The Tower has fallen.”

Her head didn’t turn to appraise the phantom that had appeared beside her where she was standing on the roof of her ship. Looking directly at him would be impossible anyway; not while he was like this. “I know,” she replied, and her own voice sounded almost foreign to her after so long spent without speaking aloud. “Did you summon me here to tell me aged news? To gloat? I will suffer neither.”

His chuckle was the pattering of rain against her orb. A ghost of a set of fingertips traced the curvature of her spine, and she neither bristled nor indulged in the absent touch. “The Tower has fallen,” mused Toland the Shattered again, the billowing shadow of his astral form drifting back and forth behind her as if he were pacing – it took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t moving, and the waves had set her ship to rocking again briefly. “And yet you have not fallen with it. Here you are, hidden among the waves of a foreign ocean. Tell me, Eris Morn, what does it feel like to skirt the apocalypse so frequently?”

It felt like digging one’s eyes out with a twisting bone, immediately after having learned to see again. “I suspect you could answer me that question yourself,” she shot back; his chuckle was the rapid hisses of her ship as the internal compartments re-pressurized. “First Crota, then Oryx. Soon your chosen pantheon will run out of idol statues to hide behind.”

“Perhaps some day. But not yet.” He strode up beside her again, phantom hands folded behind his back, and smiled mouthlessly. “And thusly I have summoned you today. The Taken King is pirouetting soundlessly in the gravity well of Saturn, somewhere thereabouts.” He gestured generally at the planet in the sky above. “Downfall, thy name is Aurash.”

“Such devout loyalty,” Eris observed dryly.

“Please,” Toland crooned in return, stroking his immaterial chin with an immaterial hand. “You and I both know my deepest loyalties lie elsewhere.”

“In yourself.”

“Perhaps. At any rate, there is no shortage of halls in which I may reside,” he began again, and this time Eris turned to look at him just so; his shadows shifted and slithered until he was approximating visibility. “So long as my services are needed. And they are always needed. The Court of Savathûn, for example, has proven to be quite useful to me; I have accrued beneath the film of my brumous flesh a great many secrets and whispers. And I have come with an offering.”

When Toland smiled, it was something akin to the sensation one had when a knifepoint was hovering just above your flesh; not pain, not yet, but the acute needling of nerves that prepared themselves for the imminent intrusion. Eris had not realized it, but she missed it and the way it tingled through her soul. The blank light in his triplicate gaze fixed on hers for a moment, and she thought again of a time when one of them could have reached out and touched the other.

“Make your offering, then, Shattered One.” Caution, said something at the back of her head. Here, with him, even dalliances lead down a path foreign to you. Eris was not used to not knowing where a path ended. But sometimes a path that wound away into the dark of a forest did not have an ending that could be augured. There was power in stepping into the unknown; Toland knew that just as well as she did.

“A parlay,” he hummed; his voice sometimes reminded her of the noise a tendon made when it slid beneath skin. “A throne means little to the rug upon which it sits. It takes a throng to raise a court.”

“Do you imply the great Court of clever Savathûn is empty?” She asked coyly.

“‘Empty’ is such a loaded word, dear,” Toland purred back. “What is empty in one place is full in another, and surely I do not need to explain that Logic to you.”

“No,” she confirmed pointedly. “You do not. Why would you bring me to Savathûn’s Court? Do you think me suddenly vulnerable to temptation because I have lost my ‘home’ at the Tower?”

“I think you vulnerable to change, same as everything else in this mortal coil,” he returned graciously. “Though I do not necessarily presume that you will change during this undertaking. I am acquainted with no consequence that is obscured to you, my dear. I liken myself unto an agent of change right now more so than anything else. I have no interest in your corruption... I merely wish to introduce a new element into play, whatever that may be.”

This was most likely a half-truth, or even a quarter-truth; Toland’s gaze was sly even through this odd half-real veil that protected him from her true sight and the ravages of the physical world, and Eris wondered quietly at his ability to fold meanings into meanings into meanings.

“You are a jester set upon a throng of books beaten into the likeness of a throne,” she accused, but her lips could not maintain their stoic façade and twitched upwards at the corners.

“I’ll take that as an acceptance of my invitation,” he said smugly.

The waves rocked her ship again, and Eris was alone.

*** *** *** *** ***

The knife slid across Eris’s fingertips and into her palm.

“That’s it,” her contact whispered to her from behind the curtain. “The bomb.”

Eris turned the knife carefully over in her fingers, quirking an eyebrow. A knife was as much a bomb as she was an Ahamkara, but Hidden did not lie to one another. It was the only reason Eris had acquiesced to meeting here, in this ancient shell of a restaurant on Venus. And now she had a rather average-looking Hunter’s knife. The way the weight sat in her hand, the Solar light that whispered through her arm with each tilt of the blade, it wove a particularly concise picture. This was, in fact, a bomb. A densely tangled thoughtform of blistering Solar energy keyed to a single aggressive impulse, over and over again, until it was as good as orbital artillery. Brilliant, really.

“How long did it take you to craft this?” She asked, squinting at the rusted metal. It was, in a way, a thing of beauty; eloquently crafted, gorgeously forgettable. Grimly, she admired the craftsmanship. She supposed some twinge of a Hunter still remained in her.

“A few decades,” her counterpart whispered, amusement curving their lips audibly. “No big deal. I have six more.”

“How terrifying,” Eris returned flatly. “I thank you for your brisk response. When you are next in need, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

“Of course. May I ask, what are you planning to do with it?”

Eris stood, tucking the knife into the folds of her sleeve. “Until next we meet. Please give Ikora my regards, when next you meet with her.”

The other Hidden chuckled. “Fair enough.” They mumbled the proper words; Eris murmured back the corresponding phrase, and it was as if a light had gone out that Eris knew that she was, once again, alone.

Alone with a plan and a very well-sharpened bomb.

*** *** *** *** ***

“This is Savathûn’s court?” Eris asked. Deep beneath the surface of Titan, down in the writhing depths of the New Pacific Arcology’s once-pedestrian service corridors, the twisting tubes and pipes she had been lead through had bloomed into a sizable hall in the midst of the machinery; somehow, the pipes streaked upwards into the dark and the ceiling was invisible in the thin half-light of a trio of flickering green orbs much like her own.

“One of them,” Toland responded evenly.

She sighed softly, lacing her fingers. The weight of the bomb was leaden. She was not used to performing such ‘operations’; this was the sort of thing best left to a three-to-six-man-team of Guardians, not an operative with only the faint traces of training she still felt comfortable indulging in and a knife-shaped bomb.

If there was one solace, it was the presence of Toland the Shattered beside her, erring carefully at her side just outside her peripheral vision. His form had some measure of physicality, if the clicking of his invisible heels against the ancient metal was anything to go by, but he was not entirely present either. He never was, she supposed – she felt the air around him shift as he strode in circles around her, scalp tingling as his head turned and one of the curved horns that twisted out from either temple just barely missed grazing the back of her head. The curving point of his elbow brushed her arm as he turned around her other side; the long, tapering claws of his fingers nicked the plating she wore draped over her robes. His hair drifted in the air as if he were ever underwater and the base of his robes, where they billowed out into shadow as opposed to identifiable feet, washed coldly across her boots. He was jagged, and she was not.

“I am holding a bomb,” Eris said quietly, instead of the thing she was actually thinking.

“I know,” replied Toland, instead of the thought that had actually crossed his mind.

The room whispered to them, and the shadows strode out from behind the corners to coalesce in the pseudo-throne beneath the three Viridian orbs.

“Savathûn,” Toland murmured. His bow was sweeping, and conspicuously his fingers traced the curve of her arm. She performed a similar gesture, her fingertips passing through the icy murk at the bend of his hip.

Savathûn spoke. It was a crackling, grating noise like a dryer chewing through splinters and stones.

“It is not bravery to offer the life of a pawn for the life of a queen,” Eris replied; Savathûn hissed and gargled out another inconceivable sentence, then chuckled with much the same noise as a series of handfuls of gravel being dropped into a fan.

“She is here on my auspices, my queen,” Toland said. “I suspected an opportunity for a collaboration, of sorts. Information is your milieu, and Miss Morn’s mind is a cavernous, winding expanse of knowledge the likes of which I assure you have never been available to the Hive.”

Savathûn choked loftily at his sentiment, gagged out another sentence, and chittered in amusement. She reclined on her throne, hooked obsidian fingernails clicking against the distorted piping.

“Presumptive? Perhaps,” he intoned demurely, “But any source from within the Tower is better than no source from within the Tower. She is old and worn, left quite without home after the Cabal’s assault.” Eris bristled, but remained for the moment silent as she tried to work out exactly what Toland’s plan was.

Savathûn gestured sweepingly at Eris, gurgling a wet condescension, and Toland glanced edgewise at her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he hummed.

“The bomb, Toland. She is referring to the bomb.”

“Ah yes. The bomb. Well,” He inhaled, somehow, and laced his fingers over his sternum and straightened his back. “Who’s to say what drove her to bring that here? Perhaps her mind is more fractured than I had at first thought.”

“‘Those in glass houses’, dear,” Eris hissed, suddenly rigid and run through with trickling anxiety. Patience was something Toland had not accrued in abundance, and he was burning through it rapidly with his remarks. Uncalled for as they were, they did little to insult her; the bothersome thing was the lack of necessity to them. Why demean her? What purpose did it serve? The wondering was swiftly evaporating her tolerance for the specter that had lead her here. Toland turned to gaze at her, and his mouthlessness made her long for the memory of his sneering lips in an odd, furious way.

“What about them? They shouldn’t bathe during the day?”

“Don’t be petulant.”

His grin was hidden behind dimensions. “Perish the thought!”

Savathûn cleared her throat, and her nails clicked in sequence against the arm of her seat. She rasped flatly, gestured exasperate day between the two of them, and Toland bowed again.

“Apologies, my queen,” he purred. “I suspect she brought the bomb here for you. Please do forgive us; she was quite infatuated with me, you know.”

Eris’s hand whipped from her sleeve at lightning speed, and the keen edge of a blade glinted green in the light for a moment as it turned end over end once and knifed through the third eye in Toland’s forehead before embedding itself into the wall with a resonating THUNK; his body reeled backwards as his head burst into a cloud of inky shadow that diffused into the air for a moment.

Toland’s chuckle was the pattering droplets of water from the pipe that ran down the knife to drip from the grip ring at the end.

“It would appear as though I still have some measure of skill in these worn limbs after all,” Eris said, words dripping with ice.

Savathûn’s laughter was a staccato screech as Toland’s head re-coalesced; he smoothed his hair back with a dignified motion and cleared his false throat. She spoke, gesturing leisurely as she produced a long series of noises that wouldn’t have been out of place at a wood chipper festival. Both Eris and Toland waited patiently until she had finished, and then Toland dipped his head once again in deference.

“I shall see to it, my queen,” he said. “Eris, she has asked that I lead you to her Thrallpit and have you fed to the worms. Bomb and all. I’m afraid our offer of a parlay has done little to titillate her, and she finds your attempts to win her over have been found thoroughly unconvincing.”

“I have done nothing of the sort.”

“And we could all tell. An actress, you are not. Although our diatribe has sufficiently amused her enough to reward you.”

“Fed to Thrall is a reward,” Eris muttered in disgust. “How little things change.”

“Would that I could be so lucky. If you would be so kind as to follow me?”

Eris turned to Savathûn with a look of frosted irritation. “Perhaps the next time we meet, I will be able to speak for myself.”

Savathûn emitted a noise akin to the sound of a blister popping.

“I’m sure you do. I thank you for your time, O great Savathûn.”

As they retraced their steps back through the vast tangle of service corridors, Toland sighed in satisfaction. “That did make me miss old times,” he chuckled fondly.

“Ah yes. The, as they say, ‘good old days’,” Eris huffed coldly. “Insults upon jibes, a knife through your forehead, bickering at the foot of an ancient and unfathomable horror. You were in entirely too good a mood.”

“Why wouldn’t I be in a good mood?” He responded. “I was able to enjoy your company. That always warrants a smile.”

“I preferred you when your go-to demeanor was sallow sulking and irritant snipes,” she half-lied.

Toland’s chuckle was the tinny clatter of a small piece of errata bouncing down the pipes beside them as she walked.

An hour later, as the rain cleansed her mood and Toland’s whispering goodbyes impressed reluctance into her eardrums, his fingers and hers weaving ever-so-carefully around each other and never quite making contact, Eris hailed her vessel. The real challenge was not for her, she realized. Truly, Toland was Jester-King here in this spiring forum.

“I will see you again, Eris,” he said; it was the first sincere thing he had uttered to her since their meeting three days prior. “But before I go, I must ask – has your answer changed?”

She did not turn to look at him and the shadow he had become. “Goodbye, Toland,” she said coyly.

His reply was gracious. “Goodbye, Eris.”

In her ship orbiting Titan, Eris Morn smiled. The knife buried in the wall of the empty ‘Court’ of Savathûn sighed a sigh decades in the making.

Far above, where the methane waves lapped at the base of a long-forgotten outpost on the other side of the Arcology, there was no sign of the explosion.

[abodynamicslife]

In most wolf packs, there will be an alpha male and female and frequently an omega male and female. In wolf hierarchy, the males tend to dominate other males and the females dominate other females so that there is generally a low ranking member of each sex. The alpha pair would never allow the omega male and female to mate, therefore the omegas are not pair-bonded to each other like the alphas. 

There is more to social rank in a wolf pack than mere size and strength.

One of the things so noticeable about omegas is their posture. They keep their tail tucked, shoulders hunched and head lowered, and move about with uncertainty. 

Because of this demeanor it is difficult to see, but actually some omegas are huge wolves, larger than other mid-ranking wolves and possibly even larger than the alpha. 

Playing the Fool

In some ways, the omega is like the court jester. They must suffer terrible abuse at the hands of the king and court, but is undeniably loved. Like a jester, the omega is often the one to instigate play and act the fool.

Their skin is often riddled with small bumps and scabs where the other wolves had nipped, and small scars on the muzzle where the fur would not grow back. In dominance displays, a dominant wolf will frequently grab the muzzle of the submissive wolf, as a mother might do to discipline her pups.

Dangerous Times -- Howling

Group rallies are a risky time for omegas. Often the pack gathered together and howled, as if to celebrate its solidarity. The real reason for this ritual is unknown. It appeared that alphas would purposefully start to howl, apparently calling the pack together and reminding everyone of his leadership. Other times the rallies seemed more spontaneous, with a spontaneous howl bubbling up inside one of the wolves, then bursting forth uncontrollably.

When one wolf began to howl, the others would quickly join in and assemble around the alpha. As the rally grew in intensity, the wolves often displayed their dominance, sparring, growling and pinning each other to the ground. These were dangerous times for the omega. Regardless of the bickering that went on between the mid-ranking wolves, most of the aggression was transferred to the omega. All the same, they would often be there, lending their voice to the group howl. 

Omegas can never be certain if their participation would get them into trouble, but he could not help but be a part of it. They slink from wolf to wolf and pay respects, tail tucked and head nearly scraping the ground. They often stood on the fringe, howling, but trying to keep a low profile;  giving voice to all the loneliness and pain their social position brought.

Omega participation is often looked on as almost an insult by some of the mid-ranking wolves, as if they are overstepping their bounds. Those especially determined to put omegas in their place during pack rallies would frequently rush snarling and flashing teeth. There would follow a chorus of growls and yips while the other wolves got into the action. Omegas are rarely hurt in these displays, but they still slink away quietly, through with howling for a while.

Read so much more here!