#the mist that cloaks the river

[acourtofquestions]

"Maeve is capable of worming her way into a person's mind," Rowan said. "She likely knows who our allies are and might have already compromised them." He braced a hand on Goldryn's hilt, the warm metal a comforting touch. "We don't risk it."

Lorcan grunted his agreement.

Elide said, "Maeve doesn't know me or barely does. No one here would recognize me, especially if I can ... adjust my appearance. Like I did with spreading those lies about the Valg prince. I could try to get into the city tomorrow and see if there's anything to learn."

"No."

Lorcan's reply was a knife in the dark.

Elide said to him, cool and unfazed, "You're not my commander. You're not in my court."

She turned to Rowan. But he was.

He outranked her. Rowan tried not to recoil. Aelin had laid this upon him.

Lorcan hissed, "She doesn't know the city layout, doesn't know how to handle the guards

"Then we teach her," Gavriel cut in. "Tonight. We teach her what we know."

Lorcan bared his teeth. "If Maeve remains in Doranelle, she will sniff her out."

"She won't," Elide said.

"She found you on that beach," Lorcan snapped.

Elide lifted her chin. "I am going into that city tomorrow."

"And what are you going to do? Ask if Aelin Galathynius has been strutting about town? Ask if Maeve's available for high tea?" Lorcan's snarl ripped through the air.

Elide didn't back down for a heartbeat. "I'm going to ask after Cairn."

They all stilled. Rowan wasn't entirely certain he'd heard her correctly.

Elide steadily surveyed them. "Surely a young, mortal woman is allowed to inquire about a Fae male who jilted her."

Lorcan went pale as the moon above them.

"Elide." When she didn't reply, Lorcan whirled on Rowan. "We'll scout, there's another way to

Elide only said to Rowan, "Find Cairn, and we find Aelin. And learn if Maeve remains."

Fear no longer bloomed in Elide's eyes. Not a trace remained in her scent.

So Rowan nodded, even as Lorcan tensed.

"Good hunting, Lady."

[aeralux]

"Spellbound" - Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Summary: A witch doesn't cower to anyone... except maybe a dragon. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Harrenhal seems to be riddled with darkness and mysteries, after all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+); rough sex; oral (f!receiving); fingering; foul language; talks of magick and its use; technically infidelity on Daemon's part; loss of virginity; mention of blood

Words: 8.3k

Notes: No description of the reader, except for dark hair. Takes place in Harrenhal when Daemon is staying there. I tried to be as accurate to Westeros lore as I could, I literally spent hours on their wiki, so I hope it shows through :)

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time. 

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.  

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.  

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.  

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls. 

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

He pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip. "You want to be taken again?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll fucking ruin you."

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 15 Chapter 15 | veiled depths⌟

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You felt weightless yet grounded, like being suspended in a void where gravity had no say. The air, or lack thereof, pressed against your skin, cool and dense, as though it wanted to seep into your pores.

Your body felt untethered, disoriented, as if the world had folded itself inside out.

Everything was dark—so dark that you couldn't even see the outline of your own hand. There was no sound, no wind, no sensation of movement—only the overwhelming stillness that pressed in from every direction.

A low chuckle brushed past your ear, the sound warm and teasing. "It's safe to open your eyes, little musician..."

The voice jolted you, and for a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you wanted to see what lay beyond this suffocating darkness. Slowly, you creaked your eyes open, half expecting the void to remain.

At first, there was nothing but inky blackness, but gradually, faint shapes began to emerge. The outlines of towering, jagged stone arches loomed overhead, their surfaces shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow.

The ground beneath your feet was cold and rough, uneven with patches of smooth obsidian-like rock that reflected dim light.

You inhaled sharply. The air tasted heavy, like iron and ash, and it clung to your throat, making it harder to breathe. A strange stillness blanketed the area, the kind that made every sound feel intrusive.

Hermes' voice broke the silence again, light and conversational as though he were simply giving a tour. "Welcome to the gate of the Underworld," he said, gesturing broadly with his arm. "Lovely, isn't it? Hades certainly has a flair for drama."

You turned to face him, your movements sluggish as if the air itself were resisting. He stood just a few steps ahead, his crimson cloak flowing unnaturally, untouched by any wind. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, his expression a mix of amusement and intrigue.

"Where...?" you began, your voice cracking as you took in your surroundings.

Hermes grinned, clearly enjoying your reaction. "We're right on the threshold between worlds. See that?" He turned you gently by the shoulders, pointing behind you.

You followed his gesture, your breath catching in your throat. A narrow tunnel stretched far into the distance, its rough, dark walls illuminated by a faint golden light at its end. The glow pulsed softly, like a heartbeat, steady and warm.

"That," Hermes said, his tone dropping into something almost reverent, "is the mortal realm. A cozy little exit for souls who've earned their place back among the living... or for visitors like us to remember where we came from."

Your gaze lingered on the light, the warmth of it stirring an ache deep in your chest. It felt distant, unreachable, and yet part of you longed to step toward it, to bask in its glow.

"But," Hermes continued, stepping in front of you and blocking your view, "we're not here to dwell on that, are we?" He gestured toward the opposite direction, where the tunnel opened into an expansive void. "There's much more to see."

As your eyes adjusted to the dimness, you noticed movement in the distance. A vast river stretched out before you, its surface dark and sluggish, like molten ink. Thick mist curled over the water, obscuring parts of it from view.

And then... you saw him.

A hunched figure stood atop a small, rickety ferry in the middle of the river. His silhouette was skeletal, his robe tattered and blending with the shadows. Even from a distance, you could see how still he was, his hooded head tilted in your direction.

It felt like he was staring at you.

A chill ran down your spine, and you took an involuntary step closer to Hermes. The ferryman's presence was oppressive, his stillness more unnerving than any movement could have been.

"Who... who is that?" you whispered, unable to tear your gaze away.

Hermes followed your line of sight, his golden eyes narrowing briefly before a smirk tugged at his lips. "Ah, Charon?" he said, his tone casual, as if speaking of an old acquaintance. "The ferryman of the dead. Bit of a grump, but reliable as they come. He's not much for conversation, but he gets the job done."

Your gaze lingered on the figure, still as stone, his shadowy form blending with the swirling mists over the river. The hollowed hood of his robe made it impossible to see his face, but you swore you felt his attention settle on you, sharp and unyielding. It felt like the chill of winter air slicing through your skin.

You shivered, clutching your arms instinctively. "Do we... have to use the boat?"

Hermes turned to you, his grin widening mischievously as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What? And miss the chance to see Charon in all his gloomy glory?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Just kidding. Of course not. We have a VIP pass, remember?"

Your brows furrowed. "VIP pass? What's tha—"

Before you could finish, Hermes swooped down and picked you up, his arms curling securely under your legs and back. "Hold on tight, little musician!" he warned, his golden eyes sparkling with glee.

"Wait, what are you—AHH!" Your protest turned into a screech as Hermes kicked off the ground, the wings on his sandals beating furiously as you shot into the air.

Your screams echoed through the void as wind whipped past you, cold and sharp against your skin, while Hermes' laughter rang out like a bell.

You clung to him tighter, your heart pounding as you soared higher, the world beneath you shrinking into a dark, endless abyss. The river stretched below like a yawning chasm, its surface rippling with faint, ghostly lights.

The air was thick and cool, carrying faint echoes—mournful whispers that sent shivers racing down your spine.

You forced your gaze downward, the landscape shifting beneath you, dark and mythical. Jagged rocks jutted out like broken teeth, and faint, flickering spectral lights danced in the shadows, their movements slow and deliberate, like they were watching.

In the distance, you caught glimpses of strange, dreamlike objects—fragments of clocks, shattered mirrors, and what looked like broken chairs floating just above the river's surface. They swayed gently, as if tethered to invisible strings, their presence a haunting reminder of the lives left behind.

Hermes dipped lower, hovering just above the river. The mist curled around his feet and yours, tendrils of it reaching upward as if trying to pull you in. Shadows moved beneath the surface, amorphous and massive, their outlines distorted yet undeniably real.

"W-What... what's in the water?" you stammered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rushing wind.

"Regrets," Hermes replied simply, his tone uncharacteristically sober. "Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

You stared down at the dark waters, your breath hitching as one of the shadows slithered closer to the surface before disappearing again.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Hermes teased, though his voice held a faint edge.

"Not the word I'd use," you muttered, clutching him tighter.

With a laugh, Hermes straightened his course, carrying you past the mist and the river until solid ground reappeared beneath you. He landed lightly, setting you down as though the flight had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll.

You stumbled, your legs shaky, and glared at him. "Warn me next time!" you hissed, the words escaping without thought.

"But where's the fun in that?" Hermes shot back, his grin wide and unapologetic. "Now, come along. The tour's just begun."

You hesitated, glancing back toward the river, its surface still rippling with faint light and shadow. The figure of Charon remained in the distance, unmoving, as though waiting for his next passenger.

Hermes gestured ahead, his crimson cloak sweeping dramatically. "Welcome to the Underworld," he said, his voice dripping with theatrical flair. "Allow me to show you the highlights."

You followed him warily, your senses on high alert as the landscape unfolded around you. The darkness seemed to ebb and flow, shifting like a living thing, revealing glimpses of otherworldly sights that made your breath catch in your throat.

To your left, faint golden light shimmered through the murky air, illuminating a distant expanse of rolling fields.

They stretched endlessly, dotted with trees whose leaves sparkled as if dusted with starlight. Figures wandered through the fields, their movements slow and deliberate, their forms bathed in the gentle glow of the light.

Hermes stopped, gesturing grandly toward the scene. "Behold," he said, his tone lighter but tinged with something softer, "Elysium. The final reward for the virtuous, the brave, the wise. Heroes and poets, philosophers and dreamers... they all find their peace here."

You squinted, trying to make out the figures in the distance. Their faces were too far away to discern, but something about their serene movements tugged at your heart. The fields themselves seemed alive, the golden grass swaying as though in time with an unheard melody.

"It's beautiful."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically calm. "It is," he said simply, his voice quieter.

You stared a moment longer, drawn to the sense of peace that radiated from the fields. But before you could ask more, Hermes suddenly grabbed your wrist. "C'mon. Let's check it out. I mean, when are you going to get a chance like this again?"

You hesitated, your wide eyes flitting toward the fields. "I-I don't think I—"

"No time for hesitation, little musician," Hermes interrupted, tugging you forward. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief as he added in a teasing tone, "Besides, you're with me. I've got pull."

You stumbled slightly as he led you closer, your heart pounding as the golden light grew brighter, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The air in Elysium felt different—lighter, sweeter.

Each breath you took was tinged with a faint floral scent, and the gentle rustling of the grass seemed to hum with a quiet, melodic rhythm.

As you walked, your gaze was drawn to the figures in the distance. They moved gracefully, their forms glowing faintly under the golden light. Some sat beneath the sparkling trees, their heads bowed in quiet conversation, while others walked hand in hand, their expressions peaceful and content.

Your steps faltered as you caught sight of a small gathering near one of the larger trees. Among them was a figure that stood out—a tall man with a proud posture, his golden hair catching the light like a flame. His armor gleamed as though freshly polished, and the faintest smile played on his lips as he spoke with the others.

Your breath hitched, your voice trembling as you whispered, "Is... is that Achilles?"

Hermes chuckled softly, following your gaze. "The one and only," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Not a bad spot for a legendary hero to spend eternity, huh?"

You couldn't tear your eyes away, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. The realization that you were standing in the same realm as figures who had lived and died in stories you'd only ever heard whispered around fires left you speechless.

"I can't believe it," you murmured, more to yourself than to Hermes.

"Believe it," he said, giving your wrist a gentle squeeze before tugging you forward again. "But don't stare too long. The last thing I need is for you to get starstruck and embarrass me in front of the legends."

A small laugh escaped you despite the overwhelming awe still coursing through your veins. "I thought gods didn't get embarrassed."

"Only when mortals make it impossible not to," he quipped, his smirk returning as he guided you further along the edge of the fields.

The golden light of Elysium began to fade behind you, replaced by the harsher tones of the Underworld's other regions. The smooth, glowing stones beneath your feet gave way to uneven, jagged terrain, and the air grew warmer, heavier, and thick with a faint, acrid smell that stung your nose.

Ahead, a deep chasm split the ground, its jagged edges glowing with an orange-red light that pulsed like the slow, rhythmic beat of a heart. From its depths came faint, echoing screams—high-pitched and mournful, carried on a hot, unnatural wind.

You stopped in your tracks, your stomach twisting at the sight. "What... what is that?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hermes glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he stepped closer, his arm curling around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly into the air.

"Hold tight," he murmured, his tone softer now.

You clung to him instinctively as he hovered near the edge of the chasm. The heat rising from below was stifling, and the glow of the firelight cast eerie shadows on his face.

"That," Hermes said, his voice low, "is Tartarus. A place for the worst of the worst—traitors, tyrants, those who defied the gods. And, of course, the Titans." His golden eyes flicked down toward the chasm, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Think of it as the parallel to Elysium... but not the good kind."

You shuddered, staring into the depths. The screams grew louder, mingling with the crackle of unseen flames and the faint sound of chains rattling. Shadowy figures writhed far below, their forms indistinct but their agony palpable.

Hermes' expression softened, and he lowered you gently back to the ground, his arm lingering for a moment as though to steady you. "Not a place you'd want to visit," he added lightly, his smirk returning.

You turned to look at him, your voice hesitant. "Do you... go down there often?"

His gaze lingered on the chasm for a moment longer before he shrugged. "When I have to"" he said, his tone casual but with a weight beneath it. "Sometimes I'm the one escorting souls who've earned their place there. Other times..." He trailed off, his smirk faltering. "Let's just say... it's not my favorite part of the job."

You swallowed hard, your gaze drifting back to the chasm. "It's horrible," you murmured.

Hermes nodded as he began flying away, his expression solemn. "It is. But it's necessary."

As the chasm faded into the distance, the air around you seemed to shift again, growing lighter and cooler. Hermes' tone brightened, his playful grin returning as he gestured toward the winding paths ahead.

"Of course, my duties aren't all doom and gloom," he said, his voice taking on a mischievous lilt. "I'm not just a glorified escort, you know. I deliver messages between the gods and Hades, mediate the occasional argument among the dead, and keep this whole place running smoothly."

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Did you just say, 'argument among the dead' as in arguing souls?"

Hermes chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, you'd be surprised. Some people don't let go of grudges, even in death. Sometimes it's a stolen goat. Other times, it's an epic feud spanning generations. Keeps things interesting down here."

You couldn't help but smile faintly, his lightheartedness cutting through the heaviness of the journey.

"Then there are the gods," he continued, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Hades can be a bit... particular, but he's nothing compared to some of the others. You should hear Demeter's complaints about Persephone being here half the year."

He chuckled to himself, his voice carrying through the still air like the faintest echo. "Honestly, if I had a drachma for every time she's accused Hades of keeping her daughter longer than he should... " He glanced over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Well, let's just say I'd be richer than Apollo."

You smiled faintly, though your mind was still trying to process the enormity of everything around you. The shifting landscapes of the Underworld had left you in awe and unease, the weight of the souls and their endless journeys pressing down like an unseen force.

Hermes slowed his pace, his golden eyes scanning the horizon as the terrain began to shift again. The jagged rocks and harsh glow of Tartarus faded into the background, replaced by a muted grey expanse. The ground grew softer, coated in a fine layer of ash-like dust that swirled faintly with each step.

The air grew heavier, cool and damp; the faint sound of whispers brushing against your ears, though you couldn't make out any words.

"This," Hermes said, his voice softer now, "is the Asphodel Fields."

Your breath hitched as the scene unfolded before you. An endless plain stretched as far as your eyes could see,  its surface a monotone sea of grey and silver. Low-lying mists clung to the ground, weaving through the field like restless spirits.

The souls of the dead wandered aimlessly, their forms translucent and faintly glowing. They drifted through the haze, their movements slow and mechanical, like they were caught in a dream they could neither leave nor wake from.

Their faces were devoid of expressions, betraying no emotion—neither joy nor sorrow—only a blank, unending neutrality, their steps light as though they floated just above the ground.

"These are the ones who led ordinary lives," Hermes explained, his tone carrying a rare note of reverence. "Neither wicked enough for Tartarus nor virtuous enough for Elysium. They exist here in... well, let's call it neutral peace."

You stared, the weight of the sight pressing against your chest. The souls didn't seem to notice you or Hermes. They floated past like shadows, silent and disconnected, their figures blurring slightly as they moved through the thick, misty air; each lost in their own timeless wandering.

"It's seems kind of..." You searched for the right word, your voice trailing off as you watched a soul pause mid-step before resuming its slow journey. "Lonely."

Hermes nodded, his expression uncharacteristically somber. "It can be. But not everyone here sees it that way." He gestured toward a small cluster of souls in the distance, their movements slower, more deliberate.

Through the mist, you caught faint glimpses of them. They stood closer together than the others, their translucent forms almost touching. One figure reached out, its hand brushing against the faint outline of another. Though no words were spoken, their presence beside one another seemed less aimless, almost comforting.

"Some find solace in the stillness. For others... well, they just fade."

Your stomach churned at his words. "Fade?"

Hermes glanced at you, his lips twitching into a faint, sad smile. "When they forget themselves. Memories blur, identities unravel. Without purpose or remembrance, what's left to keep them tethered?"

A shiver ran down your spine as your eyes were drawn to a nearby soul drifting past within arm's reach. It was a woman, her movements slow and deliberate. Her face was faint, almost featureless, and her translucent form shimmered weakly, as though she were barely holding onto her shape.

She paused for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if sensing your presence. A faint chill brushed against your skin, and you swore you heard the barest hint of a sigh before she continued on her way.

"Does she..." Your voice faltered as you glanced at Hermes. "Does she know we're here?"

"Maybe," he said with a shrug, though his gaze lingered on the soul. "Or maybe she's just remembering something that feels like us. Hard to tell in this place."

As you walked, Hermes occasionally gestured to things in the distance—an ancient tree with gnarled, leafless branches standing alone in the field, its roots half-buried in the ashen ground; a crumbled, forgotten structure with faint carvings etched into its stone, eroded by time.

"That used to be something important," Hermes mused as he pointed to the ruins. "A shrine, maybe. Hard to say now. Even here, traditions fade."

You nodded silently, your eyes tracing the outlines of the structure. The carvings were barely legible, but they seemed to tell a story—fragments of lives long gone.

At one point, Hermes stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on a small patch of flowers growing near the base of a mound. The flowers were pale and delicate, their petals faintly luminescent, as if they glowed from within.

"Ghost blooms," Hermes said, crouching down to pluck one gently. He held it up, the petals trembling slightly in his grasp. "They only grow where a soul's memory was strong enough to leave something behind."

You reached out hesitantly, brushing your fingers against the flower. It was cool to the touch, its glow dimming slightly under your skin. "It's beautiful," you whispered.

Hermes nodded, standing and letting the flower drift to the ground. "A reminder," he said, his voice softer now. After a moment, he stepped forward, his cloak sweeping across the dusty ground as he strolled ahead.

You followed him hesitantly, your steps slow and uncertain. The field stretched on endlessly, the grey expanse blending seamlessly with the horizon. The air felt heavier here, the silence oppressive, broken only by the faint whispers of the wandering souls.

Hermes came to a stop in the middle of the field, his golden eyes softening as he turned to you. "This is where I leave you for a bit," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You frowned, glancing around the empty expanse. "What do you mean?"

His lips curled into a faint smile, and he gestured gently ahead. "Walk," he said simply, his tone holding a strange mixture of encouragement and mystery.

You hesitated, your heart pounding as you looked at him questioningly. But his smile remained steady, and after a moment, you took a slow step forward.

The ground beneath your feet crunched softly, the ash-like dust stirring with every step. The air felt cooler now, the faint whispers growing quieter, almost expectant.

And then, you saw them.

Two figures emerged from the mist, their forms faint and glowing like the other souls. But as they drew closer, their features sharpened, becoming more defined, more familiar. Your breath caught in your throat, and you froze, your heart hammering in your chest.

The man stepped forward first, his broad shoulders and gentle smile exactly as you remembered. His blond hair, slightly disheveled, caught the faint glow of the mist, framing his strong yet kind face. His brown eyes, warm and full of love, locked onto yours, shimmering with a mixture of disbelief and joy.

Beside him, the woman followed, her movements graceful and full of purpose. Her dark hair was swept back in a familiar, simple style, the faintest glow catching the curve of her cheekbones. Her sepia skin radiated a warmth that felt like home, and her eyes—wide, filled with tears—were fixed on you as though you were the most precious thing in existence.

A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Mother?... Father?"

Your mother gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears streamed freely down her face. "My sweet dove," she choked out, her voice trembling.

She rushed forward, her arms wrapping tightly around you, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. Her touch, warm and firm, enveloped you like a shield against the weight of everything you'd endured.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered, her hands cupping your face as she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her thumbs brushed against your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn't realized were falling.

Your father joined her, his strong arms pulling you into his chest. He buried his face into your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to the crown of your head. "My little one," he murmured, his voice breaking with every word. "You've grown so much. Look at you... so strong, so brave."

You clung to both of them, your fingers digging into their clothes, as though letting go might make them disappear. The sensation of their presence—the warmth, the familiarity—was overwhelming, and you couldn't stop the tears that fell freely now.

"How..." Your voice trembled, barely a whisper as you tried to make sense of the impossible. "How are you here? How is this real?"

They pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face, their hands never leaving your arms as if they too were afraid you might vanish.

Your mother's lips quivered as she gazed at you, her tears falling even as she smiled. "We've missed you so much," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Every single day, we've thought of you, prayed for you."

Your father nodded, his own tears glistening as he cupped the back of your head. "We've watched over you, little one. And now... now, we can finally hold you again."

The weight of their words hit you like a tidal wave, and memories you had tried to bury came flooding back. The way they had laughed with you, taught you, held you in the moments when the world felt too big. And then, the sickness. The quiet moments by their bedside, the laurel wreath clutched tightly in your hands as you prayed for a miracle.

"B-But..." you stammered, your voice cracking as flashes of those final days pierced through the haze of joy. "You were... you were gone. I held the laurel, but I couldn't... I couldn't save you."

Your mother's expression softened, and she pulled you into another embrace, her arms wrapping around you tightly. "Shh, love," she murmured, her hand stroking your hair as she held you close. "It wasn't your fault. We were ready to let go, knowing you'd be safe."

Your father's hand rested gently on your back, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of your swirling emotions. "We were never afraid for you," he said softly, his words laden with both sorrow and relief. "Not even at the end. We knew... we knew Apollo would protect you."

The mention of Apollo made you pull back slightly, your brows knitting together in confusion. "Apollo would protect me?" you repeated, your voice laced with uncertainty. "I don't understand. Why would Apollo protect me?"

Your parents exchanged a glance, their expressions shifting into something softer, almost hesitant.

Your mother spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Love... don't you remember?"

You shook your head, the motion slow and uncertain. "Remember what?"

Her eyes searched yours, her lips parting as she whispered, "You're favored by Apollo."

A/N: and the plot thickens~ haha see! i been reading/listening to you guys, i didn't forget about mc coincidentally never bringing up/recalling her favor but let me hursh before i spoil/mess things up... also, ive seen/read your compliants on telemachus and all i can say is he better tighten up before hermes take over lolol, but seriously, i know it's going slow, but it won't feel right if i don't give the other love interests enough time to wiggle their way into mc's heart, 'ya know???

Tag List: thesimppotato11 alassal jackintheboxs-world uniquetravelerone

[corvidfeathers]

Mordred’s monologue - Grail Knight

This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.

Image transcript:

MORDRED

I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.

Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.

Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.

On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.

Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.

My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.

It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.

Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.

I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.

His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.

Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.

[simpingforstardew]

250 feet below

pairing: sdv sebastian x reader

synopsis: you were sick of living in such a bleak city, living such a bleak life; so, too, was sebastian. a drabble based off a vivid dream i had recently.

warnings: angst. profane language. allusion to suicide / sucidial ideation. please stay safe. ♡

a/n: this occurs pre-canon. i liked the idea of the farmer having already met a villiager of pelican town during their life in Zuzu city... something something red string of fate.

word count: 1.3k

Zuzu isn’t a city where people live. Millions toil tirelessly, burdened by exorbitant rents and the weight of overpriced necessities. But in all your years of life, you can’t recall the last time you saw a denizen of Zuzu laugh, or create art, or spread kindness. In fact, you can confidently say that not one of the 8.3 million souls that surround you in this city is truly alive.

In your youth, you navigated the city’s labyrinthine alleys, searching for signs of life—a spontaneous burst of laughter, a splash of colour on a drab wall, a moment of genuine connection between strangers. All you found were weary faces, the heavy silence of resignation, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment. It’s as if the pulse of vitality has been suffocated by the corporate grind.

But now, you walk with intention as the cold chill of the night air settles deep into your bones. Night has descended like a heavy cloak, shrouding the landscape in a veil of darkness. Above, the moon rises like a sentinel amidst a sea of shimmering stars, their watchful gaze seeming to follow your every step through the dense forest on the edge of Zuzu. Amid this celestial spectacle, the forest comes alive with nocturnal symphonies—the hoots of owls echoing through the dense canopy, while the occasional rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath your hiking boots punctuate the stillness. Each step forward is a battle against exhaustion and fatigue, blisters forming on your feet from hours of relentless trekking. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, a constant companion on this solitary journey through the darkness.

Your favourite hoodie drapes over your shoulders, a gift from an old friend whose name now eludes you. Your backpack, light and inconsequential, occasionally slips from your shoulder as you trudge forward. Ahead looms your final destination: a concrete suspension bridge, a vast monumental structure steeped in the history of your home town—a history you always wanted to learn. Too late now, you think.

As you make your way across the bridge, your gaze falls upon a figure perched on its rail, dwarfed by the towering cityscape beyond. The river below churns restlessly as they gaze pointedly into the water, the distant hum of passing cars blending with the rhythmic crash of waves 250 feet below.

“Don’t,” the stranger’s voice, firm and resolute, cuts through the night as you approach. They make no attempt to turn towards you; instead, he takes a final drag of his cigarette and drops the rest in the river beneath.

“…Don’t what?” you respond, pausing in your steps. The stranger chews his lips, his grip on the railing firm. The silence is unbearable.

“Get to know me, ask questions, stop me. Just... don’t bother trying anything.”

“Oh, I… wasn’t planning on it,” you reply, your tone casual as you shrug off your bag, letting it fall to the cold concrete below.

A shaky exhale escapes the stranger’s lips; you watch the mist rise into the cold air in the moonlight. Leaning back against the bridge’s railing, the stranger’s eyes meet yours, searching for something you can’t quite decipher. There’s a vulnerability in their gaze, a flicker of uncertainty that belies the firmness of their earlier words.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, and take the opportunity to ease the remaining tension out of your hands and arms, stretching your fingers until the joints no longer ache. The stranger seems content enough to let you have your quiet, though you catch him watching you from the corner of his eye occasionally.

“Want a snack?” you offer, pulling out a half-eaten family-pack of cookies from your bag.

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Wh— No, I… Are you serious right now?”

“Extremely,” you say, biting into a cookie before extending the pack towards the stranger, “You’ve never thought about your last meal before? Always thought mine would be an actual meal… but cookies aren’t that bad, I guess.”

As you speak, you can’t help but notice the tension in the stranger’s posture. Their grip on the railing doesn’t loosen, although they do tentatively accept a cookie from the pack.

“Did my mom send you to get me or something?” he sniffs, breaking you out of your daze; his voice tired and hoarse. His suspicion should bother you, but at this point you’re far too tired to feel much of anything.

“No dude, I told you— I’m just waiting for my turn.” The motor traffic behind you continues to speed by, radios and horns blaring in a Dopplerian cacophony. Although their headlights silhouette your form, the man beside you is perfectly illuminated, his face stark against the darkness. Behind him, the full moon casts a halo around his face.

He is your age, if not a bit younger. His exhaustion is evident in bloodshot eyes, monolid and green; his sunken cheeks exaggerate the lifelessness of his pale skin.

You’re the first to break eye-contact, letting out a soft chuckle as you fetch your phone from your pockets, “Just a coincidence, I guess.”

He looks at you with a curious stare, like a cat studying a moving shadow. No one in this city has ever looked out for him the same way you are; It’s peculiar how alone one can be surrounded by as many people as Zuzu city contains.

Your earphones are now plugged in; and lost in your melody of favourite song, you can’t see the awe of his gaze. Moments pass in this newfound comfort— be it from mutual understanding, or a fear of disruption— before you turn to face the stranger once more.

“Did you wanna listen with me? Just for a song or two.” You look towards him as you sit down on the bridge, offering up your left earphone.

You aren’t naive, you recognize what you’re doing. Hell, you’ve been doing it your entire life. You’re stalling. Desperately finding excuses to delay what you fear will be the inevitable: one way or another, the stranger will leave. You’ll be alone again.

But right now you’re not alone, and that’s good enough.

The stranger finally swings his legs over the rail of the bridge, and plants his feet firmly on the concrete of the superstructure. He sits besides you, timidly puts an earphone in his left ear, and cries.

As the minutes stretch into hours, the initial tension between you and the stranger dissolves into a shared silence, punctuated only by the soft strains of music. The reasons for your presence on the bridge fade into obscurity, replaced by a sense of companionship born from the serendipity of the moment. With each passing song, the darkness of the night gradually gives way to the gentle hues of dawn.

Neither of you notice the transition, until your phone dies.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I?” The stranger’s voice wavers, a fragile whisper amidst the fading light. You turn to him, a smile softening your features, before rising with a languid stretch.

“Stranger things have happened. Why wouldn’t our paths cross again?” Your words carry a gentle reassurance as you gather your belongings, mentally preparing for another day at the JojaCo. office.

“Well, I mean… I’m moving soon, somewhere out of Zuzu— My mom is probably packing up all my shit right now so we can move in with her new boyfriend.” Weariness etches lines of exhaustion on the stranger’s face as he rubs sleep from his eyes.

“Still, we’ll see each other again one day,” you smile, shielding your eyes from the rising sunlight, “I just know it.”

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

"The Demon" by Mikhail Lermontov, and parallels with Sauron x Galadriel

This idea was pitched to me by @leto97, and now I can't get it out of my head. Because the parallels are, indeed, mindblowing. And to a degree that might suggest the show writers actually took inspiration from this to write Galadriel and Sauron’s story in “Rings of Power”. Can this poem offer some predictions for Season 3, or Season 4?

This poem, "The Demon", is by a Russian poet and is considered a masterpiece of European Romantic poetry, tells of a Demon who falls in love with — and attempts to seduce — a Georgian princess, Tamara. Can he be redeemed by love? Will Heaven even allow it?

Full text here, or here.

1. The Repentant Demon

The somber Demon [Sauron], banished from the heights, Soared aimlessly above the sinful earth, And memories of better days gone by Kept crowding countlessly before his eyes — Those days when he, secure in light’s abode, Shone radiant, a cherub free from stain; When incandescent comets, shooting past, Would pause and lovingly reciprocate His hailing smile of fond benevolence; Those days when, through the timeless mists of space, Desiring knowledge, he would keenly track Nomadic caravans of shining stars Strewn out by God across the dark expanse; Those days when he believed — when he still loved! Divine Creation’s fortunate first-born! [Mairon, the Maia of Aulë] He knew no spiteful enmity, no doubt, Nor was his mind yet menaced by the thought Of barren ages in an endless train… So much, so much was his, that all of it He hadn’t strength enough to recollect!

Long since expelled from Heaven, he now roamed The desert of this world, without repose; One age after another passed for him Just as the minutes pass for humankind: In an unending and unchanging stream. And in dominion o’er this paltry earth, He sowed great evil — but without delight. [corrupted by Melkor/Morgoth] For nowhere did this artistry of his Meet with resistance in the hearts of men — And he grew tired of evil’s tedium.

2. First Meeting with the Princess

A great and lofty house, a sprawling court, [the raft] Did grizzled old Gudal decree be built. Much toil and many tears did that house cost [shipwreck] The long-enduring slaves who raised its walls. From dawn, its shadow creeps across the slopes Of mountains ’round the rock whereon it looms; And in that rock a staircase has been hewn, Descending from a turret to the stream; And down those stairs — a glimmer, now and then — A figure hurries, in a cloak of white: It is the princess — young Tamara [Galadriel] — who Descends to the Aragvi with her pail. [ship to Valinor]

Indeed: the Demon saw her. In a flash Some agitation inexplicable Arose within him, not to be denied; The silent desolation of his soul Was filled now by a glad, salvific sound — And once again he knew the sanctity Of love, of all that’s good and beautiful! Long, long did he now linger to admireThe precious spectacle — and long-dead dreamsOf his past glory, like an endless chain.Of star strung after star strung after starProcessed before his eyes as he looked on. And, shackled by some great but unseen force, He grew acquainted with a newfound pain: For sentiment began to speak within Him — in his long-abandoned native tongue. Were all these signs but preludes of rebirth? [redemption] His menaced heart sought refuge in his mind, And scoured it for shrewd and sneering words — But no! Forgetting was forbidden him By God. Indeed, he wished not to forget!

Down at the river raging far below — Here every step was fraught with threat of death! Great cliffs loomed to the left — and, to the right, The fatal torrent roared, tempestuous. [tempest at sea] It had grown late. Upon the snowy peak The blush burned out. An evening mist arose... And so the caravan picked up its pace.

3. The Dead Groom [Husband]

But on this day a great feast is at hand; The zurna sounds as wine begins to flow. Soon old Gudal [Finarfin] will see his daughter wed; He bade the whole clan gather for the feast. There, on the roof, with carpets rich bespread, The young bride sits among her friends, and laughs; With carefree games and songs her wedding eve Goes by. And evening falls: from distant peaks The half-disc of the sun still spills its rays; The revelers, now clapping rhythmically, Burst out in song, and watch the lovely bride Take up her tambourine and start to dance. Behold, how with her hand so delicate She twirls the tambourine above her head — One moment fluttering just like a bird, The next she sinks, alights — and, looking round, Her moist eyes glimmer softly from beneath [...] This was the last time she would ever dance. She well imagined what the future held — Alas! — for Gudal’s heir and only child [Galadriel is Finarfin's only daughter, and only surviving child], For one as used to freedom as was she: The woeful station of a wife enslaved; A homeland, new and as of yet unknown, And equally unknown [Doriath, Middle-earth] — her husband’s kin [Celeborn, prince of Doriath] So, now and then, a surreptitious doubt Obscured the smiling features of her face; And yet her every movement, as she danced, Was so full of expression and of grace, Of effortless and sweet simplicitiy,

Galadriel: Celeborn was his name. We met in a glade of flowers. I was dancing and he saw me there. Theo: You were dancing? Galadriel: The war seemed so very far away then. When he went to it, I chided him. His armor didn't fit properly. I called him a silver clam. I never saw him again after that. Rings of Power, "The Eye", 1x07

4. Demon In Love

In drops of water glistening like pearls, Upon a body beautiful as hers! Nor has the hand of any mortal man Been blessed to dance across a lover’s brow And unbraid hair as sumptuous as this. No! Never, since the loss of paradise — [the light of the lost Two Trees of Valinor shines on Galadriel's hair] I swear it! — had a flower such as she Spread wide its petals ’neath the southern sun.

For lo, the Demon, clever in deceit, Did rile his fancy with a guileful dream, And in his mind, concealed by darkest night, His lips caressed the lips of his new bride.

“Cry not, dear child, cry not — you cry in vain! Your precious tears will not, like living dew, Fall vivifying on that voiceless corpse: Their water will but blur your brilliant gaze, Their fire will but burn your virgin cheeks! Your groom is far away; he will not see The grief you bear, nor will he know its worth; The fleshless gaze of his transfigured eyes Is now caressed by Heaven’s blessed light; His ears now hear the songs of Paradise… What are the trifling dreams of earthly life, The moans, the tears of some unhappy girl, To one who knows undying happiness? No, no, my dear! A mortal being’s death — My earthbound angel, please believe my words! — Could never, ever be deserving of A single moment of your precious grief! [Sauron sees Galadriel's grief, and asks for her forgiveness]

5. The Demon Reveals Itself

Tamara - Who are you? Oh, how dire the words you speak! Did heaven send you to me, or did hell? What do you want?… The Demon - How beautiful you are! Tamara - No, tell me who you are! Give answer, now..!

The Demon: I am the one whose voice you heard before Amidst the silence of the midnight hour — The one whose thoughts were whispered to your soul, And whose unending sadness you discerned. I am the one whose form you saw in dreams; I am the one whose very gaze kills hope; I am that wretched one whom no one loves; I am the scourge of all my earthbound slaves; I am the king of knowledge — freedom, too; The enemy of heaven, nature’s bane. And now, behold — I fall upon your feet, And bring to you — you, whom I so admire — A quiet prayer of neverending love, I bring to you the first pain I have felt, The first tears I have shed upon this earth. Oh! Hear me — only out of pity! — For You must know: you could, with but a tender word, Restore me unto heaven, unto good; And, in the sacred mantle of your love Once clothed, I would in love arise anew, A newborn angel, newly radiant. Oh! Only hear me out, I pray you, please! — I am your slave — And now declare my love! The moment when I first set eyes on you, I first began to secretly despise My immortality, my evil might; Despite myself, I first came to desire The incomplete and earthly joys of men; It pained me not to live the life you know — And how I dreaded life apart from you! Thus in my bloodless heart a sudden ray Of light has broken forth, to shine, to live — While all my sorrow, deep in that old wound, Keeps stirring, like a serpent long asleep. What is eternity, without you there? What good, the boundlessness of my domain? They’re nothing, save for empty, ringing words, A sprawling church — with no divinity! Tamara: Begone, O clever spirit! Leave me be, And speak no more! I cannot trust you, friend! O Lord, Creator, hear me!… What is this? I cannot pray!… My poor deluded mind Is by some deadly venom overcome! Your words would doom me to the fires of Hell, Your words are fire and poison, nothing more... [Sauron reveals himself to Galadriel]

6. The Demon Temptation (he asks the Princess to help him achieve redemption)

There is an ocean vast, ethereal, Where without rudders, without masts or sails, Drift effortlessly, through eternal mists, The graceful choirs of luminaries bright; Across the boundlessness of heaven’s fields Roam sinuous and sheep-like flocks of clouds Intangible, and leaving not a trace; The hour of parting, or reunion’s hour Means neither joy nor misery to them; For they no longing for the future know, Nor do they feel regret about the past. You too, my dear, need only think of them On days of harrowing adversity; Be too, like them, without a single care, Without concern for any earthly thing! [Sauron tempt Galadriel into joining him]

7. The Demon torments the Princess

As soon as night, its somber shroud outspread, Obscures the towering Caucasian peaks, And the entire world below, bewitched By some enchanted word, falls still, And nothing moves, save for some withered grass Stirred by the wind that steals along a cliff And soon inspires a bird that shelters there To spread its wings and flutter in the dark, [Galadriel is tormented by visions of Sauron, via Nenya]

For surely you have noticed: day by day I’m wilting, victim of some poison vile! A clever spirit surely torments me With some dark dream that I cannot resist; I’m lost, my end is near — take pity, please! [Tamara tells her kin she's being tormented by a "clever spirit" and needs to escape it = Galadriel tells the same to Elrond]

8. The Demon visits the Princess

While far below, beneath the vineyard vines, Insatiably imbibing heaven’s dew, A flower spreads its petals in the night — As soon, I tell you, as the golden moon Ascends the sky in silence o’er the peaks, To steal a loving glance at you, my dear... It’s then that I’ll come flying to your side, And linger with you till the morning star, And waft delightful dreams of purest gold Upon the silken lashes of your eyes...” [Sauron comes for Galadriel, at last, in Season 2]

And then the wondrous voice withdrew from her, And, word by word, its music died away; Now startled, she jumps up and looks around... A painful longing, inexpressible, Now seized her breast; and nothing, next to this, Was any sadness, fear, or ecstasy: Her every passion seethed within her heart; It was as if her soul had burst its chains, And flames were coursing through her every vein — [Sauron stabs Galadriel with Morgoth's crown]

And that same voice, so gloriously new, Seemed still to resonate from ear to ear. Near morning, at long last, a longed-for sleep Sank down and shut her weary, reddened eyes; But sleep too stirred her disconcerted thoughts With some uncannily prophetic dream: A visitor had come from far away, And, radiant with rays of unseen suns,

He stood there, gently bowed above her bed; He stood there — and his loving gaze beheld Her with such sadness, with such tenderness — And with, it seemed, compassion most profound. This was no angel sent there from on high; No guardian ordained for her by God; No halo spun from iridescent rays Adorned the locks that ringed that handsome face. Nor yet was this some awful fiend of Hell, Enduring torment for his many sins — No, no! He looked like lucid evening — Not night, not day — not dark, not light!

8. The Princess choses "death" to resist the Demon

Give up your child, bereft of sanity, To the most holy convent’s certain care, Wherein our Lord and Savior all sustains; Before His Face I’ll pour my every tear. No smiles, no joys are left me in this world… Like relics shrouded in serenity, May I too find the shelter of a cell — As of a tomb — long, long before my time…” [Galadriel jumps to her death to escape Sauron]

9. The Princess is sent to a Sanctuary by her kin, to protect her from the Demon

So, to a monastery far away [future Rivendell]Her kinfolk [Elves] sorrowfully sent the girl,And there in modest clothes, from sackcloth sewn, She humbly wrapped her ever youthful breast.

9. In spite of her prayers, the Demon's temptation and her desire for him still endure on her heart

But still, beneath her nun’s attire — just as It had beneath a dress of patterned gold — That same illicit, sinful fantasy Kept beating in her heart, unfadingly. Before the altar, in the candlelight; Amidst her solemn, sacred songs of praise;

Amidst her prayers, the same familiar voice Would oft assail her ears with tempting words. Along the gloomy temple’s mighty vault, A shape she seemed to know would sometimes glide, Without a noise, with no trace left behind, Through clouds of incense rising weightlessly. He shone there, silent, like a star, and lured Her, called to her... Where would he have her go?

What happens next in the poem? Hypothetical predictions for Season 3?

1. The Demon lingers around the sanctuary

In the poem, the Demon goes to the monastery to claim the princess. At first, he hesitates and does not dare to enter, and “violate their blessed sanctity”: 

A shroud ethereal of evening mist In darkness clothes the sleeping Georgian hills. True to his custom, in the still of night, The Demon flew about the cloister walls. But for a long, long while he didn’t dare To violate their blessed sanctity. Indeed — if for a moment — he seemed poised To cast aside his merciless intent. There, lost in thought beside that lofty wall, He paced about — and where his footsteps fell, The leaves would tremble in the windless shade. Again he lifts his gaze: again he stares Into her window, where the lamp still shines: [the sun still shines?] Long has she waited, waited for someone! And then, amidst the all-embracing quiet, Some graceful fingers strum the chonguri, And suddenly a lovely song resounds; Its notes drift forth, and play without respite, As measuredly as tear falls after tear. So tender, so exquisite was the song That it might well have come here from on high, Composed in heaven for this sinful earth! How like an angel’s voice — an angel who Desired to see some long-lost friend below, And secretly descended from the clouds To sing to that dear friend of days gone by To lend some sweetness to their suffering... And thus love’s ache, love’s longing restlessness, First pierced the Demon’s heart — and, knowing now The fear that love entails, he wished to flee, To flee — and yet his wings refused to move! What miracle is this? A heavy tear Falls from his faded eyes — falls to the ground — And to this very day, outside that cell, Beneath that window, one can see a stone Burned straight through by a tear as hot as fire — By an infernal and inhuman tear!

2. The Demon's love for the Princess is too strong for him to stay away

Eventually, the Demon decides to enter the sanctuary, and confess his love for her: 

He enters now — his heart prepared to love, His soul no longer shutting out the good, Believing that a long-awaited life — A new life — a new day — was now to dawn. The vague anxiety of boundless hope, The fear that lurks in mute uncertainty — These unfamiliar feelings filled his soul, These feelings known to all who have known love. Alas, they did but augur things to come!

3. The Demon fights a God's messenger to get to the Princess (and wins)

When the Demon enters the sanctuary, he discovers a "agent of God" is there, protecting the princess’s soul against him:

He enters, looks — and looming there, beholds God’s messenger, the guardian angel who Stood watch above that sinner beautiful, His brow bathed in a pure celestial light, His smile impassive, and his shining wings Protecting her from her soul’s enemy; And suddenly a ray of Heaven’s light Shone forth and smote the Demon’s unclean eyes; Where words of love might have caressed his ears, An onerous reproach now thundered forth: “O restless spirit, full of wickedness, Who called you here in midnight’s tranquil dark? There are none in this place who worship you; Nor has the breath of evil breeched these walls. Dare not transgress, dare not in sin draw near To one I hold in love and sanctity. I bid you speak: who summoned you?” To this, The evil spirit glowered in reply, His gaze now burning red with jealousy; And in his demon’s soul again was stirred That age-old poison — hatred of the good. “She’s mine!” he bellowed, with abysmal might. “Abandon her, for I have laid my claim — While you, her guardian, have come too late, And you are not to judge her, or judge me. Upon her heart, replete with sinful pride, I have already set my awful seal; There’s nothing sacred here for you to save; Here, I am master now; here I now love!” The Angel, overcome, with eyes downcast, Looked one last time upon the wretched girl, And slowly, beating high his shining wings, He rose, and plunged into a sea of light.

4. The Demon confesses his eternal love for the Princess

Coming out victorious of his fight against this “Angel of Light”, the Demon eventually gets to the princess, and confesses his eternal love for her: 

Tamara - So why, why do you now profess your love? The Demon - Why do I love you, lovely girl? Alas, I do not know myself! I only know That, full of newfound life, from my vile brow I’ve finally removed my crown of thorns, And cast it — all that was — into the dust. My heaven and my hell are in your eyes; I love you with an otherworldly fire; I love you in a way you cannot love: With all the ecstasy, with all the force Of thoughts immortal, and immortal dreams. For since the world began, deep in my soul, Your captivating image was engraved; Long did that image drift, beyond my reach, Through the eternal ether’s wilderness; Long, long disquieting my every thought, The sweet name you now bear did sound to me; And in those days of bliss, in paradise, You were the only blessing that I lacked. Oh, if, poor girl, you could but understand What neverending anguish I have known! [...]

5. The Princess is conflicted: she loves the Demon but wants to be on God's side

The princess still resists the Demon, and accuses him for stealing her peace, and tormenting her, but she’s conflicted because she’s in love and wants the Demon in her heart:

Tamara - Hush, hush, someone might hear us! The Demon - We’re alone. Tamara - But God sees all! The Demon - He will not deign to look: He has eyes but for Heaven — not for earth! Tamara - And what of punishment? The fires of Hell? The Demon - What of them? You will share their flame with me! Tamara - Be who you may, my uninvited friend — You’ve robbed me of my peace forever... Yet — Poor sufferer! — I cannot help but hear Your tale of sorrow with a secret joy.  But what awaits me if your feeling’s feigned? Or what if you, concealing some deceit... Have mercy, please! What love do I deserve? Of what good is my wretched soul to you? Could I mean any more to God above Than all the girls who did not draw your eye? Alas, they too are good, and beautiful, Their chaste sheets too, like those on this nun’s bed, Were never crumpled by a mortal hand... No! You must swear a sacred oath to me... You must tell me — for you can see my tears; You can discern this sinful woman’s dreams! How could you help but strike fear in my soul? But still — you understand, you know all things, And surely you will show me charity! So, swear to me... That, from this moment forth, You do renounce all things acquired in vice — Or can it really be that there remain No oaths or promises you will not break?

6. The Demons promises to abandon his evil pursuits, if he can have the Princess' soul, for them to be together

Then, the Demon makes the ultimate love confession, in which he swears to abandon all of his evil pursuits for her, and take her to heaven, where they can be together:

The Demon - I swear to you now — by creation’s dawn, I swear to you now — by its final day, I swear by evil’s base ignominy, And by the triumph of eternal truth, And by the bitter torment of defeat, And by the short-lived dream of victory; And by the hope of seeing you again, By separation menacing anew. I swear to you now by the spirit hosts, And by the fate of demons in my thrall, And by the swords of angels passionless — Those ever-watchful enemies of mine; I swear to you by Heaven and by Hell, By all that’s holy on this earth — by you: I swear to you now by your final glance, And by the first tear that you ever shed, And by the breath of your unspiteful lips, By every ringlet of your silken locks; I swear to you by bliss, by suffering — And more than all of this: I swear by love. I now renounce my lust for cold revenge; I now renounce my every prideful thought; From this day forth, false words of flattery I will not pour, like poison, in men’s ears; My inmost wish is to be reconciled With God. I want to love, I want to pray, I want now to believe — believe in good. With this repentful tear, I’ll wipe away — Upon a brow now worthy of your love — The ashen traces left by Heaven’s fire; And may this world, in placid ignorance, Live on, and prosper — I’ll not interfere! Believe me, lovely girl! I am the first To understand you, and to know your worth. In choosing you as my most sacred prize, I choose to lay my power at your feet. But for an instant of your gift of love, I offer you all of eternity. Have faith, Tamara, in my constancy, My greatness both in evil and in love — For I, the ether’s freedom-loving son, Will transport you to realms above the stars, And you will be the empress of the sky, My sole companion, and my only love; And there — without regret, without concern — You’ll soon regard this earth for what it is: A place where no true joy is to be found, Nor any beauty that is long of life; A place of naught but sin and sin’s reward; A place where only petty passion dwells, A place that’s home to no one capable Of hating — or of loving — without fear. Or do you truly not know what it is — The momentary love of humankind? The youthful agitation of the blood? But as the days race by, the blood grows cold! Do lovers long endure when forced apart? Who can resist the lure of novelty? Who can withstand the boredom, the fatigue Of indefatigable fantasy? No! Not for you, my love, are all these things! Nor yet has cruel Fate ordained for you To waste away in these repressive walls, A slave to others’ jealous crudity, Amidst the meager-spirited and cold, Amidst false friends and outright enemies, Amidst your anxious fears and fruitless hopes, Amidst your empty and oppressive toil! No! Woefully, behind these lofty walls, You’ll not live on, your passion’s flame snuffed out, Amidst orisons, equally removed From the divine and from humanity. No, no, my lovely creature: You were meant For an entirely different kind of life; A different sort of suffering awaits, As do the depths of other, unknown joys. Abandon all your previous desires, And leave this wretched world unto its fate — And in exchange, I’ll open up for you Proud knowledge’s unplumbable abyss; A host of spirits, bound to me in thrall, I’ll cast before your feet, to serve your whim; To you, my beautiful, my love, I’ll give Maidservants magical and light as air; And for your head, from off an eastern star I’ll wrest a brilliant crown of purest gold; I’ll rob some flowers of their midnight dew, And set them in that crown like precious pearls; I’ll steal some crimson from the setting sun, And wrap it tenderly about your waist; I’ll saturate the very air you breathe With breath of flowers fragrant and pristine; And every minute I’ll caress your ears With wondrous notes of otherworldly strings; I’ll raise exquisite mansions; you will dwell In halls from turquoise and from amber wrought; I’ll swim down to the bottom of the sea, I’ll soar beyond the heavens’ highest clouds; I’ll give you all, all that the earth can give — Just love me!..

7. The Demon kisses the Princess, and takes her soul

The Demon kisses the princess and she dies.

And with that, he dared to touch His lips, aflame with an infernal fire, To hers, which trembled as they met his kiss. Her pious supplications had been met By words filled with the power to seduce; A mighty gaze now looked into her eyes, And scorched her. In the darkness of the night, He shone forth, looming high above her now, A deadly blade — yet irresistible. Alas! The evil spirit did prevail! The deadly venom of the Demon’s kiss In but an instant pierced her fragile breast. A terrible and torment-laded cry Now rent the silence of that tranquil night. That cry held everything: both love and pain, Both accusation and one final plea, A last farewell, pronounced in hopelessness — A farewell to her still-young earthly life

8. The God's messenger returns to fight the Demon for the Princess' soul.

The Demon has the princess's soul, now. But the "Angel of Light" returns to fight him. And the princess, seeing the Demon's true form, is now terrified of him, and sides with her guardian angel, instead.

Amidst a blue, ethereal expanse A holy angel sent by God above Flew onward, borne aloft by wings of gold, And bearing, in his merciful embrace, A sinful soul far from the world below. And with his mild and blessed words of hope He drove away the soul’s remaining doubts, And with his tears of love he washed from it All trace of misdeed, and of suffering. And from afar, the songs of paradise Already reached their ears — when suddenly, Abruptly cutting off the path ahead, A hellish spirit rose from the abyss, As savage as a roaring whirlwind’s rage, Yet shining like a bolt of lightning bright — And proudly, in his mad audacity, He bellowed at the angel: “She is mine!” And, holding back its terror with a prayer, Tamara’s sinful but repentant soul Pressed close against its guardian angel’s chest — For its eternal future was at stake. Again the Demon loomed before her — but, Dear God, could she have recognized him now? For how malicious had his eyes become! And how corrupted by the deathly blight Of enmity that never, ever ends! And how sepulchral was the blast of cold That issued from that dead, unmoving face! “Begone, O somber spirit of despair!” God’s mighty angel thundered in response. “You were allowed to triumph for a time, But now the time has come for God to judge, And in His judgment He is merciful; The days of tribulation now are past; As from her earthly robe of sinful flesh, She has at last been freed from evil’s chains. Know this: long have we here awaited her! For hers was one of those souls so designed To live a life that lasts but for a flash, A life of torment unendurable, A life of unattainable delight: From finest ether the Creator wove The living fabric of these precious souls; They were not fashioned for the world below, For was the world below devised for them! This weary soul has paid a cruel price For all the doubts it harbored while on earth... Above all, though, it suffered, and it loved — And Heaven’s gates stand open now — for love!” And with forbidding eyes the angel looked Once more upon the Demon come to tempt, And, with a joyous wingbeat rising high, He plunged into the radiance of heaven. The vanquished Demon could do naught but curse His dreams long-cherished  — his demented dreams! For once again he found himself alone — Alone, alone in all the universe — Without a hope — without a hope of love!

Could this, actually, play out in "Rings of Power"?

The answer is yes.

Sauron (in spiritual form or through visions, illusions or dreams) lingers around Rivendell (or Lindon), looming over Galadriel, calling for her (or something of that sort); 

The Elves would somehow realize this; and Gandalf comes into the picture to help (he’s a “Angel of Light” and a “agent of God”, literally, as Maia of Manwë); 

Eventually, Sauron arrives, in the flesh, to take the Three Elven rings of power and claim Galadriel as his; 

He fights with Gandalf (the guardian over Galadriel), and wins; 

He gets to Galadriel: he wants to take her to the Unseen world, where they can be together;

Galadriel succumbs to Sauron/darkness, at last, and he takes her spirit to the Unseen world, where she sees his true form (like Mirdania in 2x04), for the first time, and realises just how evil and corrupted he truly is (no chance of redemption);

Gandalf arrives to fight Sauron in the Unseen world (because he's also from that realm, and has the power to do this), and wins.

Galadriel realises her mistake, and terrified of Sauron's true form, sides with Gandalf/The Light.

By having Galadriel taken away from him, Sauron sinks into the depths of despair and suffering, and fully embraces pure evil as the new “Dark Lord” (forges the One ring?), and in Season 4, we would see him doing the most diabolical stuff yet, in Númenor (human sacrifices in worship of Morgoth to piss off the Valar).

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 03 || THE FALSE BRIDE ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

We climbed a granite ledge, thick with moss and lichen, wet with the omnipresent flow of water, then followed the path of a descending freshet, brushing aside long grass that pulled at our legs, dodging the drooping branches of mountain laurel and the thick-leaved rhododendrons. Wonders sprang up by my feet, small orchids and brilliant fungi, trembling and shiny as jellies, shimmering red and black on fallen tree trunks. Dragonflies hung over the water, jewels immobile in the air, vanishing in mist. I felt dazed with abundance, ravished by beauty. Jamie’s face bore the dream-stunned look of a man who knows himself sleeping, but does not wish to wake. Paradoxically, the better I felt, the worse I felt, too; desperately happy—and desperately afraid. This was his place, and surely he felt it as well as I. In early afternoon we stopped to rest and drink from a small spring at the edge of a natural clearing. The ground beneath the maple trees was covered with a thick carpet of dark green leaves, among which I caught a sudden telltale flash of red. “Wild strawberries!” I said with delight. The berries were dark red and tiny, about the size of my thumb joint. By the standards of modern horticulture, they would have been too tart, nearly bitter, but eaten with a meal consisting of half-cooked cold bear meat and rock-hard corn dodgers, they were delicious—fresh explosions of flavor in my mouth; pinpricks of sweetness on my tongue. I gathered handfuls in my cloak, not caring for stains—what was a little strawberry juice among the stains of pine pitch, soot, leaf smudges and simple dirt? By the time I had finished, my fingers were sticky and pungent with juice, my stomach was comfortably full, and the inside of my mouth felt as though it had been sandpapered, from the tartly acid taste of the berries. Still, I couldn’t resist reaching for just one more. Jamie leaned his back against a sycamore, eyelids half lowered against the dazzle of afternoon sun. The little clearing held light like a cup, still and limpid.

“What d’ye think of this place, Sassenach?” he asked. “I think it’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

He nodded, looking down between the trees, where a gentle slope full of wild hay and timothy fell away and rose again in a line of willows that fringed the distant river. “I am thinking,” Jamie said, a little awkwardly. “There is the spring here in the wood. That meadow below—” He waved a hand toward the scrim of alders that screened the ridge from the grassy slope. “It would do for a few beasts at first, and then the land nearer the river might be cleared and put in crops. The rise of the land here is good for drainage. And here, see …” Caught by visions, he rose to his feet, pointing. I looked carefully; to me, the place seemed little different from any of the steep wooded slopes and grassy coves through which we had wandered for the last couple of days. But to Jamie, with his farmer’s eye, houses and stock pens and fields sprang up like fairy mushrooms in the shadows of the trees. Happiness was sticking out all over him, like porcupine quills. My heart felt like lead in my chest. “You’re thinking we might settle here, then? Take the Governor’s offer?” He looked at me, stopping abruptly in his speculations. “We might,” he said. “If—” He broke off and looked sideways at me. Sun-reddened as he was, I couldn’t tell whether he was flushed with sun or shyness.

“D’ye believe in signs at all, Sassenach?”

“What sorts of signs?” I asked guardedly. In answer, he bent, plucked a sprig from the ground, and dropped it into my hand—the dark green leaves like small round Chinese fans, a pure white flower on a slender stem, and on another a half-ripe berry, its shoulders pale with shade, blushing crimson at the tip.

“This. It’s ours, d’ye see?” he said. “Ours?” “The Frasers’, I mean,” he explained. One large, blunt finger gently prodded the berry. “Strawberries ha’ always been the emblem of the clan—it’s what the name meant, to start with, when a Monsieur Fréselière came across from France wi’ King William that was—and took hold of land in the Scottish mountains for his trouble.”

King William that was. William the Conqueror, that was. Perhaps not the oldest of the Highland clans, the Frasers had still a distinguished heritage. “Warriors from the start, were you?” “And farmers, too.” The doubt in his eyes was fading into a smile. I didn’t say what I was thinking, but I knew well enough that the thought must lie in his mind as well. There was no more of clan Fraser save scattered fragments, those who had survived by flight, by stratagem or luck. The clans had been smashed at Culloden, their chieftains slaughtered in battle or murdered by law. Yet here he stood, tall and straight in his plaid, the dark steel of a Highland dirk by his side. Warrior and farmer both. And if the soil beneath his feet was not that of Scotland, it was free air that he breathed—and a mountain wind that stirred his hair, lifting copper strands to the summer sun. I smiled up at him, fighting back my growing dismay.

“Fréselière, eh? Mr. Strawberry?

He grew them, did he, or was he only fond of eating them?” “Either or both,” he said dryly, “or it was maybe only that he was redheided, aye?” I laughed, and he hunkered down beside me, unpinning his plaid.

“It’s a rare plant,” he said, touching the sprig in my open hand. “Flowers, fruit and leaves all together at the one time. The white flowers are for honor, and red fruit for courage—and the green leaves are for constancy.”

My throat felt tight as I looked at him. “They got that one right,” I said. He caught my hand in his own, squeezing my fingers around the tiny stem.

“And the fruit is the shape of a heart,” he said softly, and bent to kiss me.

The tears were near the surface; at least I had a good excuse for the one that oozed free. He dabbed it away, then stood up and pulled his belt loose, letting the plaid fall in folds around his feet. Then he stripped off shirt and breeks and smiled down at me, naked. “There’s no one here,” he said. “No one but us.” I would have said this seemed no reason, but I felt what it was he meant. We had been for days surrounded by vastness and threat, the wilderness no farther away than the pale circle of our fire. Yet here, we were alone together, part and parcel of the place, with no need in broad daylight to hold the wilderness at bay. “In the old days, men would do this, to give fertility to the fields,” he said, giving me a hand to rise. “I don’t see any fields.” And wasn’t sure whether to hope I never would. Nonetheless, I skimmed off my buckskin shirt, and pulled loose the knot of my makeshift brassiere. He eyed me with appreciation. “Well, no doubt I shall have to cut down a few trees first, but that can wait, aye?”

We made a bed of plaid and cloaks, and lay down upon it naked, skin to skin among the yellow grasses and the scent of balsam and wild strawberries. We touched each other for what might have been a very long time or no time at all, together in the garden of earthly delight. I forced away the thoughts that had plagued me up the mountain, determined only to share his joy for as long as it lasted. I grasped him tight and he breathed in deep and pressed himself hard into my hand. “And what would Eden be without a serpent?” I murmured, fingers stroking. His eyes creased into blue triangles, so close I could see the black of his pupils. “And will ye eat wi’ me, then, mo chridhe? Of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil?” I put out the tip of my tongue and drew it along his lower lip in answer. He shivered under my fingers, though the air was warm and sweet. “Je suis prest,” I said. “Monsieur Fréselière.” His head bent and his mouth fastened on my nipple, swollen as one of the tiny ripe berries. “Madame Fréselière,” he whispered back. “Je suis à votre service.” And then we shared the fruit and flowers, and the green leaves covering all.

16 THE FIRST LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS

[meadowlarkx]

sea stories

Ficlet for @sindarweek day 2: Folklore | AO3

They say that Elwing and her husband never returned to Middle-earth, but some know better. The first sea-bird sailors see once the ship is underway sometimes shimmers a little too brightly to be an ordinary skimmer. A sign of a good catch to come, a joyous return homewards. If they are lucky, she will greet them again when they seek the shore, white-winged harbinger of safe harbor. A Númenorean navigator once said he feared no voyage, however distant and deadly, for the same gull always met him without fail three days before land was sighted. With such a guide as Star-spray he could not waver. And of course the star sailed with him.

The fair folk know voices carry in water. Like a child, she laughs in the hidden valley’s falls, so like those for which she was named at her birth. Like a woman, she moans in the sea-caves of the Havens, sings and sobs in each tumbling wave. They hear her and feel a longing for far-off lands, for grey mists and birds’ shrieking, for love once lost thought never to be regained.

When storms blow in and cover the sky in the fishing villages, women weaving nets have heard her calling for her sons. She never finds them. But they temper their fear for their own babes, because children caught by the tide speak of being led home by such a voice, by a ray of pale light, by a hopping sandpiper.

On some summer nights without wind the sea lulls smooth as glass. Light bridges the dark water from the evening star’s ship to the grasses at the river’s mouth. You can see him alight then, despite the gods’ doom. She embraces him, cloaked in white feathers, a jewel at her throat and on his brow. At times she surges up from the reeds’ hidden nests; others, she floats down beside him like a wisp of cloud. On the banks of the undrowned world, they walk together. They meet there still.

[elizabethsproctor]

then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” i said, “art sure no craven,"

chapter iii

Davos Blackwood x Bracken OC Davos is the eldest son of Lord Samwell of House Blackwood and the scourge of all the knights and squires of House Bracken. Though he thinks himself a knight and concerned with duty and honor, he spends most of his free time with his own squires, tormenting all the Brackens that they happen upon. Celeste Feathers is the bastard daughter born of Amos Bracken and a Summer Isle whore. At the chance of a higher dowry for her daughter, the baby was sent to live with her father in the wet and windy Riverlands until a husband was chosen for her. Though the two had a chance encounter as children, they have only heard stories about each other in the meantime until one fateful day near the boundary line in the forest. wc: 5.3k/16.8k chapter: 3/?

tw: i dont proofread lmao

On the following night, Celeste approached the riverbank: Davos standing near a small boat, ready to be simply pushed into the river for the night's adventure. He offered her a set of oars when he saw her, encouraging her to share in their misgivings. She was used to rowing, but she had not thought that his interests were beyond bedding her. She smiled through the rowing, happy to feel the river water hitting her face and her gown.

"I came without my cloak," Celeste said eventually, surprised the boy had not made note of it himself. "To better conceal myself, but if we are far from the shore..." she said with a lack of surety. "I'm sure it matters not now."

“Aye,’ the young man responded. “The mist deepens as the river proceeds, but I appreciate the efforts.”

Celeste's brows furrowed, but she said nothing else. As the boy had said, mist began to rise above them and after a few minutes, it was so thick that they could not see very far beyond their oars. She continued to paddle once she saw that Davos seemed intent on his path.

"Is there somewhere you're taking us?"

Davos continued to paddle, his eyes scanning the mist that had enveloped them. He could barely see beyond the oars, and the air was thick and heavy.

Despite the lack of visibility, he had a destination in mind, a secluded spot he often visited when he wanted to be alone.

"Just a little further," he said, his voice low and steady. "We're almost there."

"A tavern, no doubt," the lady chuckled, continuing to row. She felt the weight of her damp hair on her back, the oars growing heavy in her hand, but she wouldn't complain.

He scanned the girl's face, looking to see if she was joking or suspected that he would, in fact, bring her to a tavern. He was not against the idea, and if she were less discernible, perhaps he would have covered her nicely and brought her a pint. Wishful thinking, he assumed, and continued to row.

"No beer for the hour,' he confirmed. "Besides. A pretty girl like you at the tap? I'd be fighting them off and spilling my drink. You'd oughta catch an elbow in the fray."

"I'd hold my own," Celeste campaigned with a smirk. "And I'd put a coin down for your spilled drink, if it please you."

Davos chuckled at her response, his eyes darting over her face. He could see the mischievous glint in her eye, and it only made his smile widen.

"Is that right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "A worthy cause, no less... I would pay the pretty penny to see your skirt fly up when they knock you down, my fair lady. It is not what you think it is."

Celeste gave a wry laugh and nodded. "Most things are not," she said. She looked up at the full moon and back down at the boat, a small but fortified thing. She yawned in fatigue. Though she was excited to see Davos, she knew the night would be as long as it felt short, and they would, again, have to row down the current-filled river and trudge back to their domains to start the new day, and all sleep would be lost.

She began to row a bit slower, the moonlight gracing her face brilliantly. "What are your thoughts about our time together yesterday? Are you regretful?"

Davos began to row slower as Celeste offered less help. He had not expected the river to be so choppy, and he knew that it was a difficult passage for even a strong man, let alone a woman not used to the river.

He was slightly taken aback by her question; he was rarely moved to think critically of his actions or his motivations, but he had felt a stirring in his chest.

"I am not regretful, Celeste. I wish you were not who you were. That is the complication of the matter."

As they slowed, Celeste looked listlessly out onto the water, cringing slightly when she heard his response.

"The fighting serves no purpose. I have no true allegiance to the house-," he cut her off.

"Oh, but you do," he said, scathing irritation marking his words. "A better claim than most of the rest of the Bracken dogs. The lord's daughter, no less," Davos rolled his eyes. "I cannot decide whether no allegiance or fealty to the shorn and shaven hound is worse. You are a member of their house. A lady. If I was half the Blackwood I ought to be, I'd push you over the boat and rid Westeros of one more scourge."

"If you so desire," Celeste said, knowing he would not hurt her. He was full of emotions, some violent, some intimate but all passionate. Just a young man, she thought, so dissimilar to the knights of the stories she had read as a girl.

Davos paused and chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a cheeky wench, you know that?"

He reached out quickly, making the girl jump in her spot, a loud noise echoing out from the oars knocking against the boat. Davos took the oars from her, chuckling loudly at the fear he had caused before he winked at her and returned to his place, beginning to push the boat in a single, steady direction.

"There's no use in wasting a perfectly good cunt. Especially not one as tight as yours," he said as he rowed forward, having to come closer to the girl to over compensate as the only rower. Celeste looked down at him distastefully, unsure if she was meant to be offended or flattered.

She looked down at her hand, a throbbing sensation building, and saw blood rising from her finger in the moonlight.

"You broke the skin," Celeste began, glib.

Davos cut his eyes over at the girl, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I'll take care of it," he said as the boat hit a sandy bank. He threw his legs over the side quickly, helping the girl out before dragging it upon shore, the water lapping at his feet. Celeste could see that they had reached a keep on an isolated island, but beyond the walls, she could see the crown of a heart tree in the center. Her house worshiped the new gods, but she knew the island must be sacred to the Blackwoods. She turned quickly to advise against her presence, to ask to go somewhere else, even back to the boat, but Davos was right behind her when she turned. He took her hands into his.

She watched with wide eyes as he took her bleeding finger into his mouth, applying pressure on the scrape to stop the bleeding and sooth the ache. They stood together, the river lapping on the shore, for a moment before he took her finger from his mouth.

Davos moved forward and kissed her cheek, then the skin right before her ear. "I only meant to scare you. I'm sorry for the blood."

Celeste watched him as he took a few steps back, and she nodded, accepting that it was only an accident.

Davos nodded towards the keep, encouraging her to follow him. He pushed the doors open and before the godswood, there were beautifully carved benches and candle holders. He led her towards a place to sit, and there they sat, their shoulders touching slightly as they looked onto the massive tree in the center of the garden, the moon dancing over it.

"It is beautiful here," Celeste remarked.

Davos watched the girl from the corner of his eye, observing the wonder in her gaze as she looked at the ancient heart tree in the garden.

"They say this place is sacred to my family," he explained, his voice low. "This island has been here for centuries, long before the castle, long before my family. My ancestors built the keep here in honor of the tree. The heart tree, they call it."

He shifted his body towards her slightly, his shoulder now fully attached to her own. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, mingling with his own in the cold, damp air. He watched her expression cautiously, afraid that she might say something that would cause him offense.

"It is not my belief, as I'm sure you know," Celeste began, immediately shrinking when she heard Davos scoff.

"The seven devils you hold fealty to, but not your house?" Davos said, rolling his eyes defensively. "Something that actually exists?"

Celeste frowned and turned her head away from the boy, looking back at the heart tree, majestic and flowing slowly in the wind. "You will live longer if your blood only cools," she said with a sad smirk.

Poor boy, she thought. How she only wanted to kiss his cheeks and make him better, but she was a fool if she thought all their problems would be assuaged just because he had taken her virginity and buried his locks in the nape of her neck. The were still rivals, but possibly worse off now. They had both exposed their neck.

"The godswood," she called it confidently. "Is beautiful. It feels like a powerful place to me. I know it is important to you and your people."

Davos breathed in her words before sighing, his shoulders slumping slightly. He felt the anger leave his body as he stared at her face in the glow of the tree and let his head rest lightly on the wall of the keep. He knew she meant no disrespect, but her words had caused a small wave of irritation to bubble in his stomach.

"It is important," he said quietly. "Without the prayers to the old gods, our house would fall into ruin. Or so they say. I do think my sword would remedy the problem."

He reached out, gently taking her hand in his own, their fingers lacing together.

"Do you like to be with me, Celeste, or are you just lonely?"

Davos let the two sit in silence for only a beat. He continued: "I know the trees aren't much for amusement. Are you fine here with me," he said, sitting up and pressing his elbows onto his knees, turning so he could see the girl's face completely, his own shrouded in darkness.

"Yes," the girl choked out, taken aback by the boy's sudden forward nature. She was frozen in his gaze. She searched his eyes quickly before continuing: "I cannot fathom what would bring you to me thrice over. I'm--," she paused. "We have very little to offer each other. You may grant me secession from my solitude, but I have nothing that is of use to you."

Davos reached out and touched her cheek. "Do not lie," he chided softly, his fingers resting on her soft skin. "You are a good distraction," he began, a soft chuckle following. "A pretty face is no less useful than a horse or a blade or a keep."

He breathed out, running his thumb over her lips gently as his eyes darted over her face.

"Tell me how we're the same," he said, his voice low. "Name one thing."

Her ears perked up at the word 'distraction', but she could not ask a question before he continued, his thumb over her lips.

"The same," she mused, unable to pull her eyes away from the boy. Her heartbeat was aflutter. "I'm afraid we may both have dreams that are beyond our means."

His thumb continued to move softly over her lips. He watched the slight smirk that sat on the pink flesh of her mouth and felt the soft skin brush against him with each word she spoke. He breathed out slowly, feeling his heart pound slightly harder in his chest. He felt his face burn with a heat that he was not used to, and he quickly moved his hand away from her.

"What do you mean?" he said in a low voice

He swallowed, unsure of where to rest his hands then.

She felt alone quickly but not afraid. She attempted to avoid offending the boy, but she would debase herself as well, so what could be the problem. Celeste looked up at the moon. "You want to be a great knight, a dutiful lord, but you spend your days with your squires only multiplying your revelry. When your father passes, you will be young, and then who will guide you? Your equally hot-blooded knights? Into war?"

Celeste sighed and looked at him, a frown on her face revealing understanding rather than disappointment. "I oft think of what my life outside of this place would have been like, were I not looked down upon because of my sex, the color of my skin. I hoped, as a child, that my position would be elevated one day, but it seems I will always creep around the castle, in the shadows, like a mouse, until my father dies, and then I'm sure they will rid themselves of me. I am the lord's daughter, but I am no lady... it's as if the shoes you were given were much too big, and the ones bestowed upon me, much too small."

As the girl spoke, Davos felt his heart sink into his stomach. The words she spoke echoed the same thoughts that plagued him in the night. In the hours he would spend with his men, drinking away the fears and doubts that crept into his mind in the darkness.

Her soft, melancholic words cut through him like a knife. They were true, all of them. He cleared his throat, feeling it growing constricted from the emotions building inside.

"It's the same for all of us," he said quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on his palm nervously. "I hope to die in battle before I have to deny a starving mother the bread she needs to feed her child. There is no true glory this far from King's Landing. The squabbles are fair game, but to be lord of the river?" He scoffed, amused by something he had never dared to say out loud. "And now they speak of war," he shook his head.

"You are a morbid little raven. Brilliant and damned and wasted on Bracken soil..." Davos looked at the young woman for a second before straightening his back and leaning on the wall again beside her. They listened to the wind hitting the keep, though it was quiet around them.

"I'd raise you up. No one would make you feel less than worthy if you were my claim," he said, a righteous anger in the back of his throat. "You deserve much more. There would be a sword for all that spoke against you."

Celeste, again, was intrigued by his speaking. War? She had not heard of it herself, she'd only felt a shifting of the seasons. She thought to ask about this, as well, but he'd spoken again before she'd gotten the space to break the silence herself.

Suddenly, in his gruff tone, he said things so sweet that she felt her heart beating quickly in that still night. She looked over at the boy, still so shocked that only nights ago he had granted her few delicacies. It was true, of course, that Celeste had never known a man or even suffered the affection, the childhood pestering of a boy-aged crush. She had played with her brothers and some of the children of the servants, even lanced with a few in secret, but not much else. The attention, no matter how it vacillated, that she drew from Davos was like nectar to the flying insects. So sweet, so enticing, but painful to look upon. A pervasive buzzing in her ear.

To a degree, Celeste felt silly, as a girl, as a common-folk wench that believed a lord might be genuine, but she felt as though Davos had been honest with her. He must have, and even if he wasn't, what other option did she have to feel held? Feel the blood rush to her cheeks? They had already come so far, she thought, why let the fear succeed now?

"A dignified concubine of Lord Blackwood, aye?" Celeste giggled and shook her head. "I always thought of myself as a wife."

Davos felt the laugh that jumped from her throat like a spear through his heart. He watched the young woman giggle softly, the laugh only growing slightly as her cheeks turned a bright red.

"A wife?" he echoed quietly, unable to keep the smile from spreading on his face. "You?"

Davos let out a chuckle, the sound low and hushed to not travel too far in the night. His knee brushed against hers slightly in a gentle push.

"You would have to stop your late night adventures, the running amuck. The woods are no place for child rearing."

Celeste rolled her eyes and turned to the boy playfully. "They are perfect for child-making, you seem to think," she whispered, a sly smirk tugging on her lips.

Davos' eyes widened as she smirked at him, feeling a hot heat spread across his face and travel down his body in an instant. He smiled as well, foolishly, and gathered the girl up in his arms quickly, their faces just an inch apart.

"You are an insolent brat, but," he gave her a quick kiss on the lips and brandished a smile. "My favorite of them all."

Still holding her, her head reclining back on the keep, he thought for a second. "Your children will be courageous. Little warriors. They'll be like their mother."

Celeste smiled leisurely. "Say I stop the running amuck, and I return to my gowns. Next, you'll say I must bite my tongue or refuse to practice the sword with my nephews. Then what will you like of me, Lord Davos? I'll be just like all other maidens."

His face softened slightly as she mentioned giving up her free spirit. He knew that the world she wanted to live in was one where she could fight as well as any boy and laugh as much as any man. He also knew it was a fantasy, not meant to be.

Davos ran his fingers through her hair, pushing the locks behind her ear and studying her young face.

"Be as no other maiden," he said softly, assuring her. "I would like your tongue as much as I like it now. It would please me to see sons taught chivalry by the same woman they ought to honor. It would also please me very well to see you in a gown..." He paused and smiled. "It would please me the most to be the one to strip it from you... I would take nothing from you, Celeste."

Celeste blushed. "You weave a beautiful web, Davos. I did not think it was capable. Perhaps the weirwood trees do influence your people, or," she checked over their shoulders. "It's the late hour."

Celeste sighed, tightening her grip on Davos's arms. "You would have me as a wife? If our family's feud had not so long been waged and contested? You would honor me?"

As she tightened her grip on his arms, he held onto her tighter, his fingers tracing soft patterns over her skin.  He breathed in the words she spoke and allowed himself to imagine what they would look like in another life.

"I fear I am actually in my bed, pushed down by fever, and this is some dream cast upon me from Harrenhal," he sighed. "Perhaps you are a witch. Do you spend your days crafting love potions to entice me?"

"I am no witch," Celeste said plainly.

"I fear no wife will serve me as you would. You've burned your home in my thoughts, sweetling. Has it occurred to you that you will never belong to me?" He said.

Celeste's face broke into a frown as she caressed Davos's hair. "You speak of nothing joyous. I am yours, sweet boy."

Their position, her fingers in his hair, the soft touches along his skin; it was torture to feel the gentle affection. But he was greedy and selfish, and he allowed himself to bask in her attention just a moment longer.

"You will always be mine. In every form," he breathed, his eyes closing slightly as he pressed his face against her palm. He breathed out softly, before looking up at her again with his brow furrowed. "You do not know the damage you've done."

Celeste watched the boy stand up quickly, running his fingers through his hair before he sighed beginning to head towards the entrance to the keep. She followed after him, almost missing her step after his long strides.

"What is the matter?" She called after him, but he was already beginning to push the boat back into the river.

"Say that I love you," he called out to her, the lapping of the river rather loud over his voice. "And I carry your burden, raise you up to stature and father your children. Say you make me a happy man, Celeste. What is that worth if both of our castles are burnt down in the fray, and my men whisper of me being a traitor for the rest of my rule? Do you think your father would let you go easily?"

Davos shook his head, pushing a set of oars into Celeste's arms. "Your people call us cannibals; they act as if we're no more than barbarians. Your father would be sending you to be ripped apart and eaten like a ham... you've gotten into my mind with your words. It's a fever that will not subside. A dream that I cannot follow. Please," he sighed in relief, begging.

"It is not enough for you, and it is not enough for me... why must you be of Bracken soot? You've made it harder than I intended."

Celeste threw her oars into the boat, looking at Davos with cruel eyes. She pushed him in the chest. "You came upon me, and then you came back, you coward. Had you not heard the whispers about me? The Bracken's wayward bastard that likes to play with boy's toys? You knew me, and still came upon me. Likely stalked me in the woods and pounced when you saw that I was vulnerable. You wanted me, Davos, so place this not on me. You're a knight, a man, a lord. Or is everything you've said to me pretense?"

The moment she pushed at his chest, Davos stopped for a second, his breath catching in his throat. He looked up at her, taken aback by her fierce and defensive stance. But, then he chuckled a little. The sound of amusement did not reach his eyes, though, and in fact, they darkened as she spoke.

He was quick to grab her by her arms, his hands holding on tightly enough that if she were any other woman, it would have been uncomfortable -- almost painful. He did not want to hurt her, of course, but he wanted her to listen.

"Say I take you as my wife, you daft child. You trade one inconvenience for another. We only have each other."

"We would have each other," Celeste yelled, frustrated. She had not thought that their marriage-talks were sincere, they were playing a game of make-believe, but suddenly it felt quite real, as if Davos had thought about it even momentarily.

"It would be the end of a thousand year war. So what if they call you 'traitor'. I would call you 'reconciliator'. It is a dream, Davos, but our history has been forged by visions, and dreams and men who were not afraid," she pulled herself from his grip.

"A dream," he breathed in response.

She was right, of course, she always was. He thought of the legends his father and grandfather had told him since he could talk; the myths of Garth Greenhand. He thought of the history of his house that was written down for all to see, and of the stories passed down from father to son in private and secret. How many boys must have dreamed the same dream?

'No matter,' he thought to himself, nodding at the girl to take her place in the boat. He turned his back on her and spoke.

"Your desire to no longer know loneliness is great enough to cause the bloodshed of thousands of men. You are not the woman you think yourself to be, Celeste."

Celeste stepped into the boat, feeling the boy roughly push it into the waves before he got into it as well.

"If you were in my station, you would feel very little loyalty yourself. My father is the only reason I've stayed, but he will die... eventually. He is the only Bracken man that might be swayed. My brothers are vicious creatures. War hungry."

Celeste thought for a few seconds, rowing the boat silently. "There may be another maiden you love one day, and there may be another knight to entice me, but there may never come another time to unite our houses, Davos. I've read the histories, listened in on counsel meetings. I will never be a soldier, but I have the ability to think. All my life they've tried to find a solution to the feud between our houses. I believe there may only be this one peaceful option. I won't be known for much else, but if I can help bring peace to these lands, maybe it wasn't all for naught."

He listened to her words, letting them sink in before eventually sighing out loudly, scrubbing at his face. Davos felt as if he was being pulled in two different directions, both of them too powerful for him not to resist. On one side there was his loyalty and on the other, there she was.

The Blackwood leaned back, staring up at the sky and the endless stars that littered the abyss above, glittering like diamonds.

He reached across the small space between them to pull her hand from the oar and into his lap, lacing his fingers with hers. The boat idled in the middle of the river, spinning softly.

"I knew not your wish to be a saint."

"It may go unfulfilled," Davos said, releasing her hands and returning to the oars.

Celeste stared at the boy in the icy night before shaking her head. "We should not see each other again. It will only become more painful from here."

Davos cut his eyes at the girl. Her words and actions so viscerally reenacting a child's fit. He was shocked that she had not gotten onto the floor of the boat and began to kick and cry.

He could not think of anything other than the thought of never seeing her again, or perhaps the thought of seeing her again. Would she marry a knight? Would she be left alone, an unmarried hen, stalking around the castle, unwanted and untouched?

Would they spend the rest of their lives professing their love for each other in secrecy, or would he slit her throat after years of listening to her droning on about her mistreatment at Bracken hands?

Temporarily, he wished he would have stuck to bedding women from his own land who could not read and could not argue, but had she not made him feel ten times more than he ever had in only days. And would she not spend the rest of their lives shaping him into a man, and would he not find pleasure in making her into a woman? Laughing as she contorted her face at dinner when faced with hosting all the lords and ladies?

He thought about her body-- thought about how he'd hold her through every new orgasm he'd grant her, and he smiled to himself when he remembered that she, herself, didn't completely know her body yet.

Celeste would be a fine wife, the only one he could tolerate, but he knew his father would have his head, if he so much as mentioned the Bracken girl as an option for betrothal, but, all things considered, if the Brackens were to offer a sizable amount of land and stock as the girl's dowry, as well as say, subservience to the Blackwood house during times of war... how could any studied lord say no?

It was a dream, as Celeste had said, but from the severity of her dark eyes, he knew he would have to do something or else he would not see her again.

They neared the place they had originated, the moon still shining brightly, though the night was still.

Davos cleared his throat. "I will talk to my father. If there is any peace to be had, we will root it out, but," he cleared his throat. "This itself may be the cause of more bloodshed. If it is what you want."

"If it is what I want," Celeste mocked snidely, rolling her eyes. "Do as you wish, Davos." As they hit the rocky shore, she stood from the boat quickly, walking to the direction of the Bracken hold.

"If the news is optimistic, you'll hear of it,' Davos called after her, causing Celeste to stop in her tracks. "If your father rejects the terms, you will hear of it,' he said, docking the boat and walking swiftly to catch up to her.

"If my father denies me, however, I will send word to you. In a fortnight,' he sighed and rung his hands. "If it is the latter of those options, I will see you once more. I swear it. By the old gods and the new,' he reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. "It was not all pretense. You have vexed me. Don't depart in such haste."

"The hour is late, Davos,' Celeste said, the moon illuminating her gaze. Her mood was dampened, as was her hair, and the lateness of the hour had begun to weigh on her. She was tired. She considered that the two would never hold each other through the night or wake up cradling one another. Her heart sank.

"I'm afraid I asked for too much, when perchance it was best to hold on to what we had, but,' she bit her lip. "I am tired of dreams. I want real things."

Davos laughed and petted the girl's head, before scratching gently behind her ear. She scrunched her nose.

"I had not expected you to bite your tongue,' he said with a bittersweet smile before moving forward to kiss her. At first, barely, but then passionately, holding her waist and she clutched him around his neck. They kissed as if it were the first time, knowing that it may be the last.

"Will you remember this? The next time we see each other? Whenever that may be."

Celeste pulled away from the kiss, tears on the brim of her eyes. She blamed the flurry of emotions on the hour.

"If we are betrothed, there will be no need. There will be more to come. But if you are my enemy when next we cross paths, I will smile upon you, Davos... you will amount to so much," she caressed his hair before giving him a small kiss on the nose.

Davos felt his heart break at the sight of her tears, and he reached up to stroke her wet cheek gently with his thumb. He leaned in to rest his forehead against hers, taking in her scent and the feel of her skin against his. He closed his eyes, trying to hold this moment in his memory forever.

"There will be more to come," he repeated softly, holding her close to him.

tag list: @shifter-101 @greatdarkqueen

author note: just one more chapter to go, hopefully next week xx

[freesia-writes]

Ch 6: Hikes and Hurts

~ Master List ~ Previous Chapter ~ WC: 3.2k

Hunter took a deep breath, pausing on the path as it wove its way across the cliffs of the island. Far below, the waves crashed against the shore, an ethereal mist rising to join the early morning fog that drifted equally across land and sea. A few fishing boats dotted the horizon, the creaking sounds of wood-hewn ships long lost in the distance and drowned out by the roar of the ocean. A river trickled down the cliffs, weaving its way down from the forest above and plummeting relentlessly toward the tumult below. 

Quiet sounds of cows and fathiers grazing and milling about on the hills above reached his ears. The air was crisp, and the distinct chill of the change in seasons had required Hunter to adopt a layer more than usual. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth, blowing hot air against icy fingers as he idly sorted through the myriad of scents that he could discern. Salty water, fragrant evergreens, dewy grass… the musky smells of various creatures… the hint of smoke from well-stoked hearths in the village to the west. 

He picked up something different suddenly – a soft, clean scent that he could only describe as floral linen. Chuckling dryly to himself and vowing to watch less trash holo with Omega, who had recently taken a liking to cheesy romantic adventure films, he turned from the vista point to scan the area. A large, hooded bundle was trundling toward the river, pausing here and there to bend over and inspect the ground before continuing on. When the bundle reached the river’s edge, which was a series of large, flat rocks full of pockets and spaces that gave the image of tide pools, it crouched all the way down and began picking around the shore. Curious and surprisingly defensive at someone else’s encroachment of this beautiful, peaceful space that he’d come to believe only he was privy to, Hunter tucked his hands into the pockets of his thick cloak and headed over to investigate. 

He was certain the bundle was human, judging by the gait and build, but he wondered what had drawn one of the locals out so early and so far. They didn’t often venture into The Forest (aptly named, he mused) but rather contented themselves on the western side of the island where it was full of meadows, hills, and a sense of community. He was a few feet away when he came to a halt, his approach concealed by the roaring river. 

“Looking for something?” he asked, raising his voice above the rushing water. 

The squawk that came from the bundle made him question if it really was human, and with one clumsy motion, it toppled onto its side, arms and legs flailing everywhere on the way. Hunter startled in response, backing up a few steps and raising his hands in front of him as the bundle scrambled to right itself. 

“Whoa, whoa… Sorry! You alright?” 

“Hunter?!” came a gasp, a slightly squeaky lilt in a familiar husky voice. “What the–” The words dissolved into grumbles as sand and rocks were brushed off and the figure rose to its feet, turning to face him. Beneath the hood he could see the center of Lyra’s face, and he nearly laughed out loud in equal parts surprise and mockery for her entirely unmeasured reaction. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said carefully, lips pressed in a firm line. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else, instead taking in her appearance head to toe. She must have been wearing layer upon layer of clothing, all covered by some kind of head-to-toe suit that he imagined was to keep out the wind and rain. It created a comically shapeless result, with boots poking out the bottom and a hooded head that looked small compared to the rest. “What… uh… Whatcha doin?” 

“You…” Lyra took a ragged breath, her arms lifting at her sides with the inflation of her lungs and lowering again as she blew it out in an attempt to calm down. “You scared the kark out of me,” she said, so quietly and conspiratorially that he almost couldn’t hear. He looked around, wondering if there were others nearby, but he hadn’t sensed anything. “I like to come out here on walks,” she continued, doing her best to speak normally but still sounding undeniably tight. “Neat stuff washes up on the banks, especially this time of year, and I thought I saw a piece of tumbled glass… before you robbed me of my dignity.”

Now Hunter did laugh, dipping his head in contrition before sneaking his eyes back up to hers, at least what little he could see beneath the thick layers. “I’m sorry… I guess I owe you a piece of… tumbled glass?”

“Yes, you do,” she answered pertly, shifting on her feet and wrapping her arms around herself. “What are you doing out here?”

“Taking the long way back from hunting.”

“Does the meat just walk itself to your shop?” she asked, tilting her head at his hands.

“Heh. I wish. Nothing today. Something’s a little off with the herds; I have no idea what.”

“Hmm. Well I’m sorry you came up empty-handed, although I imagine that’s just part of the job sometimes.”

“Yep.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. The early morning sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the mountains above, sending inquisitive beams through the boughs of the trees and beginning to chase the dense fog back toward the sea. Hunter returned his hands to his pockets, trying to think of the best thing to say to excuse himself back on his way. 

“It might have something to do with the lunar festival?” Lyra offered, catching him off guard.

“What might?”

“The animals being weird…The moons are only full at the same time once a year, and some of the locals swear it affects everything on the island.”

“How?” was all he could muster, although he’d seen and heard of far stranger things in his travels across planets of virtually every size and setup. 

“I have no idea,” she shrugged, gazing off toward the sea for a moment. “But,” she continued, leaning toward him with a slightly dramatic air, “Last year around this time, my bread loaf wouldn’t rise. So they might be onto something.” 

He stared at her in response, unable to discern if this was deadpan, factual delivery, or some kind of attempt at wit. A small sigh from beneath the hood gave him a hint, and Lyra dropped her own head, mumbling something under her breath that even he couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” he asked, hoping it was something about having to be on her way.

“I said… Geez…” she paused, as though giving herself a hard time for her own delivery, “I said it’s hard to be funny under all these layers.”

“Yeah, what is all that for?” Hunter asked, trying to ignore his own wondering if her attempt at a joke would have been funny even without the excessive clothing. “You look like you’re ready to be rolled down a hill…”

Lyra laughed at that, a self-conscious little guffaw that was promptly followed by her hand covering the bundle’s face-hole. “Is that a regular pastime where you’re from?” 

“Not in the slightest,” he answered, although the mental image of troopers wrapped in layers of blacks, being rolled down the curving domes of the Kaminoan buildings brought a little lightness to his heart… But then it was quickly replaced by his last view of Tipoca City – burning wreckage sinking to the bottom of the sea.

“Sorry…” Lyra said uncertainly, and Hunter realized his face had been more telling than he’d assumed. He looked back at her with a little shake of the head, brushing away a lifetime of memories. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he began.

“Would rolling me down the hill make you feel better?” she asked, mouth pressed in a serious line. His eyebrows rose, as did the corner of his mouth, glancing from her to the cascading river that poured off the edge of the island cliffs into the sea below. 

“Murder isn’t usually my first choice of pick-me-ups.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good,” she said solemnly, nodding slowly. “To answer your question…” she paused, giving him time to backtrack to what his question even was, “I like to bundle up when I come out in the early mornings because I’m always cold. And it’s really hard to leave my living room when the fire is going and there is some morning treat in the oven. But I also really like it out here. So this is how I stay warm.”

“You’re always cold? In a place like this?” 

“I mean, not always… But pretty much always. Bad circulation, maybe.”

Another shared chuckle.

“Fair enough.”

The conversation meandered from there across a few topics of little importance, and Hunter was finding himself intrigued by the hints of depth beneath the relatively plain exterior. He’d become so used to the ever-changing cast of characters that he’d been subjected to throughout the war, each one seeming to be more bold and brash than the last, that it was almost off-putting to encounter someone so… simple? They wrapped up with some simple well-wishes and went their separate ways, leaving Hunter feeling simultaneously confused and comforted.

* * * 

By @constant-brain-fog

.

“Whatcha got there, kid?” Hunter asked, falling into step beside Omega as they made their way down the hill from the school. 

“Oh, it’s for you, actually!” she answered, passing a large package wrapped in twine into his hands. “And you’ve got to stop calling me kid, Hunter…” 

“Right. Sorry,” he faltered, although he knew that she still liked it, beneath the inconsistent facade she’d grown since starting school. He sniffed the parcel and received a noseful of earthy vegetable scents. “Who’s this from?”

“Lyra.” Omega had a small smile on her face, casting a quick side glance at him before returning her gaze to the path. “She said she saw you hunting a few days ago, and she didn’t want you to go hungry.” 

“Oh really…” he murmured, squinting narrowly as he shifted the package to rest beneath an arm. “Well isn’t that nice.” 

“I thought so! No?” she asked, curious at the sarcasm dripping from his voice. 

“When she saw me, it was an empty hunt day,” he said, the faintest of wry grins tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So this seems more like a little jab than a generous gift.”

“I don’t think she’s like that…” Omega observed, brow furrowing as she scrutinized him. “She seemed so warm when she said it…And she offered to help me with my internship applications because they’ve been stressing me out.”

“Well, either way… Let’s see what we can do with this for dinner tonight.”

The parcel contained an impressive variety of produce that Hunter assumed came from Lyra’s garden; some were familiar, some not. Brightly-colored root vegetables lay next to plump green and yellow things that looked as though they’d been plucked from vines, and nestled among them were little blue and red balls that, upon being sliced open, revealed juicy interiors with tiny seeds. With their limited repertoire of culinary skills, Hunter and Omega had decided that the best course of action would be to roast them all in a large sheet pan in the oven. After quite a bit of chopping, the tray was filled and the oven was set. But the amount of vegetables it took to fill the sheet pan had barely made a dent in the pile they’d been given, and Omega laughed as she scooped the leftovers into bags, wrapping them and putting them in the cooling chamber for later use. Wrecker was notably absent that evening, and Hunter made a tongue-in-cheek observation that they could have used the extra mouth.

As they waited for the timer to go off, they busied themselves in their own endeavors – Omega had spread her school supplies across the table and was engrossed in her datapad while Hunter tried to organize all of the receipts that had been printed at the butcher shop over the last few days. Tech was his unofficial accountant, keeping track of inventory, overhead, and margins required to keep the shop profitable, but his continual frustration with Hunter’s messy ways had resulted in multiple threats of resignation. So the receipts were to be “ordered chronologically and delivered in a timely fashion to minimize the redundant work and avoid wasting time”, and Hunter had complied, mostly to avoid having to do the rest of it himself.

He sensed Omega’s mood changing quite rapidly between the dinner prep and the time they sat down to eat, and as they dug into their steaks, now with vegetable side dishes that were quite beautiful with their array of colors, he could almost see a proverbial dark cloud hanging over her head. A wave of discomfort washed over him as he pondered the possible causes, realizing he was wildly out of his league. He didn’t even really know what he was to her anymore – some kind of protective figure at the very least, but as she’d settled into young adulthood, her maturing perspective combined with the fact that she’d lived nearly twice as long as he had created a bit of complexity in an already-unfamiliar scenario. But considering the slump of her shoulders and the way it tugged at his heart, Hunter knew he had to at least give it a shot. 

“The vegetables are really good,” he ventured, stabbing one with his fork. “Good call on the seasoning.”

“Hmm,” was her only reply, pushing them around on her plate with enough dejection to make even a clanker feel compassion. 

“You… uh… want to talk?”

“Not really.”

“Alright.”

More silence ensued, punctuated only by the sounds of eating, which were disproportionately amplified in the discomfort of the situation. 

“What’s the next internship?” he tried again, hoping to spark her interest. She’d been thoroughly enjoying herself so far, with the occasional hiccup here and there, and had sounded excited about the rest of the year’s plans and opportunities.

“No idea,” she said, voice lower than usual. He frowned, tilting his head at her. 

“Why not?” he asked, with as warm and gentle a tone as he could muster. He was really trying to do it right, whatever “it” was, and fought back the rising frustration at his own inadequacy in this realm.

“It’s all different. The next round is more competitive. You have to apply for the assignments you want, and they only take the top two students for each position. If you don’t get any of the ones you want, you’re just shoved somewhere, whether you’re interested in it or not.”

“Ah. That’s… tricky.”

“It’s kriffing stupid!” Omega blurted out, face hardening with thinly-veiled anger. 

“Whoa, careful kiddo–” The thought was out before he could give it a second thought, and it apparently contained an unfortunate choice of words.

“You don’t get it!” she fumed, her lilting voice cracking with emotion. “The applications are stressful enough themselves, plus the lunar festival is coming up and everyone is telling me I need to have some kind of date for it, otherwise I’m total Bantha fodder, and it’s all just… unfair! I don’t know when everyone decided that I have to act or be or look a certain way, whether or not I want to, but it’s driving me crazy. And I bet that if I don’t play their little games, I’ll be stuck shadowing some dumb datapad programmer or something like that.”

Hunter was speechless, taken aback by the flood of information, most of which felt as though it were coming out of nowhere. She’d always seemed happy with her class, especially since it was made up of a handful of students who all knew each other and appeared to get along. When had it changed so drastically? He fumbled for something to say, trying to think strategically.

“I mean, datapad programming can be pretty handy…” he tried, cringing at the wave of emotion he felt from her in response. 

“It’s okay, Hunter. You don’t have to try to make me feel better. You can’t understand this. It’s not what you were made for,” she snapped, picking up her plate and heading for her room, where she kicked the door closed behind her. He was shocked at her uncharacteristic vehemence. 

An hour passed, leaving Hunter confused and alone as he finished his own plate, constantly warring with himself as to whether or not he should go after her. He cleaned up the kitchen, washing and drying everything by hand before putting it where it belonged. There was a flurry of emotions in his own mind as well: frustration at having apparently said the wrong thing, indignation at her seemingly disproportionate reactivity, and a deep, nagging, unsettling sense that perhaps she was right. He had been made for one purpose. How was he supposed to craft a life of his own outside of that?

As he made the final preparations to head to bed himself, he heard footsteps in Omega’s room, followed shortly by her door cracking open to reveal her small frame. She’d grown so much from when they’d first met, yet somehow still carried a sensitivity and fragility that the world had not yet robbed her of. At least, that was how he saw her. And now, deflated as she was, he only wanted to protect her now from the nuances of adolescent life, the way he had protected her from blaster bolts and tsunamis. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, approaching from the hallway to where he stood in their small living room. “I didn’t mean what I said… That was awful…” The light scent of her tears matched up to the redness of her eyes, and he shook his head slowly. 

“It’s fine. You’re not wrong–”

“Absolutely I’m wrong!” she exclaimed, drawing closer now. Her body language was odd, like a bird about to take flight, holding some kind of inexpressible tension as she continued. “You may have been created for war, but that’s not all of who you are, Hunter. I know you’re a clone, but you’re still human. And more unique than most.” Her voice was softer now, filled with a wistful nostalgia. “You always have been.”

“Well thanks, but–”

His words were cut off again by her sudden hug, arms wrapped firmly around him as she buried her face in his chest. She squeezed, heaving a great sigh as they stood there in silence, his own arms finding tentative support around her. 

“I kind of miss just being a soldier,” she confessed, and Hunter’s mind began to run with a million responses about how she wasn’t a soldier, she’d done so much more than that, etc. But he quieted it for a moment, taking a deep breath of his own, and tried to understand what she was really attempting to convey. Her time as a “soldier” had been their years of post-Republic adventures, scraping by with odd jobs and never quite knowing where they would end up. But they’d always had each other, and their missions were usually fairly singular in focus. It was a whole new world to navigate not only the basics of safety and provision, but also future planning, social nuance, and other pressures that he couldn’t even begin to understand. 

He hugged her tightly, silent in the shared sentiment. And in a way, he found himself missing it too.

.

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[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: Valor's Refute

Past a wall of mist and into the bleak morass of the shadowfell there is a dreary and foreboding isle inhabited by the spirits of those who could not relinquish their blades, so driven by persistence and duty that they could not even rest in death.

Their armoured shades wander the isle's endless halls or stand sentinel over its crumbling, hollow gates, obeying long forgotten oaths to nations and sovereigns they can no longer recall. Some others find a corner in which to collapse in torpor, while others crash through the cavernous ruins, exhausting themselves in battle after pyrrhic battle.

Valor's Refute is not a haven or a hell, it is a purgatory, a place of slow forgetting and inevitable dissolution.... or atleast it would be if over the ages a bunch of darkness dabbling gods and mages didn't independently arrive at the idea that a labyrinthine shadow world full of memory eroding mist could double as a great vault, just as its the ever vigilant and honourbound inhabitants make for incorruptible guards. And so dotted throughout the solemn halls of Valor's Refute are traps and puzzles intended to safeguard artifacts deemed too precious or dangerous to entrust to mortal or material hideaways.

Challenges & Complications

Suffused with the waters of the river Lethe, Valor's Refute is cloaked in a chilling mist that imparts those it touches with lethargy and forgetfulness. Effects are minor at first, but a party can easily take a wrong turn and end up fighting through a fogbank for what turns out to be hours or plunging into the icy water that saps them of a whole day's strength. These effects are best tracked through my attrition system, available HERE.

While exploring the evertwisting corridors, the party encounter the ghost of Ser Zagaver, a knight errant who died uncovering a terrible secret regarding a great evil working in the shadows of the campaign. Having been unable to warn anyone of the unseen danger, she needs the party to swear to carry on her message, and she's willing to force them at the edge of swordpoint. If the party renege on their deal, or get too distracted with ongoing matters, they can expect to be haunted by an enranged ghost-knight until they're steered back on course.

A voice stirs the dreams of those who sleep on the isle, compelling them to seek it out and teasing at their hearts' desire. This voice originates in one of the dungeon's deeper vaults, and belongs to a cursed item known as the "chalice of want". Once the weddingcup of a pair of prideful demigods who later betrayed eachother, it grants those that drink from it visions of how their ambitions may come to pass. Such tastes of future glory are addictive, to say nothing of how dangerous the foreknowledge it grants may be in the hands of the wrong entities.

Art 1

Art 2

[porphyriosao3]

Day 2 - Light

Thorin had never paid much mind to sunlight.  He certainly wasn't like one of the deep-downers, where they started spewing and staggering in the sun. Unless things were very bright indeed he only had to squint a bit when outside.  A childhood spent hunting and roaming made sure of that.  Still, like all his kin, he wasn't that fond of the sun; it was too bright outside, the sky too high, the colors too gaudy for dwarves who were born of the grey stone and dark places in the mountain depths.  In spite of all that... Thorin had to admit he had never been anywhere in his long life of traveling where the sunlight looked like it did in the Shire.

The Shire's version of sunlight seemed almost a thick, honeyish liquid; it oozed and pooled itself around everything it fell upon, giving a lustrous glow to even the most commonplace items and scenes.  Despite the fair amount of time he had lived here by now it was always surprising.  He would walk to work in the morning towards the smithy and the fog would rise from Hobbiton's gravel roads, the dew would shimmer on the absurdly lush grass to either side, and he would feel as though he were lost in some strange storyland.  The sun would cause the hanging mists to shimmer golden, reminding him of his childhood as a tiny pebble in Erebor, transfixed by the sight of the great lamps hung behind the waterfall on the third deep glowing through the spray.

In the late afternoons he would close the forge and walk home.  The Hill would be awash in rivers of sunlight, with each passing bee and butterfly limned lovingly with rich light against the absurdly bright palette of colors, and even the customary squint could not hide the beauty of the sun-kissed Shire.  The giant pin-oak atop the Hill would shiver in the gentle breeze, its leaves rustling and seeming to flow like a green river in the light of the sun.  The whole Hill seemed cloaked in gold.

The best light was ahead, though, when he came inside into the welcome dimness of the smial. He admired the sunlight; aesthetically, he had to admit it was beautiful, even though as a dwarf it wasn't made for his kind nor their tastes.  Once he was out of the brightness of the day, though, he could see the real treasure.  The light of the smile that waited for him here - that was truly blinding.  His eyes took it in even as his heart had to squint at the brightness of it, even as his soul rejoiced.  This was a treasure made only for him. Truly, the light of the Shire was like nowhere else.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 18 Chapter 18 | cerberus' song⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The world twisted and folded around you, a disorienting rush of cold air and weightlessness pulling at your senses. Falling and floating all at once, your body felt unmoored, your thoughts scrambled and scattered.

You shut your eyes tightly, clutching the lyre like a lifeline as the sensation overwhelmed you.

When the ground finally met your feet, it wasn't with a thud but a soft, disjointed sway, as if the space itself were still settling. You stumbled, legs weak and unsteady, as your surroundings began to sharpen into focus.

The air was heavy, dense with the faint metallic tang of iron and the distant echo of something shifting—stone, water, or maybe both. As you blinked to clear your vision, jagged stone arches emerged from the darkness above, their surfaces shimmering faintly as if carved from obsidian.

A chill crept up your spine, and you instinctively hugged the lyre closer, its warmth grounding you.

Behind you, the faint glow of the mortal world shimmered through a small tunnel of golden light. The sight made your chest tighten. It was both comforting and distant, a fragile reminder of what you had left behind—and what you might not return to if things went wrong.

"Okay, ____," you murmured, your voice trembling as you tried to steady your nerves. "You're here. That's the first step."

The words sounded hollow in the vastness around you, but saying them aloud gave you something to hold onto. Taking a shaky breath, you forced your legs to move, each step unsteady as you followed the narrow path ahead.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven, cold. Polished stone patches gave way to jagged edges that forced your steps to be cautious. Silence pressed against your ears, broken only by the occasional whisper of air or the faint hum of resonance that emanated from the lyre.

You focused on your movements—the sensation of your steps, the weight of the lyre—anything to keep your thoughts steady.

The path curved downward, opening gradually to reveal the river. The familiar, sluggish expanse of dark water shimmered faintly under ethereal light. Mist curled along its surface, twisting and rising like ghostly fingers, adding to the unsettling stillness of the scene.

You stopped, breath catching as the memory of Hermes' words resurfaced. "Regrets. Broken promises. Forgotten dreams. Everything people left unresolved in life."

The slow-moving shadows beneath the river's surface rippled, as though sensing your presence. One slithered closer before vanishing again, and you instinctively stepped back, your pulse quickening.

Ahead, the rickety pier came into view, its weathered structure jutting into the murky water. Your chest tightened at the sight—this was where you had seen Charon before. The silent ferryman had unnerved you last time, and now, without Hermes' playful banter to guide or distract you, the weight of the Underworld felt heavier.

Each step toward the pier was deliberate, the lyre's faint hum your only comfort against the oppressive silence pressing in from all sides. Mist swirled as you approached, rippling like it anticipated your arrival.

Whatever lay ahead, you reminded yourself, you had chosen this. The reasons might not yet be clear, but turning back wasn't an option.

Then, almost as if he had sensed your thoughts, a figure emerged from the fog.

The sound of water lapping against a wooden hull drew your gaze, and your breath hitched as a boat glided forward. A lantern at its prow swung gently, casting an eerie green glow that danced across the river's surface. Shadows pulsed in rhythm with the light, deepening the atmosphere of unease.

Your stomach dropped as the ferryman came into view. His cloaked figure was imposing, wrapped in tattered black layers that fluttered as if caught in a wind that you couldn't feel. His very presence seemed to chill the air, drawing it tighter around you.

The lantern's glow illuminated his gaunt, skeletal hands—more bone than flesh—as they gripped a weathered oar. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, the faint glow of ghostly green eyes burned through the shadows, locking onto you with an unrelenting gaze.

You froze, your limbs stiff as stone, as the boat drew closer. The boat itself looked ancient, its wood warped and cracked, yet it glided effortlessly across the water. When it stopped in front of you, the lantern swung again, its creaking hinge breaking the oppressive silence.

One of Charon's four skeletal hands extended toward you, slow and deliberate. His voice, deep and gravelly, reverberated through the mist like the groan of collapsing stone. "...Fare..."

The single word vibrated through your very bones, sending a shiver down your spine. You stared at his outstretched hand, breath caught in your throat. Every detail of him felt surreal—the void beneath his hat, the eerie fluidity of his movements, the way his presence seemed to drain the light from the air.

The silence stretched unnervingly, and for a moment, it felt as though the Underworld itself had paused to watch.

You snapped out of your stupor, your hands fumbling for the small pouch tied to your side. Used for paying the palace seamstress, it now held the only thing standing between you and the ferryman's silent judgment. The coins inside clinked softly as you pulled the pouch free.

Your fingers trembled as you untied it, the motion painfully slow under the weight of his piercing gaze. Those pale, glowing eyes seemed to bore into you, unyielding and inescapable. With a shaky breath, you reached inside and withdrew a single coin, holding it up for him to see.

For what felt like an eternity, the ferryman remained motionless. The sharp angles of his shadowed frame loomed against the faint green glow of the lantern. His sunken face, half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat, seemed carved from the very darkness around him. The eerie glow of his eyes cut through the mist, pinning you in place as though daring you to falter.

Finally, his bony fingers moved, reaching for the coin with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed unnaturally in the still air, sharp and grating, making you flinch.

A shiver raced down your spine as he plucked the coin from your trembling hand, his touch impossibly cold, as if he carried the chill of the river itself.

Without a word, he turned, his tattered cloak billowing slightly as he moved, fluid as smoke and just as intangible. The lantern's faint glow swung with him, casting warped reflections across the rippling waters.

One skeletal hand rested on the oar as he glanced back at you, his hollow gaze unwavering. His other hand rose, gesturing toward the boat with an unmistakable command: Come.

You glanced over your shoulder, toward the fading tunnel of golden light that marked the mortal realm. Doubt clawed at your chest, but the ferryman's expectant presence left no room for hesitation.

Swallowing hard, you squared your shoulders. You had made your choice. Whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back now.

Taking a tentative step forward, you placed a trembling foot onto the boat. It creaked under your weight, the sound reverberating through the stillness like a warning. The aged wood was damp beneath your sandals, the faint scent of decay mingling with the mist.

You lowered yourself onto one of the worn benches, your hands gripping the edge tightly, as though it might anchor you against the unsteady currents of fear swirling within.

Charon took his place at the stern, his skeletal fingers wrapping around the oar with a practiced ease. The lantern swung again, its ghostly green light casting fleeting shadows across the water—shadows that seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own.

With a single, measured push of the oar, the boat began to glide forward.

The river's dark waters parted silently, the mist curling and thickening as the boat slipped further from the shore. Behind you, the faint glimmer of the mortal world was swallowed by shadows, leaving only the rhythmic splash of the oar and the lantern's eerie glow.

You sat rigidly on the bench, your heart pounding in your chest. The silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional sound of the oar cutting through the water. The ferryman stood at the helm, his cloaked form a dark sentinel, his movements precise and unhurried, as though he had made this journey countless times.

The further you traveled, the more the mist seemed to close in around you, muffling even your own breathing. The air was thick with anticipation, the shadows pressing closer with every moment.

A cold realization settled over you as you clutched the bench tighter. You could only follow the ferryman's lead now, trusting that the shadows would reveal what you sought—when they were ready.

☆ ✩ ☆

Time stretched and blurred as the ferry glided through the unending mists. The soft splash of the oar against the dark water became a hypnotic rhythm, lulling you into a heavy stillness.

You didn't dare speak, nor did the Charon seem inclined to break the silence. The faint green glow of his lantern was your only guide, its ethereal light carving fleeting patterns into the murky depths. Though your grip on the bench had loosened, your fingers still twitched occasionally, betraying the restless churn of your thoughts.

When the boat finally slowed, the change startled you. You nearly jolted upright, your muscles stiff from sitting so long in tense silence. The ferry's hull scraped lightly against an unseen shore, the jarring sound echoing sharply through the oppressive quiet.

You turned to Charon, who stood motionless at the stern, his gaze fixed on the horizon—or perhaps something beyond mortal sight. Slowly, he raised a bony hand, gesturing for you to disembark.

The ground beneath your feet was uneven and ancient, the chill of the stone seeping through your sandals. It felt firm but unwelcoming, a stark reminder that this was not a place meant for the living.

You hesitated, glancing back at Charon, but he had already turned away. His lantern swayed gently as he prepared for another journey, its light casting warped shadows over the dark water. Without a word or farewell, the ferry slipped back into the mist, its silhouette fading until it was gone, leaving you utterly alone.

Your breath puffed softly in the chill air, the faint mist curling around you like restless tendrils. You scanned the unfamiliar terrain, trying to orient yourself, but everything felt vast and disorienting, the darkness stretching infinitely in every direction.

Fragments of memory stirred—recollections of the path Hermes had taken during your chaotic journey here before. His quick pace, light-hearted commentary, and seemingly effortless navigation of this otherworldly realm had once been your anchor. Now, you clung desperately to those fragments, hoping they would guide you again.

Taking a deep breath, you started forward, each step cautious and deliberate. The air felt heavier with each movement, thick and harsh, as though the realm itself resisted your presence.

You retraced what landmarks you could remember: jagged rock formations that rose like skeletal hands from the ground, faintly glowing pools of water scattered across the barren landscape, and ghostly trees whose pale branches hummed with an unnatural energy.

You passed a cluster of those trees now, their twisted forms reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. The faint hum they emitted seemed to brush against the edges of your consciousness, sending an involuntary shiver through you.

Fixing your gaze forward, you resisted the urge to look back over your shoulder, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against your senses like the realm itself was watching.

It wasn't long before the path began to shift as you moved. The jagged rocks smoothed out, the glowing pools became sparser, and the oppressive silence gave way to faint whispers carried on the still air.

Ahead, a pale light began to glow, muted and distant, like dawn struggling through heavy clouds. Relief and unease mingled in your chest as recognition dawned.

The Asphodel Fields stretched out before you, an endless expanse of muted silver and grey. The mist clinging to the ground thickened here, swirling around your ankles as you took hesitant steps forward.

The ghostly forms of souls drifted aimlessly through the field, their movements slow and unhurried. Some gathered in small clusters, their translucent figures flickering like dying embers, while others wandered alone, their forms barely distinguishable from the mist.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you gazed over the field, its muted whispers and flickering souls a stark reminder of your isolation that came with being alive in a place meant for the dead.

The weight of your task pressed heavily on your shoulders. You scanned the misty expanse, your heartbeat loud in your ears. Somewhere out there, among the countless wandering souls, Cleo was waiting.

The thought rooted you in place and spurred you forward all at once, the tangle of emotions tightening in your chest.

Inhaling deeply, you steadied your nerves. "Alright," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the faint hum of the field. "Let's find her."

With that, you began to move, your steps careful but purposeful as you delved deeper into the endless grey expanse.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

Each step through the Asphodel Fields felt heavier than the last, your resolve thinning with every stretch of indistinguishable terrain. The pale mist swirled lazily around your feet, its persistent presence adding to the disorienting monotony of your surroundings. Ghostly figures drifted silently, their movements aimless in the muted glow of the Fields.

But no matter how closely you looked, none of them were her.

Your thoughts drifted as you walked, memories you'd tried to bury rising unbidden. At one point, your pace faltered, and you hesitated, glancing around the endless mist. A flicker of a thought whispered in your mind—what if, instead of Cleo, I went to look for my parents? The idea caught you off guard, tightening your chest with its fragile promise of seeing them again.

You shook the thought away forcefully, the weight of your task grounding you. You couldn't afford to get distracted. Not now. Cleo was the reason you were here. Your parents would remain locked in memory, waiting for another time—if such a time ever came.

You pressed on, your feet aching with every step. The silence around you was broken only by the faint whispers of the souls that drifted nearby, their movements occasionally drawing your attention. Yet, every flicker of hope dissolved into disappointment.

Doubt began to creep into your mind, clawing at the edges of your determination. What if you couldn't find her? What if she was lost among the countless wandering souls, unreachable in this endless expanse?

What if—

"____."

Your heart stilled, then surged as your body went rigid. You turned sharply, your eyes scanning the misty expanse behind you. For a moment, there was nothing but the familiar swirl of fog, its muted glow barely illuminating the surroundings. Then, like a figure stepping out of a half-remembered dream, you saw her.

Cleo.

She stood across from you, her form pale and translucent but unmistakably hers. Mist curled around her ankles, and the dim light of the Fields clung to her like a fragile halo. Her blonde hair, now dull and lifeless, still fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Her green eyes, once alight with mischief, now held a haunting stillness that made your breath catch.

Neither of you moved. The distance between you felt insurmountable, though it couldn't have been more than a few paces. You didn't know what to say, what to feel. Emotions swirled in a chaotic storm—anger, sadness, relief—leaving you rooted in place.

Finally, you took a hesitant step forward, your voice shaky. "Cleo... is it really you?"

Her lips parted slightly, her green eyes meeting yours and for a fleeting moment, she looked just as she had in life—your friend, your confidant, the one who had laughed with you under the moonlight and shared whispered secrets.

You thought she might smile, or speak, or even reach for you like she had so many times before in life. But then, her expression crumpled, and she collapsed to the ashen ground, her knees buckling as if the weight of this place had finally crushed her.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice raw and broken. Her trembling hands reached toward you, her spectral form shaking with desperation. "Please, ____, get me out of here. I don't belong here."

The plea cut through you like a blade. You stared at her, frozen, your breath catching in your throat. "Cleo... I-I don't understand," you whispered. "What do you mean? How can I—?"

Her head snapped up, her expression twisting into something sharp, angry. "You don't understand?" she spat, her voice rising with venom. "Of course, you don't. You've never understood. You don't know what it's like to be trapped, to be forgotten, to wander endlessly in this... this nothingness!"

Her sudden anger made you step back, the force of her words leaving you stunned. "Cleo, I—" you tried, but she cut you off, lashing out with venomous intensity.

"You don't deserve the life you have," she hissed, her translucent form flickering with fury. "You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are? How unfair it is that you stand here, alive and whole, while I'm stuck in this wretched place?"

Her words struck like a whip, each one leaving you reeling. "Cleo, that's not my fault—" you began, but she surged forward, her form closing the distance in an instant.

"It was supposed to be you, down here," she snarled, her face inches from yours now. Her voice cracked with the weight of her anger and grief. "It's supposed to be you reduced to nothing! But instead, gods themselves bend over backwards to change your fate."

The accusation left you breathless, your mind reeling as her words twisted the air around you. The endless grey of the Fields pressed in closer, amplifying the suffocating weight of her fury. Your lips parted, but no sound escaped, your throat dry and tight.

You wanted to deny her claims, to say something, anything, that could bridge the ever-widening chasm between you. But before the moment could spiral further, a figure emerged from the mist behind you.

"Enough," a familiar voice commanded, firm but quiet.

You turned to see Polites stepping forward, his weathered face set in a grim expression. His piercing gaze flicked between you and Cleo as he approached, the tension in the air palpable. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

"You need to go," he said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated, glancing back at Cleo. Her form flickered, her green eyes burning with a mixture of anger and anguish. She didn't speak again, her hands curling into fists at her sides as Polites guided you away.

Each step away from her felt heavier, her words echoing in your mind. The mist swirled and shifted around you, a silent witness to the turmoil churning in your chest.

"Polites," you finally murmured, your voice shaky as you glanced up at him. "What did she mean? What did Cleo mean when she said... it was supposed to be me down here?"

Polites' steps faltered slightly, his jaw tightening as a flicker of guilt crossed his features. He didn't meet your eyes. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Maybe... you should ask Hermes," he said after a long pause.

Your heart sank at his evasive answer, but you didn't press further.

The silence between you was heavy as Polites left you standing at the edge of the Fields. His retreating footsteps faded into the mist, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the weight of the unspoken truths hanging in the air.

You ran a trembling hand down your face, exhaling shakily as you tried to make sense of it all. Twice now, you'd heard of this supposed favor from a god—first from your parents, and now from Cleo.

What were you missing? What had they seen or known that you didn't? The question gnawed at you, a seed of doubt taking root deep in your chest.

Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself, "Alright. One thing at a time." Maybe it was best to return home, to think in familiar surroundings. You needed space to figure out your next move.

Just as you turned to leave, a deep, guttural growl rumbled through the mist. You froze, every muscle in your body locking at the sound.

Slowly, you turned, your breath hitching as a massive shape emerged from the haze.

It was huge—easily towering over you—and as it stepped closer, the details sharpened, each more horrifying than the last.

Three massive heads loomed above, their glowing eyes burning like embers. Coarse black fur covered its hulking form, and its massive paws left deep impressions in the ashen ground with each step. Saliva dripped from its snarling jaws, and the hot, foul stench of its breath made you want to gag.

Your lips parted in disbelief. There was no mistaking it.

"Cerberus," you whispered, the name trembling on your lips as you stood frozen in place, the monstrous guardian of the Underworld looming before you.

All three heads turned toward you in unison, their fiery eyes locking onto you with unnerving precision. Low, guttural growls rumbled through the air, vibrating in your chest.

Panic seized you, your thoughts spiraling. What am I doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? You stumbled back, the lyre slipping slightly in your sweaty hands. I should have waited for Hermes to come back. I should have asked more questions. I never should have come down here alone.

Cerberus took a deliberate step forward, the crunch of its paw against the ground snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. You sucked in a shaky breath. Think. ____! Think! you urged yourself, but your mind was a chaotic mess, your fear making it impossible to focus.

Then, a flicker of a story crept into the back of your mind—something you'd read long ago. Orpheus. Your breath caught as the memory took hold, fragments of the myth piecing themselves together. Orpheus had journeyed to the Underworld to retrieve his beloved Eurydice. And how had he passed Cerberus? He'd used music. His lyre.

Your gaze flicked down to the instrument in your hands. It wasn't much, and you certainly weren't Orpheus, but it was all you had.

If the myth held any truth, it might work. And if not... well, the alternative stared you down with six glowing eyes and razor-sharp teeth that could tear you apart in an instant.

You licked your dry lips, fingers fumbling clumsily over the strings. The lyre felt heavy in your hands, almost alien, despite the countless hours you'd spent practicing. Swallowing hard, you steadied your breath as best as you could and strummed a soft, trembling chord.

The growls faltered, quieting slightly.

Encouraged, you adjusted your grip and strummed again, the sound ringing out through the silence. This time, you began to hum, the melody unfurling unbidden, as though it had been waiting for this moment.

"Rest now, guardian of the gate,

Droop your weary heads, abate.

The night is calm, the shadows deep,

And the calm shall bring you plenty sleep..."

Your voice wavered at first, the words faltering as fear gripped you. But as the melody unfolded, you found a rhythm. The lilting tune floated through the air, gentle and soothing. The fiery glow in Cerberus' eyes dimmed slightly, its heads tilting as though listening.

"You'll dream of rivers, dark and still,

Of gentle winds on shadowed hill.

Allow the world fade far away,

And greet the dawn another day..."

The great beast's posture relaxed. Its massive heads lowered, ears flicking forward as the melody wound through the air. You played on, your fingers gliding over the strings with newfound confidence, your voice steadying with each note.

The lullaby wrapped around Cerberus like a soft blanket. Its breathing slowed and the tension in its massive frame eased as the melody worked its magic.

The last note hung in the air, fading into the stillness of the Underworld, and for a moment, everything was utterly silent.

Then, the guardian let out a low, plaintive whine. It shifted its massive weight, shimmying forward on its colossal paws, sending a ripple through the ground beneath you.

You froze, gripping your lyre tightly as Cerberus closed the distance. One of its heads crept closer, its glowing eyes half-lidded, tongue lolling like an oversized, lazy hound. The sight was so absurd that it sent an involuntary laugh bubbling up from your chest.

The sound seemed to embolden the creature, its middle head nudging forward. The damp, cold nose bumped into your torso with a force that nearly sent you sprawling backward. You stumbled, catching yourself with one hand as the other clutched the lyre tightly.

"Alright, there, there," you murmured, half to yourself, half to beast. "You're just... a dog, aren't you?"

At your words, all three heads perked up, tongues lolling and tails wagging in unison. The sight of the Underworld's fearsome guardian behaving like an overexcited puppy was almost too much to process.

Hesitantly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against the soft fur on its maw. The enormous body lowered to the ground, all three heads leaning in, their eyes closing in bliss as you scratched gently. Each head let out a contented rumble, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you.

"Of course. The Underworld's greatest guardian... is just a giant dog."

Cerberus' middle head licked your arm in response, the force of it knocking you back. You couldn't help but laugh this time, the tension in your chest loosening as you regained your balance and kept scratching its face.

For a brief moment, everything felt oddly normal—peaceful, even.

But then, without warning—"Cerberus!"

The voice boomed through the Underworld, deep and commanding, shaking the very air around you like thunder. Cerberus' contented rumbling stopped abruptly. All three heads perked up, ears swiveling toward the sound.

Before you could process what was happening, the beast moved. The middle head dipped low, jaws opening wide enough to engulf you.

A startled yelp escaped you as the ground disappeared beneath your feet, the sensation of wet fur and sharp teeth surrounding you—but not hurting you. It wasn't trying to harm you; it was protecting you.

The next thing you knew, the guardian surged forward, its massive paws pounding against the ashen ground. The shadows of the Underworld blurred around you as Cerberus carried you deeper into the unknown.

You clung to the lyre, your thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and disbelief. The Underworld raced past in a whirlwind of darkness, and all you could do was hold on.

.☆.       .✩.             .☆.

The mist of the Underworld blurred past as Cerberus carried you, his paws thundering against the ashen ground. The rhythm echoed in your chest, leaving you feeling small and fragile in comparison to the sheer power of the beast. Shadows and faint glimmers of light pulsed around you, the surreal expanse of the realm disorienting in its vastness.

Finally, the pounding slowed, then stopped altogether.

Cerberus lowered his middle head with surprising care, depositing you onto a cold, smooth surface. You stumbled as you landed, your palms bracing against the polished marble beneath you. You blinked, disoriented, before lifting your head to take in your surroundings.

The room was otherworldly, its ceilings stretching into darkness.

Pale grey light filtered in from unseen sources, illuminating a floor of black marble so polished it seemed to drink in the faint glow. Massive pillars lined the space, their surfaces carved with intricate, haunting designs—twisting vines, sorrowful faces, and scenes of life and death immortalized in stone.

At the far end of the room, a grand dais loomed. Two thrones stood upon it, each a study in stark contrast.

The first was dark and foreboding, carved from black obsidian that seemed to absorb the faint light rather than reflect it. The seat itself was simple yet commanding, its edges sharp and unyielding, exuding an air of finality that sent a chill down your spine. Seated upon it was Hades, the ruler of this realm.

His pale skin appeared almost translucent, stark against the jet-black hair that framed his sharp features. His dark eyes, fathomless and piercing, bore into you with an intensity that left you rooted to the spot. Though weariness hung about him like a heavy cloak, it did nothing to diminish the quiet strength that radiated from him.

Beside him, on a throne of shimmering alabaster, sat Persephone. Where Hades exuded darkness, she seemed to glow with a soft, ethereal light.

Golden waves framed her face, and her gown shimmered in hues of green and gold, like a garden in bloom. But her face, though youthful and radiant, was devoid of the brightness you might have expected from such a being. Her expression was distant, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room, as though she was physically present but emotionally elsewhere.

The air grew colder as a low, gravelly voice echoed through the room, snapping your attention back to the dais.

"Why do you travel to the Underworld, mortal?" the voice rumbled, the sound filling the space like distant thunder. "You do not belong here."

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you realized the voice came from Hades himself. The weight of his words pressed down on you, your heart pounding as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you bare. The meaning of his stare left no room for doubt—he demanded answers.

Persephone, meanwhile, remained silent, her delicate hands resting on the arms of her throne, her gaze flickering to you only briefly before she returned to her faraway thoughts.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive as you glanced between the two thrones. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to say something, anything, to justify your presence.

Finally, Hades' gaze shifted to Cerberus, who stood at your side. "Why did you bring her here?" His tone sharpened, cold and commanding. "Have you forgotten your purpose, beast? Incapable of doing your job?"

Cerberus let out a low whine, his three heads dipping low in unison, ears flattening against their skulls. His massive frame seemed to shrink under his master's displeasure, his paws scraping at the marble floor in a gesture that looked almost contrite.

The sight stirred something in you—a pang of guilt for the creature that had, in its own way, tried to protect you.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped forward and bowed deeply. "M-My lord," you began, your voice trembling but steady. "Please don't blame him. He acted only to protect your realm. I am the one at fault." You glanced briefly at Cerberus, whose heads perked up slightly at your words. "I—I mean no harm, I swear it. I only... I only found myself lost."

As you spoke, you clutched your lyre tightly against your chest, the smooth metal cool beneath your trembling fingers. Unbeknownst to you, a faint glow began to seep from the instrument, its soft light catching Hades' attention. His dark eyes narrowed as they flickered to the lyre, though he said nothing.

Persephone's voice cut through the tension like a blade, soft yet piercing. "What is it you hold in your hands?" Her gaze, sharp and curious, locked onto the instrument cradled against you.

You blinked, her question catching you off guard. "I... it's a lyre," you stammered. "A gift I was given." Your words faltered, and then, as though compelled by some invisible force, you added, "From the god Hermes."

The room fell into a charged silence, the weight of your words pressing down like a tangible force. Hades' expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he exchanged a glance with Persephone. She tilted her head slightly, her golden hair catching the dim light as her gaze returned to you.

"Play me a song," she said simply, her voice carrying a quiet insistence.

Your heart leapt into your throat. "I—I beg your pardon?" you stuttered, uncertain you had heard her correctly.

"Play," she repeated, her tone softer now, almost wistful. "If Hermes gave it to you, then surely you must be worth hearing. It has been... so long since I heard music."

You glanced at Hades, hoping for some reprieve, but his gaze remained steady, unreadable as though daring you to deny his queen's request. Refusal was not an option. Swallowing hard, you bowed your head. "As you wish."

Your trembling fingers brushed the strings of the lyre as you positioned it carefully. Your mind raced as you searched for the right song, something that might please the queen but also calm the heavy tension that hung in the room. And then, almost instinctively, your thoughts turned to Penelope. The song you had often played for her came to mind, its melody soft and bittersweet—a reflection of longing and resilience.

You began to strum the strings gently, the first notes echoing softly through the vast throne room. The melody filled the cold, empty space, weaving its way through the shadows and carving out a moment of warmth amidst the gloom.

As the melody grew, so did your confidence. You began to sing, your voice trembling at first but finding strength as you continued.

"I weep for you, my lost love, across the endless sea, and still my heart will find you, where the wild winds are free.

Though night may fall, and stars may fade, I'll search till break of day.

Where moonlight bathes the restless waves, my love will find its way."

Persephone's expression shifted as she listened, her gaze growing softer, her hands clutching the arms of her throne. Even Hades seemed to relax, the sharp lines of his face easing ever so slightly.

When the final note faded into silence, you let out a shaky breath, lowering the lyre as your hands trembled.

A soft sniffle broke the stillness. You turned toward Persephone, whose delicate hand rose to wipe at her eyes. She blinked rapidly, as though trying to hold back tears, but it was no use. "Your voice," she murmured, her tone trembling. "It reminds me of Orpheus. He sang with the same yearning, the same pain. It's... haunting." Her words hung in the air, heavy with emotion.

Your lips parted, unsure of how to respond to such a vulnerable admission. The Queen of the Underworld, so poised and otherworldly, now sat before you with tears in her eyes, stirred by your song. A lump formed in your throat, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak. What could you possibly say to that?

Hades cleared his throat, his deep voice slicing through the moment, though it lacked its earlier edge. "Why are you here?" he asked again, this time softer, more curious than accusatory. The shift in his tone caught you off guard, and you hesitated, clutching your lyre a little tighter.

You thought about giving the same answer as before—that you didn't know, that you were lost. But something about the way he looked at you, expectant yet patient, made you pause.

Finally, you sighed and bowed your head. "I'm chasing something," you admitted. "Answers. Closure. I don't fully know what I'm looking for, but I can't leave it unresolved." You lifted your gaze to meet his. "I don't know how I got here, not entirely. But this is my second time in the Underworld."

Hades' brow arched. "Second time?"

You nodded. "Hermes brought me once before," you said quietly.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped Hades as he shook his head. "That meddlesome trickster."

Persephone glanced at him, her brows furrowing slightly, but she said nothing. Hades turned his attention back to you, his gaze lingering on the glowing lyre still cradled in your arms. He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his next words carefully.

Finally, he straightened in his throne, his voice firm but not unkind. "Cerberus will escort you to the gates," he said, gesturing toward the massive beast that still lingered near the edge of the room. "You do not belong here, and it would be unwise for you to linger any longer."

Relief washed over you, and you bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord," you said earnestly. Cerberus let out a low rumble, his middle head nudging you gently as though urging you forward.

As you followed Cerberus out of the throne room, Persephone's voice lingered in the air behind you, soft but unmistakable.

"That lyre... doesn't it look familiar? Doesn't Apollo have one just like it?"

The doors closed with a resounding echo, leaving her words to settle heavily in your mind.

A/N: ilolol i didnt want to split this into another chapter so surprise, 7k words lolol, sorry if everythigns too hectice im not tryna waste anymore time lol;  also charon is based on hymnoeides's fanart on tumblr, plz check them out (idk yall i might have to make a lil short fic for him lolol i mean 4 hands!?!)

Tag List nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world

[raakdos-battlemap]

[Innistrad Battlemap]Nephalia Port Town 32x56

Nephalia is the coastal province of Innistrad. Dwellers interested in trade are attracted by a number of small-to-medium port towns, most situated at the mouth of a river that leads further inland.

Nephalia's sloughs, sea mists, and mysteries cloak its commerce and crimes; it is populated mainly by humans, geists and vampires, all of whom seek business, secrets, or solitude. The province's silver sand beaches, punctuated with rocky promontories and sea caves, afford the easiest access to its fog-shrouded ocean.

More variations of this map:

[feebisart]

The Door You Don't Knock On (3/4)

(( Trigger Warning: Unreality, Transformation, Body Horror, Derealization, Dissociation, Hints of Past Abuse, Drowning, Death, Existential Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Mental Health Struggles, Surreal/Disturbing Imagery, References to Violence, Grief/Loss. ))

A/N: Please keep in mind the trigger warnings. Thank you.

Billy opened his blue eyes, reflecting the stars and galaxies squished into streams of Saturn's spinning disk. He blinked a couple of times, rubbing at the sleep with the back of his hand.

"Oh." He uttered as he gazed into the surreal sky.

Gingerly, he pushed himself up, feeling the pleasant heat of the couch beneath him. He gave the sofa a soft pat—a habit of thanking inanimate objects. Around him, a haze of heat gently rested over a fiery sea, furniture bobbing leisurely throughout the molten tide as tubes drifted down a waterpark's lazy river.

Peering over the side of the comfortable couch, Billy hesitated before dropping onto a stone slab atop the vibrant sand. Multicolored grains shifted beneath the piece as the foot met pavement. It was, of course, a migraine to look at. However, it wasn't lava. He won't look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.

A giggle bubbled out of his mouth, surprising the young boy. The silliness of it all—the marshmallow-soft cushions and the flaming ocean provided the backdrop to his amusement. Billy had slept on dozens of surfaces before—hardwood floors, tile, rock, and even the branches of trees. Now, he could add roasted marshmallow cushions to that list.

In the distance, the molten rock hissed as if affronted by his laughter. The gurgling mass of creeping lava spewed spectral radiant mist that drizzled glitter over the coast around him. The grains collided with a soft yet strangely metallic sound as the mist met the sand. Curious, Billy crouched closer and spotted a glint amid the chromatic, iridescent particles. The sand wasn't just sand—it morphed between tiny sand crystals and larger metallic jacks.

"That's so weird." He muttered as he brushed some ashes off his sweater. Stretching his back, he surveyed the area. Marble slabs scattered across the sand like lily pads floating across a pond.

Did anyone say Leapfrog?

Billy grinned from ear to ear, leaping from slab to slab like a child playing hopscotch, waving his arms to balance himself with each jump. Nearing the end of the path, he teetered on one foot, almost stepping into the sand before catching himself on the rock's edge.

A large gap loomed before him, filled with kaleidoscopic minerals torn between quartz crystals and knucklebones. A faint cling reverberated as a breeze brushed past. Wind chimes as it weaves through colliding metal scraps or, perhaps, mocking laughter.

Beyond him unfurled a black-and-white checkered pattern floor. The boy drew in a deep breath before launching himself across. He landed and slid onto the sleek, slippery floor, emitting a harsh squeal—grating rubber squeaking onto a slick glass surface.

Flapping his arms with a hint of desperation, he glided to a halt in the middle of an elegant hallway, gasping for breath. Doors were lined in uniform repeating patterns along the hallways, and their handles were in particularly unique places—some were far too high, some were two inches from the floor, and some were just floating in the air—just out of reach. Billy blinked, wondering where he should go next.

The tingling crept around Billy's shoulders, wrapped around the boy's shoulders like a white cloak. A faint, high-pitched ringing stalked him—a persistent mosquito honing into the sting. He had thought the further he walked from the sand, the fainter the sound would get. But apparently not. The hallways seemed to turn and twist sideways, looping into themselves in a never-ending Moebius strip. Every turn he'd been there before, every step left a resounding echo.

The ringing amplified, adding the soprano of screeching feedback, the base of discordant laughter, and rhythmic faint taunts using distorted versions of Billy's voice. It wasn't just his ears but also his taste. Every time his voice screamed into his ear, he tasted the stinging, metallic flavor, tasting the noise itself. An earworm that wouldn't leave gnawed at his thoughts, a continuous spiraling loop. Billy knew plenty of earworms—songs that wormed their way into your brain, settling comfortably to never leave, much like Mister-

No, Billy shook his head quickly, cutting off the thought. He needed to find what It Is Not. The boy could not afford to Spiral. He pinched the bridges of his nose as it howled into his ear, dropping all pretense of subtlety. There was no doubt in his mind—It was getting impatient.

Perhaps in annoyance or wanting it all to stop, he grabbed the nearest door handle and pulled it without thinking. His pale fingers curled tightly around the handle, and with a swift, violent force, he yanked the door open. The panel slammed against the wall, and chips of wood fell onto the ground from the pure force. Static surged into a deafening disharmonious crescendo, an ice pick to the head regarding ear-splitting notes.

All of a sudden, nothing.

The door sealed shut behind him, hissing shut with finality in the form of air decompressing from a pressurized chamber. A faint rush of air brushed against his back before all was still. He concentrated on hearing the ringing, which was still there—faint, in the background, waiting.

The room was quite ordinary, if a bit cluttered. Art Deco flair seeped into the gold and black orchid wallpaper, sleek and aerodynamic furniture, and black and white tiles with gold accents. There was a hint of paint and wood shavings in the air. Open and empty cans of paint scattered across the floor. Baskets and containers of pencils, pens, markers, and chalk were piled on each other. Blank Canvases were scattered around the room with palettes of every imaginable color. Brushes were placed at each art stand, overflowing the holder.

It was overwhelming—every medium of art stacked on each other in a gaudy display of choices. He could see perhaps a faded yellow couch propped up by a couple of sketchbooks, but it was dwarfed by the mountain of yarn balls on top of it. Despite the hodgepodge, there was something quite familiar about the place, a sense of déjà vu that piqued Billy's curiosity.

Billy placed his hands on his hips, clicking his tongue as if affronted by the mess before him. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, using a piece of yarn he chewed off to tie it up. (He would not look for sharp items in that Mess.) He heaved up a heavy bin of rolled newspapers, nudging an open can of reddish-brown paint aside with his foot as he gasped for breath.

At least, it was silent.

Billy huffed, hands on his hips before he dived into piles of art supplies. He disliked too much mess since it made it hard to think. There was so much stuff—baskets of watercolors, buckets of oil paints, tubes of acrylics, and towers of jars filled with miscellaneous supplies. He began separating the chaos into categories, which made his brain happy—drawing, painting, fabric, knitting, etc.

As he's moving a metal tin of colored pencils, his gaze caught onto something strange: a pair of pointed shoes, brown cap-toe oxfords, still polished with a gleaming sheen. As he moved away a bucket of unopened paint, his breath caught in his throat as he discerned the pant leg of a familiar brown suit.

"It can't be." Billy's voice hitched. "Mr. Dare…"

Dan Dare. The detective.

His stomach sank as he hurriedly clawed into the clutter, his trembling hands scraping against metal tins. Boxes of chalk toppled, spilling pink dust into the air. Bins of sketchbooks teetered precariously—a makeshift Tower of Pisa, while buckets of crayons were knocked over, a few loose crayons tumbling around. Billy's desperate cleaning halted; his breath hitched as he stilled at the sight.

A chair.

It looked normal enough—the sleek, glossy finish of the Beech arms and the soft, supple, genuine leather for the cushion. But the form? Following the curve of the backrest, the cushion flowed into a lower torso with a pair of legs clad in brown pants underneath. They were human. They were Dan.

Where flesh met wood, there wasn't a neat seam or clean cut of timber, but a continuous languid flow. Veins snaked through the beech wood and flawlessly transitioned to the chair's grain in the arms above. The lungs were absent, yet the lower part of the torso continued to inflate as if breathing.

Billy's gaze drew to the legs that twitched ever so often. Feet that stretched and relaxed as if leisurely resting on the ground.

Is this what it means to Become It?

This was not just horror nor the grotesque. This was the annihilation of everything that you are—a complete and total erasure of identity, and for what? To turn you into a tacky chair.

He realized a pivotal point—the Spiral was no longer playing with its food.

In fact, it was Hungry.

.

.

.

What if I stop being me?

Billy choked on inhaling his next breath. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings as he clutched his chest. The Lichtenberg scars underneath his sweater pulled and ached as black crept along the edge of his vision.

The world tilted—skewed and slanted.

Billy's chest tightened further, and he thought his heart would crush his chest with the weight of Everything.

This wasn't about him.

He inhaled a deep, painful breath.

He breathed again to solidify himself, the darkness receded as he took continuous deep breaths in and out.

Back before his job at Whiz Radio, He remembered Mr. Dare.

Blonde, slick-back hair, a sunny smile, and an ear to listen to. "Do you have any allergies, kid?" The man warmly asked, handing Billy a brown paper bag from a sandwich shop. The smell of Cuban cigars and Hawaiian roast on his breath lingered in the cool, wintry air.

It's not fair.

He hadn't seen Dan for a couple of weeks. The kid figured Detective Dare was off helping TV moguls or multimillionaires. Not this.

Never this.

Crouching over Dan with his knees on the floor, the boy's hand wavered over the brown pants leg, hesitating over the fabric. Yanking his hand away, He placed it on his lap.

Billy's voice cracked as he crouched over Dan Dare, "Mr. Dare, I- I don't know if you can hear me, but you were a good person." His fingers scrunched up his jeans, balling into fists.

"I'm sorry you got turned into... this." A quick glance at the leather cushions wrapped between brown beech wood lurched the orphan's stomach. He reverted his gaze to the human part—the familiar half.

"You were a great detective. I'm glad I got to interview you." The small reporter sniffed, remembering the man's animated tales of intrigue, stakeouts, and close calls with Carol over Whiz Kid radio.

"It doesn't get to take that away from you." The boy wiped his eyes. "I'll remember you and make sure Fawcett remembers you, too."

At first, staring at the chair made him disgusted; nausea rose to his throat, threatening to empty into a paint can. But he pulled back; the disgust simmered and bubbled within him into something else—something hot and sharp. A spark ignited within him.

Was this funny? Did it make the Distortion tickled pink from warping Dan Dare to this?

The boy's gaze flicked to where the spray paint cans scattered near Dan's legs. "Fine," he spat, throwing the cap off as it bounced off an elegant black and gold orchid on the wallpaper. "Let's see how you like it." The spray can hissed out a streak of neon yellow across the flower and several phrases such as "STUPID" and "UGLY" right on top of a particularly offensive spiral.

He held the can out as he punted the aerosol container and jettisoned it into the sky with his foot. Anger burned deep within his stomach, churning a whirlwind of anger, grief, and something Else—something that Distorted. The tinkling of bells echoed in his ears, a constant ringing after a concert.

His hair grew longer, dangling over his face in tangled loops as he heaved a couple of breaths.

Shifting his eyes to the left, he glimpsed a hint of black amongst the plastic containers. The ringing sounded like pulsating beats of his heart with every step. Billy grabbed the box, flipping it open to reveal perfectly intact charcoal sticks.

His heart thundered as he held a handful of them to his eye.

The sight of it irritated him for some reason he couldn't explain. Charcoal—dust and ash, all left of a cloudless blue sky.

He crushed the charcoal sticks in his hands, his nails digging in deep. Black dust etched into every crease and line of his palms, leaving dark stains on his skin.

Suddenly, his eyes teared up. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, only making it worse—staining charcoal smudging into his eyes, a blindfold of stinging tears and ashes. Blue and black melded and flowed as if a thumb coated with soot ran across the eyes of a watercolor painting.

Swaying across the room, Billy's dangling arms knock over paint cans and water cups as they absorb into the boy's fluid structure. His hair drips down a waterfall of purple, blue, and yellow pigments. His heartbeat takes on multiple tones as if played over a speaker underwater—muted, warbled, and barely recognizable.

He can't see. He can't see. He can't-

The high note and screeching tingling that hits his ears has his hands brush over a basket. It was powdery, smooth, and circular. Chalk. Where there were colors and almost overwhelming imagery, there was nothing but darkness. Red and yellow dripped over him as a cape, and he felt crushed by the immense pressure.

The lack of control over his body and form was too much. He retaliated the only way he knew how. He flipped the basket.

It erupted. Pounding, migraine-inducing bass vibrating the very ground, the facsimile of a boy stood. Reddish-brown powder and chalk dust reached the ceiling, unfurling into the shape of a mushroom with an expanding ring of dust and debris that rippled outwards; pieces of crayons and pencils rolled away from the epicenter—ripping his life into pieces.

Strangely enough, he sees with touch. Sensing the colors and shape, the liquid seeped into the pile, bringing up a floating piece of equipment. A microphone was connected to a wooden broadcast console. He wrapped a tendril of water around it, bringing the mic up the last recognizable part of his body—his mouth. He could feel that water was entering his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He was drowning in his own liquid.

He opened his mouth and uttered, "SHA-"

The lips hesitated, closing as if swallowing.

"Go on, finish it." The smug, gloating voice whispered in a sing-song tone reminiscent of a lullaby.

It was inevitable.

The mouth took one last breath and exhaled a word.

"No."

The static rose to a crescendo; it could feel the vibrations coursing through everything, inside and out. An earthquake shaking the very foundation of being. Baskets of arts and crafts tumbled and tossed in a salad, a blender ripping into every sense and meaning.

The water crashed, overturning the mouth, melding it to its giant amorphous fluid. There was no mouth, not anymore.

The shaking gradually ceased, and a stray chalk fell to the ground near the puddle of water within a bucket—streaks of watercolors, paint, marker, and ink swirled.

The Distortion waited for it to finally digest.

.

.

.

It thought it was erasing him, turning him into a fluid to easily digest.

Water can't be erased.

It adapts. It endures. It Becomes.

Transformation was nothing new to him. From street rat to Demigod, from kid to adult, and from life to death—he had faced change, and every change was a journey he would take—a responsibility he would shoulder.

He took a hypothetical breath.

Five things to see. The sense of vision was curious when it was seen through taste. The painted water flowed through the remnants, seeing the flavors amidst the entropic landscape— salty ink pooled into itself as it absorbed, gaining mass; sour paint flowed into thin, vibrant streams, sweet markers bleeding onto canvases; bitter oils floated on the surface, creating an iridescent sheen, and savory, metallic flavor of the colorful mist from a dented spray can. Four things to feel. The gurgling flow of water filling up a container, the drops of water dripping down onto the canvas below, the chaotic splash of the overflow, and the plop of liquid mass pooling onto a fractured ground. Three things to listen to. The plastic aroma of a fresh coat of acrylic as the water rippled, the harsh, sharp odor of spray paint gases mixed into the atmosphere, and the sweet, musty smell of watercolors spilled across a table. Two things to smell. The coolness of the slick surface, the roughness of the jagged edges of broken tiles. The water seeped through the cracks to pool near a slanted tile. One thing to taste. A yellow chalk teetered on a precarious edge of the ground, as water wrapped around it, the rushing force bringing it to the tile.

The Distortion watched as a child would drown an ant in a puddle it created—its fragmenting, twisted body filled with ever-changing fractals and shapes loomed over the body of water.

A chiming, crackling laughter escaped its body, glass shattering from the ocean's depths. The sound echoed, a sharp, discordant symphony of cruelty.

The sound reverberated through Billy. He may not have been able to hear it, but he felt it in his very being. It was a grating, uncomfortable feeling that rippled through his waters.

Still, he awkwardly fumbled a stray chalk to swirl in a faded-yellow spiral.

"Go on," it crooned sweetly, smug with indulgent malice. "Try your best."

The spiral began to take shape on the black tile under his makeshift, fluid-like hand. With each wave, he etched more of the spiral until it was recognizable.

He pushed against the tile with every lapping wave until it stood upright. Vertical with its spiral, menacingly observing the water before it.

He was not going to go through it.

He was going over it.

Expanding his mind, he concentrated on each piece of water. It was like peering around only Not. He could vaguely feel specks of warmth scattered around, or perhaps he tasted their colors.

Stray droplets leaned against the edges of the scrambled room before, fragments of color scattered about the surface. The leaning tower of sketchbooks stood proudly, having survived the tempest of the Distortion's anger.

Erosion.

At the base, a precarious point lay in wait in this game of Janga. All it would take was one move and the entire structure would come tumbling down.

And that was precisely what Billy needed.

The waves lapped at the tower's base, testing it as a school of piranhas circling their prey might.

Water crashed into the structure, prodding at one of the books. It wiggled, teasing the sketchbook loose from the stack with its alternating crest and troughs.

Soggy pages curled up in the edges, torn off by the constant ebb and flow. Water absorbed into the pages, smearing the black ink into a gray shadow.

It Is Not What It Is laughed, mocking the boy's efforts—a discordant melody of metal scraping onto cherry petals.

It only took one slip—a push against a particularly slippery journal binding, and the cracks propagated throughout. It started to sway like a skyscraper in the first tremors of an earthquake—sketchbooks and journals fell like a sudden deluge.

Pyroclastic flows of ripped pages and book bindings descended upon the water, creating deep amplitudes and displacing water in violent shifts.

The distance between the waves stretched further, rippling outwards.

As the crest approached the shallower water, the seabed of paint tubes and crayons slowed the approaching wave—faster water flows and built the wave higher and higher.

Then, the water began receding from the tile. Static churned in the air—a pressure drop and the oncoming storm's sharp, metallic scent.

Red tubes of paint lay scattered like uncovered seashells. Broken paint brushes stuck out of the glittering sand, drenched seaweed poking out. Interference intensified to howling winds through a tunnel.

Suddenly, a prominent crest rushed towards the black slate in a whirlwind of multicolored water. Billy's consciousness was on top of the wave's crest, surfing right on top, perched in the fierce, foaming waves. The Distorted, fractured form grew darker, tasting of soot and ozone.

As he neared the tile, Billy leaped over the upper border, soaring over the bar with droplets glinting like pearls. Fractals overhead roared in thunderstorms, and streams of yarn dangled like string cheese.

Like the bar of a long jump,

Billy felt absolute elation as he made it past the surface,

mere inches from the top.

The skim of liquid fell towards cracks and through the broken foundation before the roaring water broke the tile with the force.

A scream pierced through the air, amplified through the water, blood-curdling absent of the Distortion's nauseating imagery.

It was deeply human.

Desperate, almost.

.

.

.

Billy slipped through the gaps in the foundation, falling into darkness. Heat wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Droplets of water hissed as they evaporated, glistening like diamonds. They formed rivulets in the sky—blue, red, violet, and orange rivers.

The water that made up his current form began to foam and boil. Steam rose, transforming into trails of light behind him, like the tail of a comet. Above, the checkered sky framed his descent, starkly contrasting the flowing colors.

As he fell, the boiling water left behind dried remnants of color: red, black, white, yellow, and blue. Slowly, his form simplified, reducing into a watercolor figure. He tumbled through a surreal animation, flipping between frames of black-and-white paper.

The small orphan stretched out his arms, desperate to gain control over the rapid tumble. He slowed, his vision sharpening on a distant sphere—black or white, an inverse of the background behind him.

It wasn’t just a sphere. It was a hole. And he was falling straight into it.

As he drew closer, the sphere grew, consuming the entire frame. Now a speck against its vastness, Billy could feel time slipping away. It moved strangely, bending and warping in ways even the performative chaos of the Spiral couldn't achieve. Wonkier than anything he’d ever felt, not even the peculiar doors of The Rock of Eternity compared.

He tried everything to stop himself. Jumping, swimming, kicking, flying, running—none of it mattered. The pull was relentless.

The numbness began in his legs, spreading upward as they sank into the abyss. Then his stomach, his heart, until the darkness swallowed his eyes. It devoured his memories, form, and every piece of what made him him.

And then—

Nothing.

︵‿︵‿୨𖦹୧‿︵‿︵

Prev || Next

[nvthedasmode]

The Dread Wolf's Grave

Notes:

Very short one-shot fic inspired by the quote; 'They asked "do you love her to death?" I said, "speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.'

Lavellan's name is Harellan, 'Raven' is Varric's nickname for her.

One of Harellan's nervous habits is rolling coins over her knuckles.

Set sometime during early Veilguard, Solas presumed to be at the Lighthouse rather than in a separate prison.

First ever fic! I am not a writer! I am just a lil guy with a lot of feelings!

And I am so sorry I have no idea how to write Solas and Varric lol.

-----

To say that Varric was uncomfortable was an understatement. It was one thing to ask a dwarf to live on the surface, another thing entirely to ask him to make himself at home in the Fade. Unfortunately, he had little say in the matter. The Veilguard had settled themselves within a deep pocket of the Fade; a safe haven from the blighted elven gods now roaming Thedas, and thus far it had proven to be a wise choice.

Their new home was where he emerged from now, and the morning silence (save for Bellara’s excessive snoring) was a welcome indication that everyone was still fast asleep. Or, at least, everyone but the one elusive elf he was looking for. Once he was confident he had not woken anyone up with his heavy dwarven tread, Varric’s footsteps established a leisurely pace as he descended the stygian steps weaving from the gilded door of the Lighthouse to the shifting island below.

The Dread Wolf’s corner of the Fade expanded before him, shimmering masses of Fade-touched rock floating across the enchanted vista as unhindered wisps of magic soared above him like stars against Kirkwall’s night sky. It was brighter, warmer, but still as commanding as the area of the Fade the fear demon had ruled. Some of the silhouetted islands in the distance would have been large enough to cast a city the size of Starkhaven into complete shadow, and some dipped deeper than even the oldest of thaigs. Smaller rocks housed old and ruined walls, frescos of the fabled wolf glowing faintly from the veilfire sconces and causing him to appear equal parts treacherous and feeble.

The littlest cluster of rocks presented an assortment of ancient elven … trees, Varric assumed. Their metal base gave way to a spherical head that sprouted sharp, golden branches. They wove intricate shapes that moved to shelter a gleaming emerald centre, glinting like fire. This group veered closer to the island he now trudged along, glittering vines with blossoms as large as ponds wrapping themselves around the jagged surfaces and reaching out to grasp their neighbour - a complex walkway of mystic bridges that connected the islands, forming an imposing jungle that served as a shrine to what once was.

Far above him, when he thought to look, Varric could have sworn he could make out the slightest shape of an azure city, light refracting across the landscape as if it was pouring through a window in a Chantry cathedral. The sight was often cloaked in a calculated mist, as though his eyes were intruding on an intimate scene between two lovers - but every time he rubbed his eyes to see it clearer, it had vanished.

Varric had learned that the island he had called home for the past few weeks could shift its appearance depending on his old friend’s mood. While the Lighthouse remained the same, often the Veilguard would wake up to see their interim home had a different garden to explore, each one shaped from Solas’ lonely library of memories. Sometimes there would be luscious fields of green, emerald blades swaying to a song none but they could hear as perfectly round drops of dew dissolved into dazzling specs of light. Other times there were seemingly never-ending pathways; rivers of crystal gems creating a map upon the island, waterfalls replacing cities and curious wisps building toy castles from motes of magic. Once, when Varric awoke in the dead of night (or as close as one could get to that, in the Fade), he peered out his window to see Solas strolling Skyhold’s grounds, his tired eyes never leaving the figures of Cole and the Inquisitor as they helped to soothe a dying woman lying by the campfire, clutching a fatal wound. Had Solas reached out to them, Varric did not know, for he had quickly retreated back to his bed to allow his old friend his privacy.

Today, as Varric disembarked the steps, the soles of his worn boots met an impossibly soft sand that shifted gently beneath his weight. Something resembling seashells dotted the ground, their surface gleaming and moving in a way that made them look more like creatures than collectible souvenirs. Out of baseless paranoia more than respect, Varric carefully picked his way across the fabricated beach to the towering figure in the distance.

Solas stood at the end of the beach, the ripples of the ocean creeping along the sand to stop just shy of the tips of his feet, as though magic itself dare not disturb him. He stood tall, gazing across his domain with an expression befitting his name as the manufactured breeze lifted the ends of his coat. Hands clasped habitually behind his back, a single gold coin rolled lazily across his knuckles, causing tiny spurts of reflected light to shower across his long fingers. Any reasonable dwarf back under the surface might have mistook it for magic.

“Good morning, Varric,” came his familiar voice. He spoke in barely more than a murmur despite Varric still being numerous paces away, yet he heard it as though they were standing next to each other.

“And here I thought it was only Rook who had to listen to your voice inside their head, Chuckles,” Varric shouted back, scowling half-heartedly when he saw Solas’ shoulders betray a small laugh.

Solas patiently waited until Varric had made it to his side before speaking again, finally turning his gaze to his friend with a playful smirk on his lips. “Ir abelas, I did not want to deny you the pleasure.”

Varric let out an indignant snort. “I’m starting to understand why so many dwarves stay below the surface.”

“To avoid speaking with me?”

“Now, now, I didn’t say that.”

“You did not need to,” Solas responded curtly. Varric was glad to see the smile still lingering.

At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humour.

The two fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of the waves crashing a few hundred yards ahead of them filling the space. Had he let his mind tune out for a moment, it would not have been unlike the mornings they had spent waking up to the sounds of the Storm Coast - Solas casting a protective barrier over the campfire before the Inquisitor burst into tears at the idea of going a single moment without her tea; Cassandra cursing from the edge of camp as she tried and failed to prove she could in fact approach a nug without scaring it away; Lace and Varric placing bets on how many more days it could rain before they all lost their minds. He wasn’t sure which put his back up more; being surrounded by suffocating grey and rain, slipping on lethal cliffs that never seemed to dry - or being in the Fade.

It was Solas who broke the silence first, as if sensing Varric’s unease. “How are you adjusting?”

Varric shrugged, stalling as he measured his response. It wasn’t in the nature of their relationship to lie to one another (or so I thought, he corrected himself), but he wasn’t about to start tearing apart his friend’s home either.

“I can’t exactly say I’m keen to settle down and start a family here, but I’ll give it to you - it’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” Solas sighed heavily, his eyes focused on something in the distance. “Imagine what it would be like without the Veil.”

“Chuckles, not now.”

“So, when would you propose-”

“I came here to talk to Solas,” Varric said morosely, feeling a pang of regret as Solas’ shoulders stiffened. “Not the Dread Wolf. How about you humour me, just this once? Then I promise we’ll go back to the uncomfortable ‘Child of the Stone’ and ‘Ancient Elven God’ dynamic.”

Solas silently met his eyes then, and the coin in his hands stilled as white knuckles wrapped around it tightly. Just like the painted walls on the islands floating around them, Varric could see his were tall but crumbling. Exhaustion and pain had sunk their bloodied talons into his sharp features, but under the wolf there was still the man. A friend that desperately wanted to get out.

“I’ve never been good at this sort of stuff,” Varric muttered, turning his gaze back toward the ocean, “but you left a lot of people behind. Good people, that missed you.”

“I am not unaware of that, Varric,” Solas replied. Varric could hear the sharpness to the tone, a warning that he should drop the subject immediately.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

“I mean, even Buttercup seemed upset - although she tried her best not to show it. With you gone, Cassandra became her next target for pranks, and we both know pissing off the Seeker is a dangerous choice at best - lethal at worst. I mean, I’m speaking from experience here.”

A quick glance to his right told him Solas was also very pointedly staring out at the ocean again, doing his best to look the picture of disinterest, but the ironclad set of his jaw gave him away. It always had.

“And Ruffles! I thought she would never stop accidentally adding your frilly cakes to the Val Royeaux order list each month. Eventually, me and the Kid-”

“Did you come out here with the intent to torture me, Varric?” Solas snapped, his proud mask melting away to pained anger as he pressed his eyes closed. His nose scrunched as he breathed through it, the waves that stretched before them stuttering and turning a sickly green. “Do you see me as so many of my People do? Do you also think me a heartless monster with no feelings?”

Against his will, Varric’s mind recalled his friend’s broken sobs as she read Sutherland’s reports about the monstrous demon that had plagued Skyhold. Her heart’s deepest regrets ravaging the place they had once called home, the scars of his past forever embedded in the old Inquisition fortress.

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t think that at all, Chuckles.”

Another deep breath from Solas. The water slowly began to settle once more, melting back to a cool, pure cerulean that would have made the painters at Halamshiral turn crimson with embarrassment.

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Remember,” Varric said shortly.

Solas opened his eyes to peer at Varric with confusion, and he could see the purple storm deep within them threatening to pour out and engulf the island they now stood upon.

Silently, Varric nodded to Solas’ hands, still held tightly shut as though he were frightened of dropping whatever was in them. Solas slowly unfurled his fingers, the gold coin nestled innocently in his palm, small dents pressed into his pale skin from clasping it so desperately. The purple storm observed it silently, eyes barely blinking as they stared.

“I saw you playing with it,” Varric said gently, feeling his friend was more a terrified Halla than the dreaded wolf in that moment. “Raven used to do the same thing, when she was nervous. Ruffles had to pry it from her hand when we went to the Winter Palace.”

Solas continued staring at the coin, his expression unreadable. “She gave this to me on the way to the Temple of Mythal,” he said tentatively, as though testing out the words in his mouth. Varric supposed this was the first time he had allowed himself to speak of her in years. “She said she had no need for it any longer, since she had …”

“Since she had your hand to hold,” Varric finished for him. “She said it loud enough for the entire camp to hear.” The memory almost made him smile himself.

A ghost of a smile tried to lift the corners of Solas’ mouth, but it faltered before it even began.

“I remember.”

Varric did smile then. I knew you were still in there, Chuckles.

“Do you still love her?”

There was barely a heartbeat before Solas tore his eyes away from the coin, wrapping his fingers safely around it once more before straightening to his full height and turning to look along the endless sands.

Varric felt the Fade change before he saw it. The sands before them rippled and swirled, floating smoothly into the air to reveal the harsh black rock of the island below. A deep shadow lurked over the area, a stark contrast to the vivid, colourful sky behind it. The sands shifted and formed a familiar image; tall swaths of darkness encircling a small enclave while a suffocating green mist rolled along the floor, catching Varric’s ankles and sending small tendrils up his legs that dissipated as quickly as they appeared. Paltry red spirits skittered around nervously, as if they were constantly running toward - or away from - something.

This was the graveyard from the Fear demon’s lair. Or - more accurately, Varric supposed - Solas’ memory of it.

There was a slight adjustment, however. Only one, solitary gravestone sat in the enclave. The stone it was made from looked sick, brimming with fear and unspoken terrors, its aura almost oppressive.

Varric approached it wordlessly. The words upon it were the same and yet not as he remembered - the elegant, smug carvings of the fear demon were gone, replaced by hurried, almost infantile writing that looked as if it had been carved with a very sharp claw.

‘Solas,’ it read. ‘Dying alone.’

It was only then that Varric saw them. A spectral version of Solas - his friend, Solas - appeared slowly from the darkness, smiling as he offered a gloved hand to the second figure that manifested. Harellan met his smile with her own, eagerly gripping his hand and laughing as he twirled her into his arms. The scarlet spirits, appearing to be calmed by the two newcomers, turned to watch, sweeping closer to the radiant scene that seemed to consume the darkness around it. Varric could hear the faint sound of a band playing from - somewhere? Nowhere? The memory of his friends didn’t seem to care, nor did they notice him or the cruel grave at their feet. They danced and looked at no one but each other, and Varric was irrevocably certain that they would dance forever if the world would let them.

The lonely voice came from behind him then. It was so thick with immeasurable pain that Varric could not bring himself to turn around.

“Speak of her over my grave, Varric,” Solas murmured, “and watch how she brings me back to life."