#the overcast sky the wind the spray

[lydiahosek]

#SWT Headline: “Local man risks hypothermia by jumping out of boat just to hug his wife 12 seconds sooner.” (via boomerangguy)

( @sukka-week )

Sukka Week no.2: Homecoming

[sleepymarimo]

toji x fem!reader // sfw! a little meet cute moment with some sprinkles of sadness synopsis: reader cleans and maintains abandoned graves, including that of toji's late wife.

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t visit his late wife’s grave often, if ever.

it’s easy to say that it’s because he doesn’t care, that he’s lost all respect for the world and those on, or buried beneath it. yet, the reality is that he’s ashamed, a bit of a coward. how could he face her again? how could he read the letters of her name knowing he’d been unable to grant the one request she’d given him? take care of megumi.

he doesn’t know why he’s walking in the direction of the cemetery, an old, surely run down patch of land that’s now nestled between some homes just outside of shinjuku.

maybe the weight of his most recent job gets to him. maybe it’s nearing what would’ve been their anniversary. maybe the weather reminds him of her funeral, in which him and baby megumi were the only attendees.

a rock gets kicked a good few meters away as he remembers that day. her family had cut her off after she’d married him, seeing nothing good coming out of their future, feeling disdain at the mention of their daughter marrying man with not a thing to his name. toji scoffs. perhaps they were right.

the overcast sky does nothing for the scenery ahead, which consists of old, rusted cemetery gates and a wall made of dull, greyed stones.

however, a splash of color stands out against the monochrome background. it’s all instinct, the way his senses hone in, but it’s not because you’re the only other person in the cemetery, not because your colored scarf makes you particularly identifiable.

no, it’s because you, a stranger, are standing in front of his wife’s grave.

despite the numerous leaves on the ground, the rather quiet environment, you don’t hear him approach.

you’re focused on your task, your brows ever so slightly knitted, a bristly brush in your hand which you use to scrub away at any debris wedged between the letters of this grave. dust, mud, leaf litter… it gets removed with each gentle movement.

a bottle of cleaner is in your other hand, spraying the stone every now and then when it gets too dry or when a particularly stubborn piece of debris refuses to be erased from existence.

one little stain catches your attention, so much so that you ignore how the autumn wind nips at your cheeks. it’s just about removed. a little more, a little more…

“what are y’doing?”

a small gasp leaves you, or maybe you choke on air, and your hands retract from the gravestone as if you’d been burned. you take a couple of steps back, a natural response, wanting to put some distance between you and whoever else has decided to join you in the cemetery.

the sudden move results in you kicking over your coffee cup, your mind a mess as you crouch down and keep it from spilling any further. you put your tools away, too, placing the brush and spray bottle into a tote containing a few other items.

toji doesn’t mean to intimidate or scare you.

it’s just… how he is. it’s in the energy he carries, how he presents himself to the world that’s done him more harm than good. he’s suspicious of you, reasonably so.

when you finally stand and look up at him, he can see the anticipation in your eyes. your hands fidget, unsure of whether to retreat into your pockets or rise in self defense.

“i’m so sorry,” are your immediate words, sincere. “i didn’t know she had visitors.”

she.

why are you talking about her like you were a part of her life? toji is sure he’s never met you before. he doesn’t remember his late wife saying a thing about weirdos who hang out in cemeteries, either.

those green eyes of his narrow, just a bit. he doesn’t have to say anything more, his stance is enough. you haven’t answered his question and he isn’t going to ask again.

“i, um, clean graves,” you answer after a few heartbeats, a little put off by his stare. “i’ve been coming by for the past year, clean up every month or two. i usually wait and make sure no one comes by. i thought it was abandoned, i’m so sorry.”

the situation isn’t entirely new to you. it’s not the first time you’d been ‘caught’, and the reactions you’ve gotten have ranged from grateful to furious, but it’s jarring each time. how could it not be? you’re not a fool, you know these people meant something to someone, that they represent more than the headstones ever could.

your eyes remain on his, equal parts apologetic and bashful, clearly genuine.

toji’s posture relaxes, just a bit.

a part of that has to do with the smidge of guilt he feels. abandoned. he couldn’t be surprised. after all, he never visited, never paid for cleaning services.

perhaps a normal person would say thank you, but the words fizzle out on his tongue. he’s not one for such words, or at least that’s what he tells himself.

“it’s fine,” he ends up saying, curt, to the point, not giving away the extent of what he’s thinking or feeling.

even those two words have you feeling relieved, a long sigh leaving your lips. you can’t deny that you’re itching to leave, still a little unnerved. being alone with a strange man in a cemetery isn’t exactly on your bucket list, so you reluctantly reach down and grab your things.

your bag gets slung over your shoulder, but your coffee… well, you’re pretty much left with an empty cup now. the liquid had spilt all over the concrete floor when he’d spooked you earlier.

“i’ll leave her alone,” you promise him, truly not looking to cause any conflict. “sorry again…”

for a second, toji considers leaving it at that.

his eyes drift from you to your empty cup. he should feel bad, should be a decent person, but can’t find it in himself to reassure you.

he needs a nudge, and that nudge is given to him in the form of an acorn falling from the tree rooted over his wife’s grave.

the small object hits him right on the head, reprimanding him for his actions. toji grunts, his hand coming up to rub at the spot where the damn thing whacked him. he should’ve sensed it, should’ve been aware of its existence as soon as it snapped off the branch.

his eyes look up toward the sky, almost glaring, and for a second he can almost hear her voice, scolding him.

“don’t be mean, toji!”

with a click of his tongue, he looks back at you. you, who’d taken care of his wife in death as he’d cared for her in life.

inhaling, he decides to screw it all and take a step toward you. maybe being a decent human wouldn’t kill him. maybe.

“look, i didn’t mean to freak you out or make you spill your drink,” it’s the closest thing to an apology he’ll give, but it’s better than nothing.

he recognizes the logo on your cup, then nods his head toward the cemetery gates. “let me at least buy you a new one,” he offers, though by the sound of it, it’s quite clear he wants to do this for you. “what’s your name, anyway?”

you tell him, then he gives you his.

the sun starts to burn away at the clouds, warming the earth just as you’re about to leave the cemetery. things grow a little brighter, a whole shift in the atmosphere.

toji doesn’t comment on the gust of wind ushering you two out of the gates, the rustle of leaves which could pass as a hushed cheer. no, he won’t say anything, not even if the breeze on his back feels like the hands of his late wife, pushing him toward something new.

his eyes flicker down, watching you, noting the curve of your cheeks and the slope of your nose. he shakes his head, steels his heart, ignoring the small jump it does as you look back at him.

no, he won’t say anything, not at all.

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (stolen crown)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: prelude to war

- Next part: flares

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The sea was a restless beast as the ships of House Lannister sailed toward Dragonstone. The skies were dark with clouds that moved sluggishly, heavy with the threat of rain, though no storm had yet broken. The sea spray stung the cheeks of those on deck, but the sight before them made even the chill in the air seem insignificant.

Dragonstone rose from the sea like some ancient leviathan—blackened stone carved into the shapes of dragons, twisted spires, and coiling wings frozen in time. The castle was a dark and foreboding monument, the air itself humming with the deep, otherworldly presence of the dragons that made their roost here. Smoke and ash clung faintly to the air, as though the island itself was alive, exhaling sulfur and fire from deep within.

Jason Lannister stood at the bow of their flagship, his cloak snapping in the wind like a banner. He squinted against the sea spray as the black fortress loomed ever larger before them. “Seven hells,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Your ancestors certainly knew how to make a statement.”

You stepped up beside him, your silver hair whipping wildly around your face despite the heavy hood you wore. “They built Dragonstone to remind the world who they were,” you replied, your voice calm but tinged with pride. “Aegon himself once stood where we are now, looking out upon Westeros and seeing a kingdom waiting to be claimed.”

Jason glanced sidelong at you, his green eyes dancing with faint amusement. “Is that your way of saying you’re glad to be back among your dragons, my love?”

“I will always be a Targaryen,” you said softly, your gaze fixed on the looming fortress. “But it’s more than that, Jason. This is where Rhaenyra should be. And where we can be safe—at least for now.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, his expression thoughtful. “Safe among fire and smoke. The irony isn’t lost on me.”

Behind you, the children had gathered, their voices carrying faintly over the wind. Loren and Leona stood close together, Loren holding steady against the sway of the ship while Leona’s golden mask reflected the pale light of the overcast sky. Aemma clung to the railing, her wide eyes fixed on the dragons circling above Dragonstone’s spires. Young Tyland stood beside her, tall for his age and exuding his father’s natural poise, though his gaze was sharp and assessing, his expression contemplative as he took in their new home. Beside him, Daena practically bounced on her toes, tugging at her brother’s sleeve excitedly.

“Look, Tyland! Two dragons—Caraxes and… and is that Seasmoke?” Daena chirped, her curls whipping about her face.

Tyland, ever his father’s son, gave her a faint, unimpressed look. “That’s not Seasmoke. Seasmoke is silver. That one’s green—Vermax, I think.”

Daena wrinkled her nose. “You think? You’re supposed to know.”

Tyland sighed dramatically. “I know more dragons than you do.”

“You don’t!” Daena shot back with a huff, though her attention shifted quickly as one of the dragons let out a distant, earth-shaking roar.

The younger twins, Rhaegel and Rhaelle, huddled near their nursemaids, pointing excitedly at the sky as they joined in the chatter.

“I can see Vhagar!” Rhaegel declared, though he was quickly corrected by his sister.

“No, silly—that’s Caraxes!” Rhaelle argued, bouncing on her toes.

Jason turned back to the children with a chuckle, shaking his head. “They’ve seen more dragons in one day than half the realm sees in a lifetime,” he said. “And they’ll still argue over which is which.”

“They’re ours,” you replied, smiling faintly as you watched them. “Stubbornness runs in their blood.”

Jason’s expression softened at that, his gaze lingering on you. “A dangerous combination,” he murmured, though his voice carried more affection than concern.

As the ships neared the docks, figures began to appear in the distance. Daemon and Rhaenyra stood at the edge of the pier, their cloaks rippling in the wind as they waited. Jace, Luke and Joffray stood beside their mother, their postures straight and proud, while Baela and Rhaena waited further back.

The moment the gangplank was lowered, Jason stepped forward, offering you his hand as you descended first. The wind whipped your cloaks and hair as you moved toward your family, the air alive with the crackle of dragonfire somewhere deep within the island.

Daemon was the first to speak, his sharp smirk unmistakable as his violet eyes swept over Jason. “Lannister,” he greeted in that lazy drawl of his. “I half-expected you to turn back when you saw the smoke.”

Jason matched the smirk with one of his own, his tone light but edged. “And miss a chance to stand on the doorstep of the Targaryens’ true seat? Never. Your dragons have a certain charm, though the island leaves something to be desired.”

“You get used to the smell,” Daemon replied, though his expression softened as he turned to you. “Niece. Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” you replied warmly, stepping forward to embrace him briefly. Daemon’s arms lingered just long enough to convey his sincerity before he released you, turning to nod toward Jason once more. “We are glad you’ve come.”

Rhaenyra approached then, her expression weary but genuine as she reached for your hands. “Sister,” she said softly, her voice heavy with unspoken relief. “You’ve made the right choice.”

You nodded, squeezing her hands gently. “For my children. And for all of us.”

Jason, who had remained quiet, cleared his throat. “I trust we won’t be met with lectures about loyalty and dragons here,” he remarked dryly. “My wife has had her fill of Hightower sermons.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “You’ll find no Hightowers here. Only family.”

Jason inclined his head, his gaze settling briefly on Caraxes as the great red dragon swooped low above the cliffs. “And dragons,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Come,” Rhaenyra urged, gesturing toward the castle. “You must be tired from your journey. The fires are lit, and there’s food and drink enough for all. Your children will have chambers of their own.”

Tyland, who had been quietly observing, stepped forward then, his voice steady and polite. “Thank you, Princess,” he said, his expression composed as he glanced up at the looming castle. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Daena grinned beside him, her bright eyes turning toward Rhaenyra. “Do the dragons sleep inside the castle, Aunt Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, brushing Daena’s curls back from her face. “Not inside the castle, sweet one, but close enough to hear them. You’ll grow used to it.”

Loren, who had been lingering protectively near his sisters, stepped forward next, his eyes fixed on Daemon. “We’re glad to be here,” he said simply, though his voice carried an edge of determination.

Leona nodded beside him, her golden mask catching the faint light. “Your home is far more welcoming than the Red Keep,” she added softly, her tone laced with meaning.

Daemon’s gaze lingered on her mask for a moment before he replied. “And safer, I suspect.”

As your family followed Rhaenyra and Daemon up the winding path toward the castle, Jason fell into step beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours. “Do you think we’ve made the right choice, like your sister said?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced up at him, the dark spires of Dragonstone rising around you like sentinels. The air was heavy with the scent of salt, smoke, and something older—something untamed.

“We will be safer here,” you replied after a pause. “And Rhaenyra needs us. War is coming, Jason. You know it as well as I do.”

Jason exhaled, though he nodded slowly. “I know,” he said quietly, his gaze flickering toward Loren, Leona, Tyland, and Daena, who walked just ahead of you, their heads close as they spoke in low voices. “Then let the lions roar beside the dragons.”

You smiled faintly, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. “Together, we’ll endure.”

As you reached the castle gates, the sound of dragons echoed overhead—deep and ancient, a reminder that Dragonstone was no ordinary place. It was a place of fire and blood, of legends and beginnings.

And for now, it was home.

The morning sun broke gently over Dragonstone. A light mist curled up from the sea cliffs, clinging to the black stone like a shroud before the sun could burn it away. The balcony of your chambers overlooked the churning waves far below, the rhythmic crash of the surf a constant hum that filled the silence.

You stood at the edge of the stone railing, the cool breeze tugging at the edges of your robe and tousling your silver hair. A goblet of mulled wine sat on the table behind you, its warmth carried faintly through the air, mingling with the salt and sulfur of Dragonstone. Jason stood nearby, leaning one hip against the stone wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if deep in thought.

“You’re quiet this morning,” you remarked softly, breaking the peaceful silence. “It’s not like you.”

Jason’s green eyes flicked toward you, though the smirk you expected never quite materialized. Instead, he let out a sigh, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of it. “I’m thinking.”

“That is dangerous,” you teased lightly, though he didn’t bite back as you’d hoped.

You turned to face him fully, your hands resting on the edge of the railing as you studied him. “Is this about Rhaenyra’s proposal?” you asked finally, your voice soft but certain. “About Leona and Jace?”

Jason’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he looked away, his eyes scanning the endless sea. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered, the words clipped.

Your lips curved faintly, though you masked it well. “Jason,” you pressed gently, “you can’t avoid it forever. Rhaenyra wouldn’t have made the suggestion if she didn’t believe it was a good match.”

“It doesn’t matter whether it’s a good match or not,” Jason bit out, his voice low but firm. “She’s my daughter.”

You arched a brow, tilting your head slightly as you regarded him. “And your daughter will eventually marry someone.”

Jason turned toward you then, his eyes narrowing faintly, though the edge in his gaze wasn’t true anger—it was something softer, something closer to reluctance. “And why must it be now?” he countered. “Why must it be anyone at all? Leona is fifteen. She should be… free. Free to live, to be a girl—not to be bartered off like some damned prize.”

You stepped closer to him, your expression softening as you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm. “It’s not like that,” you murmured. “This isn’t a stranger from across the realm. It’s Jace—Rhaenyra’s son. He’s a good boy, Jason. He’s kind, and he’ll treat her well.”

Jason’s gaze remained locked on yours, unyielding. “That’s not the point. I know Jace is a fine boy. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t—” He paused, dragging a hand through his golden curls, his shoulders visibly tensing. “It doesn’t make it any easier to think of Leona being someone’s wife.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability beneath his frustration. “She’s your firstborn,” you said softly, understanding now. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

Jason sighed again, looking away toward the misty cliffs as though embarrassed to admit it. “Aye. She was my first. My golden girl. When she was born, I thought— Seven help me—I thought I’d conquered the world. I looked at her in my arms, and I swore to myself that I’d protect her from everything.” He shook his head, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “And now the world would take her from me, little by little.”

The ache in his voice was undeniable, and it stirred something warm and amused in your chest. You stepped closer, slipping your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing lightly against his shoulder. “Jason Lannister,” you said, a note of teasing affection in your voice, “you are more sentimental than you care to admit.”

“I am not sentimental,” Jason protested half-heartedly, though he didn’t pull away. Instead, his arms came around you, holding you close as he rested his chin atop your head. “I’m practical. A practical man who simply doesn’t like the idea of his daughter being saddled with responsibility she shouldn’t yet have to bear.”

You smiled faintly against his chest, breathing in the familiar, steady scent of him—leather, salt, and wine. “And yet you married me when I was young.”

He huffed a soft laugh, his fingers idly tracing circles along your back. “You were far more independent than she is now. And you were a Targaryen—your people always do things their own way.”

“She is a Targaryen, too,” you reminded him gently, looking up to meet his gaze. “And a Lannister. You cannot lock her away from the world forever, Jason, no matter how much you wish to.”

Jason’s face softened, the hard lines of his features easing as he looked down at you. “I know,” he admitted, though the words came with great reluctance. “I just wish the world would stop turning for a little while. Let me keep her a girl for a few more years.”

You reached up, brushing your knuckles lightly against his cheek, your tone teasing now. “You sound like a man getting old.”

Jason snorted, his smirk returning faintly as he caught your hand in his own, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Old? Never. Not while I have you to keep me sharp.”

You smiled, shaking your head as you let your hand fall to rest against his chest. “Well, then,” you said softly, turning your attention back toward the mist-covered cliffs, “if we are to refuse Rhaenyra’s proposal, we’ll need to find a way to do so without offending her.”

Jason groaned faintly, his head tilting back toward the sky. “Gods, woman, must you always remind me of the politics? Can’t I be a father for a day?”

“You’re a father every day, Jason,” you replied with a soft laugh. “But you are also the head of House Lannister. You must play the game.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath, though there was no true bite to it. “Fine. I’ll think on it.”

“And in the meantime,” you added, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw, “you should consider that Leona may have her own thoughts on this match. You know she’ll have a say.”

Jason sighed again, though this time there was more acceptance than irritation. “Of course she will. She’s your daughter, after all. Headstrong as they come.”

“And yours,” you reminded him fondly. “A lioness through and through.”

Jason smiled faintly, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Aye. That she is.”

The two of you stood there in comfortable silence for a long while, the sounds of the sea and distant dragon roars filling the space between you. For all the worries that lingered on the horizon, in that moment, with Jason’s arms around you and the sun slowly warming the stone balcony, there was peace.

The Painted Table glowed beneath the flickering torchlight, its ancient, carved surface depicting the Seven Kingdoms in painstaking detail. The room, normally still and timeless, now carried a low hum of ill omen, the air weighed down by the unspoken fears that loomed over them all. At its edges stood Daemon and Rhaenyra, their presence as commanding as ever, though the faint exhaustion on Rhaenyra’s face betrayed her worries. Across from them, you stood with Jason, Leona, Loren, and Aemma, your three eldest children silent as they took in the vast map sprawled before them.

Rhaenyra’s sons, Jace and Luke, lingered near their parents, their expressions intent and watchful, while Baela and Rhaena flanked them like sentinels, their postures sharp and upright. All of you were gathered here to discuss your next steps—how to strengthen Dragonstone, how to ensure safety for your families—and yet, for a brief moment, the tension had ebbed as you and Rhaenyra shared quiet words, making up for time stolen by years of distance and strife.

“It feels like another lifetime, doesn’t it?” Rhaenyra murmured softly, her gaze flicking to you. “The days we spent in the courtyard of the Red Keep. You were always so much more graceful than me. I remember watching you shoot an arrow striking true and thinking I could never match it.”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “And I remember watching you train with Ser Harwin, thinking I would never hold a blade with the same confidence you did.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, though there was a sadness to it. “We wanted such different things back then. And yet here we are.”

“Together again,” you said firmly, your tone laced with warmth. “For our families.”

Jason, ever watchful, leaned slightly against the edge of the table, his eyes scanning the map. “Well, I must admit,” he said with his usual dry wit, “I feel far safer with dragons at my back than I ever did in the Red Keep. The air is clearer here—fewer Hightowers clouding it.”

Daemon snorted softly from his place at Rhaenyra’s side, his sharp eyes flicking toward Jason. “And fewer hypocrites claiming the gods are on their side.”

Jason smirked. “We can agree on that, Prince Daemon.”

Before the conversation could deepen, the doors to the chamber opened with a groaning creak. The sound stilled the room, drawing all eyes toward the entrance where a servant appeared, his voice strained with urgency.

“Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen!” the man announced, his words loud but trembling.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Rhaenys entered, her cloak rippling like the wings of her dragon, Meleys. Her expression was set in stone, her face a mask of composure—but there was something behind her violet eyes that made your stomach churn. A shadow of dread. She moved quickly and purposefully, her steps echoing like distant thunder.

“Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra began, her voice warm but concerned. “You’re—”

Rhaenys cut her off sharply, her tone heavy as lead. “Viserys is dead.”

The words crashed over you like a wave, leaving silence in their wake. You felt your breath catch, your mind reeling as though the world had tilted beneath your feet. Viserys is dead. You had known it was coming—every day, you had braced yourself for the news—and yet the finality of it struck you like a blade to the chest.

Rhaenyra’s face froze, the color draining from her cheeks. Her hand moved instinctively to her swollen belly, gripping the fabric of her gown as though to steady herself.

Rhaenys pressed on, her voice clipped and direct, though her eyes softened ever so slightly as she looked at Rhaenyra. “The Hightowers moved quickly. Shortly after, they gathered their supporters in the Dragonpit and crowned Aegon as king. Before the masses. Before the realm.”

Rhaenyra swayed slightly, her fingers clutching the edge of the Painted Table, though she said nothing at first. You watched her, your heart twisting with concern as her expression contorted in pain—pain that she tried desperately to mask.

Daemon’s face darkened instantly, his violet eyes blazing with fury. “They killed him,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “They must have. Viserys would never—he could not—consent to this.”

Jason broke the silence next, his voice steadier though no less tense. “And what of Lord Tyland?” he asked sharply, his gaze fixed on Rhaenys. “He was in the capital.”

Rhaenys turned toward him, inclining her head slightly. “Lord Tyland managed to escape,” she replied. “Ser Erryk freed me from my confinement, and your brother fled the Red Keep shortly after. If all goes as planned, he is on his way to Casterly Rock now.”

Jason let out a long breath, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. “Thank the gods,” he muttered under his breath.

But your attention remained on Rhaenyra. Her knuckles had turned white against the edge of the Painted Table, her breath coming faster now, her head bowed slightly as though she were struggling to keep her composure.

“They’ve crowned Aegon,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice trembled, raw and disbelieving. “They’ve stolen my birthright… before the eyes of the realm.”

You took a step toward her, concern pooling in your chest. “Rhaenyra?” you murmured softly.

She stiffened slightly, her face contorting again as her free hand pressed to her belly. This time, she could not hide it. You moved closer just as she bent forward with a sharp gasp, her face twisting in pain.

“Rhaenyra!” you said, alarmed now. You reached for her, catching her as she bent further, her body trembling slightly.

Rhaenys, who had watched silently until now, nodded grimly. “The Greens will come for you,” she said, her voice dark with warning. “For all of us. For your children and for hers.” Her gaze flickered to you and Jason, lingering on Leona, Loren, and Aemma, who watched wide-eyed from their places near the table. “You must be ready.”

Daemon’s anger burned hotter than dragonfire. “You could have ended it,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “You escaped on Meleys—you could have burned them all. You could have ended their line.”

Rhaenys turned her gaze sharply on Daemon, her expression unyielding. “It was not my war to start.”

Jason’s voice broke through the mounting tension, calm but firm. “We’ve no time for what-ifs,” he said, though his eyes flicked back to you and Rhaenyra. “Something’s wrong.”

You turned fully to Rhaenyra, your heart pounding as you steadied her trembling form. Her face was drawn, pale and slick with sweat, and when you glanced down, your breath caught.

Blood.

A thin trail of blood streaked down her leg, dark against the pale fabric of her gown.

“The baby is coming,” Rhaenyra whispered through gritted teeth, her voice shaking with pain.

Panic rose like bile in your throat, but you forced it down as you turned sharply toward the doors. “Maester Gerardys!” you yelled, your voice echoing through the chamber like a bell. “Now!”

The Painted Table, once a symbol of strategy and control, now seemed small and distant as chaos broke through the room. Rhaenyra sagged in your arms, her body trembling, while Daemon rushed to her side, his expression filled with fury and worry in equal measure. Jason moved quickly to gather the children, his voice low but commanding as he guided Leona, Loren, and Aemma away from the scene.

And through it all, Rhaenys’s warning echoed in your mind, cold and final.

The Greens are coming.

The room was stifling, heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and lavender oil meant to calm fraying nerves. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth, though its warmth did little to temper the cold dread that had taken hold of the chamber. Rhaenyra paced restlessly in the center of the room, her heavy breaths punctuated by the murmurs of the midwives and Maester Gerardys, who hovered nearby with his measured, watchful eye.

She was disheveled, her dark gown soaked with sweat and clinging to her frame. Her hair, normally so carefully braided, hung loose and damp around her shoulders. You sat nearby, your hands clenched tightly in your lap as you watched her, your heart aching at the sight.

Rhaenyra’s pacing stopped suddenly, her hand pressing hard against her belly as another ripple of pain passed through her. She winced, her breathing hitching, though she refused to cry out. For a moment, she stilled, her free hand pressing against the bedpost as though for balance.

“You need to rest, Rhaenyra,” you said softly, rising to your feet. “Let the midwives help you.”

“I cannot rest,” Rhaenyra snapped, though her voice held no true anger. She turned sharply toward you, her violet eyes blazing with something deeper—desperation, perhaps, or fear she refused to name. “There is no time for rest. There is no time for anything anymore.”

You hesitated, stepping closer as you regarded her carefully. “Rhaenyra…”

She looked at you then, her expression softening, though the fire in her gaze remained. “Listen to me, sister. I need your answer, and I need it now.” She straightened, though her face was pale and slick with sweat. “Leona must marry Jace.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Now?” you repeated, your voice tight. “You want to decide this now? Jason has asked for more time to consider—”

“There is no more time!” Rhaenyra cut you off, her voice trembling with the weight of her words. She drew in a deep breath, her hand falling back to her belly as if to steady herself. “Everything we have built—everything we are—it hangs by a thread. And it is breaking.”

You felt your heart squeeze painfully at her words, but you forced yourself to stay calm. “Jason only hesitates because he worries for her, Rhaenyra,” you explained, your voice quieter now. “She is his daughter—our daughter. He wants her to have time.”

Rhaenyra let out a short, hollow laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Time?” she repeated bitterly. “Time is a luxury the realm no longer has. Our father is dead. Aegon sits the Iron Throne in the eyes of the realm. The people already whisper, already doubt. And the Hightowers… they will not stop until they destroy us all.”

She took a shaky step closer, her gaze locking onto yours. “Leona’s marriage to Jace will unite us,” she said firmly. “It will show the realm that the strongest houses stand together. It will silence the doubters and remind them that fire and gold are bound as one once more.” She paused, her tone softening just slightly. “She will be queen one day, sister. Queen of the realm. That is not something we can afford to delay.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling like stones in your chest. “And what of her choice?” you asked quietly. “Leona deserves to be heard. She deserves—”

“Leona is strong,” Rhaenyra interrupted gently, though her voice trembled faintly. “She will understand. She will endure.”

You sighed, your hands brushing restlessly over your skirts. “I will speak to Jason again,” you promised, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “And to Leona. But you must stop worrying about this now. You need to focus on yourself.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders slumped slightly, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in her resolve. She looked down at her swollen belly, her hand lingering there as her fingers curled faintly over the fabric of her gown. “It’s too early,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “I know it is.”

Your throat tightened, your gaze flickering to the bed where clean linens had been laid in preparation—and where blood already stained the sheets she had discarded earlier. The midwives worked quietly, whispering prayers to the Mother as they prepared for what they knew would come.

“We’ve seen it before,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice distant now. Her eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the shared pain of memories long buried. “Our mother. How many times did she… suffer like this? More than anyone deserves.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, your hand reaching out to take hers. “You are not our mother,” you said softly, though the words rang hollow even to your ears. “You are strong, Rhaenyra.”

She gave you a faint, weary smile, though tears glistened faintly in her eyes. “Strength won’t stop what’s coming,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “And we both know how this ends.”

“No,” you said firmly, gripping her hand tighter. “Don’t think like that. You will be fine, Rhaenyra. You have to.”

Another wave of pain crashed over her then, and she let out a sharp, broken cry, doubling over as her hand flew to her belly once more. The midwives rushed forward, their voices a cacophony of commands and reassurances as they moved to help her.

“Rhaenyra!” you gasped, catching her as she sagged forward, trembling. You guided her carefully toward the bed, your heart hammering in your chest as you saw it—more blood, trailing down her leg and staining her gown.

Rhaenyra’s breathing was ragged, her face pale as she clung to your arm. “The baby,” she managed, her voice broken with pain and fear.

Panic shot through you like lightning, but you forced it down, turning sharply toward the doors. “Maester Gerardys!” you shouted, your voice ringing through the chamber like a bell. “Hurry!”

Gerardys appeared quickly, his expression grim as he stepped forward, the midwives parting for him as he approached. Rhaenyra was already being eased onto the bed, her hands trembling as she clutched the sheets.

You hovered nearby, your heart breaking as you watched your sister struggle, her pain raw and unforgiving. This was too early—far, far too early. And yet, even as dread clawed at your chest, you reached for her hand again, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “I’m here, Rhaenyra. You’re not alone.”

Rhaenyra turned her head toward you, her tear-streaked face contorted in pain. For a moment, you saw the girl she used to be—the sister who had once played in the gardens with you, who had once laughed freely without the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And then the moment passed, and the room fell into chaos once more.

The air around the Painted Table had grown heavy and charged, as though the room itself could sense the storm looming on the horizon. Lords and knights loyal to Rhaenyra had gathered, their voices low but urgent as they discussed preparations, alliances, and the coming war. Jason stood at the head of the table, his posture stiff despite the composed expression on his face. You had not yet returned from tending to Rhaenyra, leaving him to face the gathering storm alongside Daemon.

Loren stood rigid beside his father, his green eyes fixed on the table, though his hands curled tightly into fists at his sides. Leona and Aemma flanked him, their expressions equally set, though the difference in their composure was marked—Leona seemed as calm as polished steel, while Aemma’s jaw was tight, her usual softness hardened into quiet determination.

Jason’s voice broke through the murmurs, commanding the room’s attention. “Loren, you will take your brothers and sisters back to the Rock,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ll ride with our men and see that the Westerlands remain secure.”

Loren’s head snapped up, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not leaving.”

Jason’s brows furrowed, a flicker of frustration breaking through his mask of calm. “You will leave, Loren. You are the future Lord of Casterly Rock—the Lord of the Westerlands someday. You must return home to hold our house strong. If we falter, the Greens will seize it.”

“I will not run,” Loren said, his voice steady but simmering with anger. “I won’t abandon my family.”

Jason’s gaze narrowed as he stepped closer to his son, his voice dropping low but firm. “This is not about abandoning your family. This is about protecting them. If war comes—and it will come—then you must be at the Rock. That is your duty, Loren. It is what I have raised you to do.”

Loren’s fists tightened further, his shoulders rigid with defiance. “And what of your duty, Father? To send me away while you stay and fight? To leave you, to leave Mother—to face this alone?”

“Listen to me,” Jason said sharply, placing a hand on Loren’s shoulder. “The Rock must hold. If I fall, if the Greens come for us, then it is you who must keep our people safe. If you stay here and die—”

“I won’t die,” Loren snapped, his voice louder now. “I won’t run while my family needs me.”

Leona stepped forward then, her voice calm but cutting through the tension like a blade. “I’m staying as well.”

Jason turned sharply toward her, his frustration deepening. “No. You will go with Loren. Both of you must—”

“No,” Leona repeated, her voice colder now. “This is my fight, Father. I will not hide behind the walls of the Rock when war is at our doorstep.”

Jason’s eyes flickered with something close to anger as he turned to his eldest daughter. “Leona—”

“Father,” Aemma interrupted softly, stepping up beside her sister. Her voice was quiet, but her determination was unmistakable. “I’m staying too.”

Jason turned to his youngest daughter with disbelief. “Aemma—no. This is not a debate. You are children—”

“We are not children,” Leona said sharply, cutting him off. “You cannot send us away, not when our family needs us here. I will not abandon Jace and Luke, and I will not abandon Mother.”

“And I will not leave you either,” Aemma added softly, though her voice carried the same resolve.

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Daemon spoke from across the table, his voice smooth and cutting. “Enough,” he said, his gaze flickering between Jason and his children. “Your daughters have courage, Lord Jason, but you are right—Loren must return to the Rock.”

Loren shot Daemon a withering glare, his jaw tightening. “You think I’ll run?”

Daemon arched a brow, his smirk faint but sharp. “I think you will do your duty, boy. And you’ll not be alone.”

Jason turned to Daemon, clearly seeking an explanation. “What do you mean?”

Daemon stepped closer to the Painted Table, placing his hands on its edge as he spoke. “Baela and Rhaena will accompany Loren and the younger Lannister children to Casterly Rock. They will take their brothers, Aegon and Viserys with them as well.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint crackle of torches. Jason straightened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “You would send your daughters and sons to the Rock?”

Daemon met Jason’s gaze, his expression hard as stone. “They will be safe there. Two dragons—Moondancer and Morghan—will give the Greens pause. The Westerlands will not fall while fire rests within its walls.”

Loren shook his head, still refusing to relent. “You would send Baela and Rhaena away too? You think that will convince me to go?”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened as it settled on Loren. “You think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to leave? Baela would see herself in the saddle, flying to war, but she knows what is at stake. She knows that war is not fought in one place. You will hold Casterly Rock, Loren. And you will hold it well.”

Leona turned toward Daemon, her voice clipped. “And what of me? Am I to be sent away like a child while my father fight and my mother suffers?”

Daemon smirked faintly, though his eyes held something softer as they met Leona’s. “No. You are your father’s heir as much as Loren is, but you are not needed at the Rock. Stay here if you must with your sister—protect your family.”

Jason turned sharply toward Daemon, clearly displeased. “And what of my son?” he demanded. “You’re approving of me sending away Loren, my younger children, and your kin to safety, while I keep my eldest daughters in the shadow of war?”

Daemon’s lips curled faintly. “Leona has made her choice. As did Aemma. They will not bend, nor should they. You’ve raised lions, Lannister. You should be proud.”

Jason looked as though he might argue again, but he stopped, his gaze sweeping across his children—Loren, still stiff and defiant; Leona, calm and resolute; Aemma, softer but unwavering. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as the fight drained from him.

“This is madness,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he added, “Very well. Loren, you will return to the Rock. Take your brothers and sisters, along with Baela, Rhaena, and the princes. You’ll guard them with your life.”

Loren looked ready to argue, but Jason’s sharp gaze silenced him. “With your life, Loren. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Loren muttered reluctantly, though his frustration was plain. He turned his gaze to Leona, his expression filled with unspoken words. “And you’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay,” Leona confirmed softly.

Jason turned to Aemma next, though there was nothing left to argue. “You’ll regret this stubbornness, Aemma,” he said, though his voice carried more sadness than anger.

“I’ll regret leaving more,” Aemma replied simply.

Daemon straightened then, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and the young faces around him. “The Greens will not move lightly against us, not while the Westerlands are secure and dragons guard its skies. The Rock will hold—and so will we.”

Jason exhaled again, his eyes closing briefly as though in prayer. When he opened them, he looked at Loren, his eldest son, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You know what you must do. You are my son. My heir. Do not falter.”

Loren nodded stiffly, though there was pain in his eyes as he looked toward his sisters. “I’ll hold the Rock,” he said quietly. “But I’ll come back when the time is right.”

Jason gave a faint nod, though his expression remained hard. “See that you do.”

As the room fell quiet, the Painted Table lay between you all, no longer a map of conquest but a grim reminder of what was at stake—family, loyalty, and survival.

And the war that would come.

The halls of Dragonstone were dark and quiet as you made your way back to your chambers, the faint echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the stillness. A chill had settled over the castle, despite the fires that burned in its hearths. The day had dragged on endlessly, filled with screams, murmurs of prayer, and whispered commands from Maester Gerardys and the midwives.

When you finally opened the heavy door to your chambers, you were met with the soft glow of candlelight and the familiar scent of Jason—leather, wine, and faint embers. He was still awake, as you expected, standing near the balcony with his back to you. His hands rested on the stone railing, his posture tense but steady. The sound of the door closing behind you made him glance over his shoulder, his sharp green eyes narrowing faintly as they swept over you.

“You look as though you’ve walked through the Seven Hells,” he muttered softly, turning to face you fully. “Her labors aren’t over, are they?”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on your shoulders as you moved toward him. “No,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “She’s still in pain. It’s been hours, and the midwives… they look afraid.” You sank into the nearest chair by the fire, your hands trembling as you brushed your hair back from your face. “This baby… it’s coming too soon. I don’t think…”

Jason crossed the room in a few long strides, his presence solid and grounding as he knelt in front of you. He took your hands in his, his warmth seeping into your cold skin. “Don’t say it,” he said softly but firmly, his green eyes searching yours. “Rhaenyra is strong, stronger than most men I’ve ever known.”

You tried to nod, but the lump in your throat refused to let you speak. Instead, you squeezed his hands tightly, drawing strength from the steady way he held you.

Jason tilted his head slightly, his expression softening as he studied your face. “It’s not just her you’re worried about, is it?” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily, dropping your gaze to his hands as you whispered, “It’s the children. I keep seeing them—all of them. They’re so young, Jason. War is at our doorstep, and we’ve sent them away. I know it was the right thing to do, but I…” You trailed off, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “What if they’re not safe, even at the Rock? What if—”

“Stop,” Jason said gently, lifting one of your hands to press a kiss against your knuckles. “They are safe. Loren will keep them safe. He’s stubborn, strong, and he knows his duty. He’ll see our family through this, even if the world comes crashing down.”

You blinked back tears as you looked at him. “But he’s just a boy, Jason.”

Jason’s expression grew somber, though his voice remained steady. “Aye, he is. But he’s also a Lannister. He’ll rise to the occasion because he must. And he’s not alone—Baela and Rhaena are with them, and the dragons will give even the Greens pause. They will not dare strike at the Rock.” He reached up to cup your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “You must trust in that. Trust in him.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch. “I trust Loren,” you whispered. “It’s the world I don’t trust.”

Jason gave a faint, humorless smile. “The world’s never been worth trusting, my love. But our family? That’s something worth believing in.”

For a moment, you simply let yourself rest in his presence, drawing strength from the steadiness he always seemed to possess—even when the world around you teetered on the edge of chaos.

After a pause, Jason’s voice broke the quiet, softer now. “And what of Rhaenyra?” he asked, his tone laced with concern. “Has her husband visited her?”

You sighed, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “No,” you said quietly. “Daemon hasn’t come.”

Jason’s brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of disapproval crossing his face. “What is he doing, then? Rhaenyra labors for their child, and he stays away?”

You shook your head, placing a hand on his arm. “I don’t blame him, Jason.”

Jason gave you a questioning look, though the hard set of his jaw remained. “Why not?”

“Because he has been through this before,” you replied softly, your voice tinged with sadness. “With Laena.”

Jason’s expression shifted, the sharpness in his eyes softening as he understood. “Ah,” he murmured, sitting back slightly. “Laena Velaryon.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze drifting toward the fire. “Daemon stood helpless as she labored for days with a child that would not come. He watched as she chose to end her own life rather than suffer any longer. I think… I think he cannot bear to watch Rhaenyra suffer the same way.”

Jason exhaled, his hands resting lightly against your knees. “A man should not abandon his wife, no matter his pain,” he muttered, though his voice held little heat. “But I suppose I cannot judge him too harshly. Loss like that… it leaves scars that do not heal.”

You looked back at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “He loves her, Jason. I know he does. But this… this is a pain he cannot face.”

Jason studied you for a moment before nodding slowly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “And what of you? Who comforts you through all this?”

You managed a faint smile, reaching up to rest your hand over his. “You do,” you whispered. “Always.”

Jason leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there as though trying to transfer his strength to you. “Then let me do so now,” he said softly. “Let me be strong enough for the both of us.”

You let out a soft breath, closing your eyes as you rested your head against his shoulder. For a moment, the weight of the day seemed to lift, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. He held you like that, his arms wrapped around you, his presence a shield against the darkness that loomed outside the walls of Dragonstone.

“Come to bed,” he murmured eventually, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head. “Rest. You’ll need your strength for whatever tomorrow brings.”

You nodded silently, letting him guide you toward the bed. And as you lay beside him, his arms encircling you, you allowed yourself, for the first time in hours, to breathe.

The storm still raged beyond the castle walls, and Rhaenyra still labored in pain—but here, for this brief, fleeting moment, you found solace in the quiet strength of the man who loved you.

The air was still, heavy with unspoken words, as you sat at the small table across from Jason next morning. Between you was Leona, her hands folded calmly in her lap, her eyes watchful and unblinking.

Jason exhaled softly, breaking the silence first as he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “Leona,” he began, his tone measured but firm, “you know why we’re sitting here.” His green eyes flicked toward you briefly before settling back on his daughter. “Your aunt has proposed a match between you and her son, Jacaerys.”

Leona’s gaze didn’t waver, but she remained silent, letting Jason’s words hang in the air.

“You’re still young,” Jason continued, the faintest edge of protectiveness bleeding into his voice. “There’s no need to rush such matters. Your mother and I have always wanted you to have time—to live free of this burden for as long as possible.”

You placed a hand gently on Jason’s forearm, signaling for him to ease his words, before turning your gaze toward Leona. “But this is not just any match,” you said softly, your voice gentle but clear. “You’ve seen the state of the realm. This could unite our families, strengthen us at a time when the world seeks to tear us apart.”

Leona tilted her head slightly, the movement measured. “You think my marriage will change the course of a war?” she asked, her tone calm but cutting.

“It might,” Jason answered quickly, his brows furrowing. “Or at the very least, it will show the realm we are united. You’d be queen one day, Leona.”

Leona gave the faintest tilt of her head, her gaze flicking between the two of you. “And is that what you want for me?” she asked quietly, though there was no accusation in her voice. “To be a queen?”

Jason’s jaw tensed as he looked at her. “I want you to be safe, Leona. That is all I care about.”

You leaned forward slightly, your voice softer now. “Your father loves you more than anything, my darling. He would see you safe, yes—but we also know you are strong. This is your decision, not ours. Jace is a good boy. You know him, and you know what kind of man he will become.”

Leona’s lips pressed together in thought, her fingers brushing idly over the edge of her sleeve. She was silent for a long moment, the air thick with the weight of what was being asked of her. Finally, she spoke, her tone steady and clear.

“Jace is kind,” she admitted softly. “He carries himself like a prince, though he’s no stranger to hardship. I have no doubt he would be good to me.” She lifted her gaze fully then, and you saw the fire behind her eyes. “But I will not be anyone’s pawn. If I agree to this, it will not be because of duty, or alliances, or war. I will make this decision because I choose it. Do you understand me?”

Jason blinked, clearly taken aback, though you couldn’t suppress the faint smile of pride that tugged at your lips. “You sound like a lioness,” you murmured softly.

Jason let out a breath, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he studied her. “You are my daughter, Leona,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Of course, you have a choice. But if you do this… know that it will change everything.”

“I know,” Leona replied firmly. She straightened in her chair, her hands still perfectly still in her lap. “And I choose it.”

Jason’s expression flickered with something unspoken—relief, sadness, perhaps both—before he nodded slowly, resigning himself to her decision. “Very well,” he said finally. “If this is what you want.”

Leona turned her gaze to you then, her voice softening ever so slightly. “Mother?”

You reached across the table, placing your hand over hers. “You are brave, my love,” you said quietly. “And I am proud of you. Jace will be lucky to have you by his side.”

Leona dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment, though you could see the faintest flicker of nerves beneath her calm facade. “Then it is decided.”

Jason let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his golden curls before sitting back. “It seems it is,” he muttered, though his voice carried a hint of pride. “Stubborn as your mother.”

“And you,” you teased lightly, shooting him a look. He only grunted in reply, though his lips twitched faintly.

Before anything more could be said, the heavy doors to your chambers swung open, and a midwife rushed inside, her face pale and frantic. “My lady!” she gasped, breathless. “You must come quickly—Princess Rhaenyra needs you!”

You shot to your feet immediately, your heart lurching in your chest. “What is it? What’s happened?”

The midwife wrung her hands anxiously, her voice trembling. “The babe is coming, my lady—but there’s blood. Too much blood.”

Jason rose as well, his face hardening instantly. “Go,” he said to you firmly, though his hand lingered briefly at your back. “I’ll keep Leona here.”

You nodded quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Leona’s brow before turning to leave. “Stay here with your father,” you murmured to her, though your voice trembled. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Leona gave you a small nod, though her expression had turned unreadable behind her golden mask. “Go to her,” she said softly.

Without another word, you hurried after the midwife, your heart pounding in your chest as you followed her down the shadowed halls of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra’s screams echoed faintly from ahead, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

And as the heavy door to Rhaenyra’s chambers loomed before you, a deep sense of dread coiled tightly in your chest. You prayed to the gods—any who might listen—that you would not lose your sister this day.

The heavy door to Rhaenyra’s chambers swung open, and you stepped inside, your breath catching at the scene before you. The room was a battlefield—midwives scurried back and forth, their faces pale and streaked with sweat. The faint scent of blood, sweat, and the lavender oils meant to calm the air were suffocating. The fire in the hearth crackled furiously, as though mirroring the chaos of the moment.

And in the center of it all was Rhaenyra.

She stood, bent over slightly, her hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her hair hung in damp, tangled waves around her face, her cheeks flushed red with exertion. Her gown was soaked through with sweat and stained with streaks of blood, and she let out another ragged scream—one so raw it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Take it out of me!” she shrieked, her voice trembling with pain and fury. “Take the child out of me!”

“Princess, please,” Maester Gerardys begged, hovering close but too afraid to approach fully. “The babe is nearly here. You must—”

“Do not tell me what I must do!” Rhaenyra roared, her teeth gritted as she bore down against the agony, her voice almost feral. Her knees trembled beneath her, but she would not let them buckle. “This babe—this thing—will come when it wills, or I will tear it from me myself!”

You hurried forward, your heart racing as you reached her side, placing a steadying hand on her back. “Rhaenyra,” you said softly, though your voice shook. “I’m here. Breathe with me, sister. Please.”

Rhaenyra turned her head toward you, her violet eyes wild with anguish and fury. “They did this,” she spat, her voice hoarse as another pain ripped through her. 

Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to falter. “Rhaenyra,” you whispered firmly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. “You must focus. The babe is nearly here.”

Rhaenyra’s breathing came in harsh, ragged gasps as she straightened slightly, her face contorted with agony. She let out another broken cry, her body shuddering under the strain, and you squeezed her shoulder, steadying her.

“Push now, Princess,” Maester Gerardys instructed desperately, moving closer. “Please, you must—”

Rhaenyra’s scream tore through the chamber again, a sound filled with rage and grief that echoed off the stone walls. She dropped to her knees then, her body wracked with shudders as the babe finally came. A midwife moved quickly, catching the child in trembling hands, her face blanching the moment she looked down.

Silence fell across the room like a death knell.

You stared as the midwife hesitated, her hands shaking as she wrapped the stillborn babe in a soft linen cloth, blood staining its edges. “It’s…” the midwife whispered weakly, glancing at Maester Gerardys. “It’s a girl.”

Rhaenyra stilled, her breathing slowing into shallow gasps as she turned her head. “Bring her to me,” she demanded, her voice low and cold.

The midwife faltered, exchanging a glance with Gerardys, but you stepped forward sharply. “Do as she says,” you said firmly, your voice cutting through the silence.

With great reluctance, the midwife carried the small bundle to Rhaenyra and placed it in her trembling hands. You watched as Rhaenyra looked down at the child, her face still and unreadable. But when you stepped closer, you saw it.

The babe’s features were unmistakably deformed. The skin was pale and mottled, the limbs twisted unnaturally, and small, hardened ridges that resembled scales ran along its back. The tiny mouth gaped open but drew no breath, and where there should have been softness, there was only tragedy.

Rhaenyra’s hands shook as she cradled her stillborn daughter, her thumb brushing faintly over the babe’s cold cheek. Her lips trembled, her voice breaking as she whispered, “Visenya.”

You swallowed hard, the name settling heavily in the chamber.

Rhaenyra looked up suddenly, her eyes blazing with a fury so raw it sent a chill down your spine. “Hightowers did this,” she hissed, her voice trembling with grief and wrath. “They’ve killed my only daughter.”

Her words struck you like a blow, but you could not bring yourself to disagree. The timing, the turmoil, the stress—it all pointed back to the stolen crown and the betrayal that had ripped through your family.

You knelt beside her, your own hands trembling as you placed them over hers. “She is at peace now,” you whispered softly, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your efforts to hold them back. “Rhaenyra, you must—”

“I will avenge her,” Rhaenyra cut you off sharply, her voice shaking with raw resolve. “I swear it on her name. Visenya will not be forgotten.”

You closed your eyes briefly, your heart breaking for her—for this child, so innocent and undeserving of such a fate. When you looked back at Rhaenyra, you reached out to steady her, your voice cracking as you spoke. “The gods have spared you, Rhaenyra. You’re alive. You’re alive.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened just faintly as she looked at you, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “I wish I could have saved her,” she whispered brokenly, her voice barely audible.

You shook your head, squeezing her hands tightly. “It is not your fault, Rhaenyra. You did all you could.”

The chamber was silent again, save for Rhaenyra’s quiet sobs and the occasional crackle of the fire. You sat beside her, holding her as tightly as you could, your own tears falling freely now.

And though your heart ached for the stillborn babe in her arms—for little Visenya—you silently thanked whatever gods might still be listening for sparing your sister. For now, that was all you could cling to.

As you stayed there, kneeling on the cold stone floor, you knew one thing with certainty.

This war had already taken too much. But the Greens would pay for every tear shed, every drop of blood spilled.

And you would make certain of it.

[lastconcourse]

Seventh Kinematic Epistle:

Separate this sheet and hold it up in the sky to make it a beacon, then bend it so it flexes like an elbow and so it waves like a flag:

Mentally make a mnemonic collage. Weave the water spraying out of a fountain in a plaza downtown, through the red old red sideboards of a barn-style house up north: To open up hallways of: Windows of frozen mulch in a hard fluid, above where carpets and soffits coalesce from brown mist blowing light, in from northern portals, out hallways unlocked and shown foaming: Toward your two eyes.

Kinematic Epistle #8

You, hold this sheet, and hold it in the air to make it a beacon, and bend it so it flexes and waves like a flag. Combine leather from an office chair with cold wind out of a winter storm. Open tunnels of overcast drapes upholstered to the ceiling's frame, and sleet-colored duos of elevator doors.

[mimy7etoile]

Summer - Hermann Hesse, 1903

When I woke up today and got out of bed, the weather had taken a turn for the better, a moderate easterly wind brushed the rich blue lake with trembling silver furrows, the blossoming crowns of the pear trees stood rejoicing and bursting against a bright blue sky, and light blueness was reflected in the fountain trough and in the small, almost dried-up pools of water on the country road. In the chapel opposite my windows, the sacristan was busy preparing for May devotions. In the improvised room of my neighbor, who wants to rebuild and enlarge his barn, the already gloriously warm sun was shining, the white pine beams glowed and smelled pine beams.

It struck me that my rowing boat was still under cover for winter and still hadn't been overhauled, painted and refloated. I had already cursed and bitterly regretted my laziness several times on beautiful days that tempted me to go to sea and then, out of laziness and mistrust of the weather, I had postponed the work until another time. It was almost a shame, and the neighbors, who still saw my little boat stowed away in the shed, began to grin and look at me regretfully. Now it was high time, and I decided to do the work today. The paints were already ready, I only had to mix them with linseed oil, and soon the pungent, spicy smell of oil permeated the house.

Putting on the large apron, I began to clean the boat and the oars and then to paint. How it stained and gave off when I ran the heavy, broad brush, lusciously filled with oil paint, over the planks! If only that was how feature writing went, and if it were so funny! Chickens clucked past, two young dogs fought and endangered my oil jug, children came and watched. And the neighbors, when they passed by, laughed and shouted: "So finally?" Modern pleasure boats are now usually painted a light brown or yellowish color like office furniture. But my boat has to look nicer, I paint it the old, traditional, fiery green and bright red, as well as the oars and accessories. An oarlock must be red, no other color resonates so joyfully and vividly with the blue or green of the water. Four hours, five hours I painted and anointed with zeal, then it seemed enough for the day. A few more days, then everything will be ready and in order, then we will take the boat to the beach on a cart with two cows, and the cows will have their horns wreathed, and then I will make my first rowing trip of the year alone and in silence, and it will be, like every year, a day full of silent glory and wonderfully swelling memories.

For me, three things are essential for a real summer: glowing hot, yellow, heavy-brooding cornfields - a high, cool, silent forest - and lots of rowing days. Rowing days! I think of those days when there was a brilliant blue sky over the lake and mountains, when the air shivered with heat and the wood of the boat crackled with the warmth of the sun. Then you had to sail half-naked in a broad shady hat in dazzlingly bright bays and often swim or take a nice rest in the dense shore bushes. And I think of rowing days when I sailed for hours through nothing but silver in overcast skies and fresh winds. And days when I was panting as I chased across the black, bubbling water, fleeing from a thunderstorm that suddenly burst out of the mountains. There were sheer, hasty flakes of foam running over the dark, blackish surface, whipping gusts of wind sprayed up needle-fine water dust, and hasty flashes of lightning flashed pale and twitching through the passionately excited, fearfully sultry air.

All that is to come again now: Summer, the glow of cornfields and the coolness of the forest, mild evening sounds on the reed beach, burning rides through the blue midday glow and glorious, soul-relieving, roaring thunderstorms. It is often said that spring is the most beautiful time of the year. But the most beautiful thing about it is the anticipation, the expectation of summer.

The gentle, longingly mild spring is quickly forgotten when summer comes and reigns, when sun and earth are closer to each other in love and battle, when the warmth is more powerful and intimate, the downpours wilder and heavier, the days brighter and the nights bluer. Then the chestnuts radiate their white and red blossom candles in incomprehensible abundance and splendor, the jasmine lavishes its sweet, blazing fragrance in numbing clouds, the grain bleaches, becomes heavy and golden and rustles luxuriantly and festively on a hundred thousand stalks, the damp, black forest floor ferments and throws masses of colorful plants into the light. And everywhere a glowing, wild, intoxicated fever of life trembles secretly. For the summer, the true summer, is short, and no sooner does the field shine more golden and the ears of corn rustle fuller and deeper than when the sickle and scythe come with hot harvest battle. All this shall now return. In the bright green forest valley, the cuckoo's call sounds tirelessly, the meadows quickly ripen for the first cut, the dark clover is lush, and the seed fields glow lush green. At the edge of the forest, white mayflowers gleam beneath their broad leaves, and on wide and the sulphur-yellow rape blossoms on broad strips of fields. This is the time when the man becomes a child and life becomes a miracle again, as every day brings unexpected new and every little meadow walk is a surprise and a fairy tale.

Summer is approaching, the royal season, the days of grain ripening and the nights of thunderstorms. Well, I am ready to experience the unheard-of once again and to see days of abundance and exuberant splendor, and I don't want to miss a day or an hour before the farmer wreathes the wagon all too soon and the greedy sickle rustles in the ripe grain!

[a-wandering-imagination]

Chapter 11

When Anton awoke, it was raining softly outside. The sky was heavily overcast and there was a slight south wind. He checked all the rooms of the house again to see if perhaps the girl had come back during the night. He found nothing. Back down in the living room, he hurriedly prepared some oatmeal and then sat down in front of the sliding door to eat it. His gaze wandered from his bowl to the glass door in front of him and then settled on the two small hand prints. He stopped chewing for a moment and reached out and touched the center of the left palm print. His gaze shifted to the still water and the beach. He watched the rain falling on the water for a few moments and then finished his breakfast.

After breakfast, he began loading up the car. Today he grabbed the Mini-30 rifle and a box of 200 rounds of ammo. He took the .44 as well. If anyone started shooting at him today, he wanted to be prepared to shoot back. The rifle, with the scope, was good for nearly 300 hundred yards if need be. Anton also packed some extra food in case he did run across the girl. Then his thoughts turned darker and he grabbed a first aid kit as well.

It was still early morning when he arrived at the bridge. He pulled up on the north side and turned the car around so that it was ready to head back out of town in a hurry. He then put the first aid kit, the extra ammo, and some of the food in a small rucksack. He pulled on his jacket as he stepped out of the car and slung the rucksack straps over his shoulders. He checked the rifle to make sure it was loaded and a round was in the chamber and then turned towards the bridge. The rain was still falling lightly but the wind had picked up a bit. Anton could smell the saltwater spray as he stepped up to the first row of cars at the base of the bridge. He scanned the bridge carefully, and checked the barricade at the top using the scope on his rifle, finger ready on the trigger. There was no movement. He picked his way among the cars towards the top of the bridge, all the while keeping the rifle at the ready for any sign of trouble. He made it to the barricade and found it deserted. The other side of the bridge was bare. No cars and no people on that side. He walked down the bridge on the far side and headed south on the road towards Douglas.

Anton zipped his collar up against the misting rain and pulled his knit hat down tight over his ears. It wasn’t really cold out, but the light rain made him shiver a bit. The road into Douglas was much like the road out to Auke Bay he had walked four days earlier, quiet and deserted. The homes on Douglas seemed darker as the road was on the eastern shore of the island and was therefore shaded from most of the sun by the mountains along the island’s spine. The large pine trees were thick here and crowded the homes, adding even more shadow. The sound of his footsteps along the road were unnaturally loud in the eerie silence and Anton found himself hurrying along, constantly watching over his shoulder as he went. He made it all the way into the little town of Douglas within a half hour and explored the homes and businesses along the main street through town while keeping an eye on the chimneys of those further off the road for any sign of habitation. He found very little, most of the places had been picked over. He didn’t find anyplace that looked like it might have been used by the men on the bridge, but that didn’t mean much. Considering how they had attacked him, they were probably holed up somewhere and doing all they could to not be found. Anton knew that the road leading north from the bridge also had many, many homes. The men could have just as easily come from that direction. He spent about another hour poking around the various homes, but eventually tired of the search and walked back to the bridge.

Back at the bridge, Anton scouted around the barricade looking for any signs of where the men might have gone or what happened to them. He found some 30.06 shell casings as well as some .223. He found no footprints, however, and no other sign of either the men or the creature that had chased them from the bridge. He stood at the base of the bridge on the Douglas side and looked up the north road that ran up to the northern tip of the island some twelve miles away. There were a lot of houses up that way too, but any activity in that area, especially smoke, would have been visible on his drive into town as Egan drive paralleled the North Douglas road on the other side of Gastineau Channel. As Anton stood there looking up the road, however, he once again felt that prickling sensation that he was being watched.

"Anyone up there?!" Anton yelled, keeping his rifle at the ready. He heard nothing but the whisper of the wind and the soft tap of rainfall. "If anyone's up there, I just want to talk! I'm trying to find other survivors!" he yelled. Still no response, but the hair on his neck began to prickle once again. "Fuck this," he muttered as he turned and jogged back up the bridge towards the barricade.

Once he crossed back over the bridge, Anton climbed into the car and headed back out of town towards Auke Bay. He decided he would wait no longer. Something was wrong with this town and he wanted no more of it. He would head back to the house, pack up his supplies, and load them on the boat tomorrow. He'd give the girl one more night to come back and then, tomorrow, he was heading out of town.

Back at the house, Anton busied himself packing food and supplies into the car. He folded down the rear seat and filled most of the back of the car with food. He made sure he had matches and lighters as well. He loaded up all the ammo for the firearms and all the water jugs. He packed the first aid kit and the binoculars as well. Then, after double-checking the various supplies he'd packed in the car, he went back into the living room to fix some food. The sun wouldn't go down for a couple more hours, but due to the heavy overcast it was already pretty dark outside. Anton fixed himself some chili and sat staring out the window, waiting for the girl to return. Hours later, after Anton had cleaned up the room and packed the last of the cooking utensils in the car, she was still nowhere to be seen. Anton kicked off his boots, set the .44 on the floor next to his pillow and crawled into his sleeping bag. Five minutes later he was asleep. He didn't see or hear the large dark shape that walked out of the trees and up onto the deck and stood staring at him through the glass door. The creature crouched down and brought it's large snout up against the glass and sniffed quietly. The small green eyes, shimmering like they were lit from within, zeroed in on the small hand prints on the other side of the glass. For several minutes the creature stared at the prints. Then, silently, it placed both of its large claw-like hands against the glass, leaving dark, smudged prints on the outside of the glass opposite the small, delicate prints on the inside. The creature then stood and moved soundlessly back into the trees.

The next morning, Anton rose and went about his business in silence. He didn't bother with breakfast. He felt anxious to leave now that he had made his decision. He went through the house, checking off items in the list in his head of what he thought he would need on his journey. He was satisfied with the amount of food, but there was not much ammo for the guns and only basic first aid items. He also didn't have a lot of matches or lighters. He would need to search some homes before he left town to find what he needed. He also had to stop by his old house and get all his clothes.

It was still quite early when he pulled out of the garage for the last time. He sat in the driveway for a moment staring at the house and the open garage door. He started to get out of the car to shut the garage door, but then he hesitated. A strange look crossed his face and he closed the car door and backed out of the driveway, leaving the garage door gaping open as he turned and drove south towards town.

He searched several houses on the way back into town for medical supplies. In the aftermath of an epidemic, however, there was not much to be found. By the time he reached his old house downtown, he had found only a couple boxes of bandages and some gauze. At his house, Anton packed all his good outdoor clothing into the back of the car. He had a couple of heavy coats, one made of polar fleece and the other a heavy wool watchman's coat. He also grabbed all of his rubber boots and his hiking boots--three pairs of hikers and two pairs of rubber boots. Next was his Helly Hanson rain gear, a coat and bibs. The rest of the space in the car he filled with pants, shirts, socks and underwear. The entire car, with the exception of the driver and passenger seats, was now full of gear, clothing and food. Anton stared at the car. He'd never packed so much for a trip in his life. But then again, this was like no other trip he had ever taken.

He turned and looked back at his house, then across the street at the neighbor’s house and his gaze wandered off into the distance, taking in all the empty, silent homes that once teemed with life. It was then that Anton realized he may never come back here. That's when the tears began. He didn't sob or shudder. He just stood, silent, with tears running down his face. His face hardened. This town is no longer the one I grew up in, he thought. The good part has died and only something dark and evil is left. As the realization set in his mind, he found himself staring off across the channel at the dark trees blanketing Douglas Island. He used to find the forest comforting. Now it appeared to be hiding something menacing. Something that was creeping ever closer.

Anton shivered and glanced up at the sky. Not quite midday, he thought. Plenty of time to get to the harbor, load the boat and get under way before dark. He may even be able to get as far as Taku Harbor before nightfall if he didn't run into any problems. He turned and looked at the house one last time and then ducked into the car and drove away, headed in the direction of the harbor.

At the harbor, Anton wasted no time shuttling the supplies to the boat. Using one of the large harbor wheelbarrows, he was able to transfer the gear from the car to the boat in less than ten trips. He piled all the supplies on the open deck at the stern of the boat and once he'd finished transferring it all from the car, he then started stowing it on board. He'd just finished putting the last of the canned food in the cupboards when he heard it.

-He's here-

Anton jumped a little as he heard it, knocking his head on the cabin ceiling. He swore as he spun around in the small space searching for the intruder, but saw no one. The voice sounded like it had been right next to him. Then, as he thought about it a bit, he realized it was almost as if he'd heard it inside his head. This realization had no sooner entered his head then he heard the voice again.

-Out on the last pier. The boat has stuff on the deck. That's gotta be where he is-

This time, Anton realized that not only was the voice inside his head, it wasn't really speaking. It was just thoughts, someone else's thoughts, that he could understand. Anton started to shake and, just to make sure he wasn't crazy, he peeked up out of the hold of the boat towards the gangway leading up to the parking lot. He thought he saw a man standing there, but as soon as Anton saw him, the man disappeared. Then Anton heard the dock creak alongside the boat and as Anton stepped up out of the hold, the man he'd seen a couple hundred yards away on the gangway was now standing on the dock alongside the boat, smiling at him. And the smile did not look very friendly.

"Who are you," Anton asked. The man just smiled and stood there. He was wearing blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with long, dark hair and piercing black eyes.

-Wouldn't you like to know-

The thought resounded in Anton's head with a sarcastic, smirking, tone and before Anton had time to realize what he was doing, he responded out loud, "Yes, yes I would like to know."

The look on the man's face instantly changed from one of malice to what Anton could only think of as a fleeting look of panic which was quickly replaced with a predatory wariness.

"What did you say?" the man asked.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to know who you are. My name is Anton." Anton offered his hand across the rail of the boat. The man just looked at Anton's hand for a moment then back at Anton.

"I know who you are. You're the one who killed all of my men." The voice was cold and matter-of-fact.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Anton replied as his mind raced back to the encounter on the bridge and the bodies he'd found in his driveway.

-You're lying-

"Somehow, I don't believe you," the man replied dryly. He turned away from Anton and faced out towards the bay. Anton watched the man carefully as the wind lifted the long locks of his hair and flipped them casually. The man turned back to Anton and the malice had returned to his face.

"This is my town now. And those were my men. I don't know how you killed them but you'll not find me nearly so easy to kill."

As the implied threat hung in the air, Anton realized that all the guns were tucked away in the cabin, out of immediate reach. He felt totally vulnerable standing against this man even though the stranger did not appear to have any weapons. The man must have sensed Anton's fear because a smile crossed his lips and spoke again.

"Go ahead and try for one of your guns. I know you have some on board. Let's see if you can get one before I kill you."

The words cut the air like daggers and Anton panicked. He bolted for the cabin door only to find the man standing between him and the cabin. It was as if the man had disappeared and reappeared instantaneously, but Anton was pretty sure he had seen the man move. Just as the shock was registering, the man's hand was on Anton's throat, lightning fast and strong as steel. Anton choked against the grip convulsively and grabbed the man's forearm with both of his hands trying to break the grip, but the man just stood there smiling, carelessly holding Anton with one hand much as one would hold a can of soda.

"How could a scrawny little puke like you kill all of my men?" The man hissed. "You're nothing. You're not even as quick as they were. You're just... normal!" The words hung in the air.

-And now you will die-

Just as Anton felt the grip on his throat begin to tighten, he saw a flash of movement from the water side of the boat and suddenly Anton was free, collapsed on the deck, coughing and hacking as he tried to regain his breath. His lungs burned and his head spun. He thought he was going to black out and there was this dull ringing in his ears. As his head cleared, however, he realized the ringing he was hearing in his ears was actually the man screaming and he spun towards the dock and his eyes went wide with terror. There, standing on the dock, not ten feet from him was the creature. The fleeting glimpses that Anton had seen earlier had done nothing to prepare him for what he saw now. It was well over ten feet tall, heavily muscled and jet black from head to toe. Thick fur, dripping with salt water, matted over jagged features. The long arms and stout legs terminated in oversized hands and feet and each of the fingers and toes ended in two-inch, scythe-like ebony claws. The creature was standing on the dock holding the man by his head. The massive hand encompassed the man's skull like Anton's would a tennis ball. It held the man with one arm extended and stood looking at Anton. The man was flailing wildly, trying to break free of the creature. He was screaming, terrified, screaming for Anton to help him. Anton, however, was petrified, staring into the face of this black beast. It was like nothing Anton had ever seen and was scarier than anything he could ever imagine. The creature was massive. The silky black fur rippled over sineus, bunching muscles that seemed to flex, stretch and contract in a fluid state of constant motion, like the creature's entire body was breathing. The face, however, was what held Anton's gaze. It was as if the structure of the bone below was in a state of flux. The brow and cheek bones shifted and reshaped themselves like waves on a lake but never quite exposed the dark hollows where Anton knew the eyes must be, staring back at him as he stared into their shadowed darkness. The lips writhed with motion, alternating between hiding and exposing the wicked jet black teeth that filled the creature’s maw. The overall effect was that it was difficult to focus on any given part of the creature as it seemed to flick in and out of focus. Just as your eye locked on to any particular feature, it would shift, and the eye would be drawn elsewhere, searching for stable, tangible, recognizable forms.

-God help me!-

The thought brought Anton up short, almost like waking from a daydream. The stranger was still hanging from the creature's hand and was struggling ferociously, but the creature made no movement to either kill or release the man. It just stood staring at Anton. Anton looked into the creature's eyes, and for a moment, he thought he recognized something. In that flash of realization, he heard a loud pop and then a gurgling sound and the monster was gone and the stranger lay on the deck, his head oddly misshapen, twitching, blood running from his ears, nose and mouth. Anton stared as the man's eyes rolled back in his head and the convulsions stilled.

In the silence that followed, Anton struggled to understand what had just happened. This is a nightmare, he thought to himself as his gaze flicked between the boat, the distant parking lot and the corpse lying on the dock. He hopped over onto the dock and crouched next to the body and tentatively poked it. It was definitely real. He looked at the man's head. He could see the bruising where the creature's fingers had crushed the skull.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!" Anton screamed. He spun around scanning the water for any sign of the beast. But now, other than the corpse lying on the dock, there was no sign that the beast had ever been here. Anton turned back to the corpse. "That's what you get for trying to kill me..." he hissed and then stopped short. He remembered the recognition he'd seen in the beast's eyes, almost as if the creature had been waiting for permission to kill this man. Anton tried to remember the moment now. The strange thoughts in his head. The lost moment he spent staring into the beast's eyes. Had he wished this man to be dead? And if he had, did the creature somehow act on that wish?

Anton's head started to swim and he felt a little sick. He grabbed the railing on the side of the boat to steady himself. It was then that he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he spun around.

There, kneeling next to the corpse of the stranger, was the little girl. She was dressed just as she had been when he last saw her. She stared intently at the face of the dead man. Then she reached out and deftly traced the profile of the crush marks with the tip of her finger, much as someone would trace the pattern in a piece of fabric. There was no sadness or fear in her expression, just a quiet curiosity.

Anton slumped to the ground and sat quietly staring at the girl. After a moment she looked up at him. Her eyes were void of expression. She stood, looked back towards the harbor parking area and waved. Anton turned to see what she was waving at and, for a split second, he thought he saw an old man standing at the top of the gangway where he had originally seen the dead man standing. Anton closed his eyes and shook his head and looked again, but there was no one. Anton turned to the girl once more only to find her arranging the body of the dead man on the dock. She had pulled his legs so that he was now lying flat on his back and was proceeding to fold his arms across his chest. She then reached into her pocket and pulled out a little blue flower and placed it on his chest between his folded arms. Anton recognized the flower immediately. It was the state flower of Alaska, the Forget-Me-Not. She continued kneeling there next to the body for a moment and then stood and climbed onto the boat. She walked quietly into the cabin and climbed onto one of the seats next to the small table across from the captain's chair and sat, quietly, staring at Anton.

"Did you know him?" he asked, as he stood next to the body on the dock, looking at the flowers resting on the dead man's chest. There was no answer. He turned to look at her and she was still sitting quietly staring right back.

"I guess that means it's time to go," he said as he climbed aboard and started the motor. While the engine was warming up, he finished securing the last of the supplies below deck and then untied the mooring lines, pushed the boat away from the dock a little and jumped aboard. Inside the cabin, he cranked the wheel hard to port and pulled back on the throttle, engaging the reverse drive. The boat slowly backed in a half circle away from the dock until he was turned around, pointing towards the end of the breakwater and the open bay beyond. He then pushed the lever forward and the old boat shrugged forward in the calm water. Anton's gaze was drawn once more to the body lying on the dock as he slowly motored out of the marina and into the open water beyond. Once clear of the breakwater, he headed south southwest out of the bay towards the north end of Douglas Island and Stephens Passage beyond. With any luck, he mused, I can get to Prince Rupert the day after tomorrow... three days at the most. Then he could decide if he wanted to continue in the boat or find a car to drive the rest of the way south. He tried not to be too hopeful about what he may find as he motored slowly away from Auke Bay.

[christmascocos2023]

Thursday 17th August

Another overcast and windy start with quite heavy showers overnight. I had a good night except for waking about 3am and dozing. However don’t feel tired. Must say the lack of bright sunshine, even in tropical climate seems to change the feel of the holiday spirit. I am definitely solar powered🤣. I was up at 0530 and writing this at 0630. Today is the day I am going to do my best and get to Home Island. Hope the plan works😁. Have finally got onto the Birdsnest wifi. Seems there are 2 Birdsnest options and I used the wrong one😏. Either way it is not really coping with posting so will use the hotspot wifi I purchased at one of the hotspot sites it can be used. Apparently it has a bit more grunt than the one at Birdsnest 🤞.

Well I got so over prepared that I got to the ferry jetty in time for the 0730 ferry🤣🤣. Oh well not a terrible place to waste some time looking out over the sea. Thought about catching the 0730 but would still have to sit around on Home Island so will stick with plan A!

I changed my mind again! Took the 0730 ferry and got to Home Island just before 0800. My buggy won’t be delivered until the 0830 ferry arrives here at 0900. I am glad now I opted for the early ferry as as we left the clouds cleared and the sun shone. It was a lovely ride. The boat being used as the substitute ferry looks like a good sized fishing boat(although it may in fact be used as a secondary or back up for the main ferry,and is called the R J Hawke. No prizes for where the owners political affiliation might lie😁. I sat outside and although bumpy because of the 2-4 metre swell and the speed plus all the rips and strong currents I believe are out here. Also lots spray and I took advice of local and sat at the cabin end of the bench seats(fortunately padded!)and had no probs with spray although there was lots water coming up the covered sides and cabin. It is also very noisy because of what I assume are very big powerful diesel engines. Despite all that being on the water finally and the sun shining was wonderful. As I had an hour to fill in I have just been wandering around the foreshore area. Have taken lots photos. However am now sheltered in a lovely gazebo with extras (see photo) as the sky is black again, wind has picked up and random light showers. Yet another advantage of having taken the earlier ferry as the 0830 will have a less pleasant ride I suspect. There was only 3 of us on the 0730 and as the 0830 is the last morning ferry I am keen to see how full it is given the weather.

There seems to be no cars except shire mini truck things and motorised transport is all by buggy. Makes it a very pedestrian friendly place. It is definitely a little Malaya with all street signs being Malay names and all signs mostly English and Malay although some like a memorial on the foreshore which is only in Malay. As far as I have seen it is a very laid back little place and I can even see a cute little beach to the right of where I am sitting.

As it happened there was only about 5 people on the 0830 so I prepared for nothing. Although now it has arrived my buggy has not! Fortunately the woman from the visitor centre who booked it for me happened to be meeting the ferry to collect something as she works on Home Island today. She is going to call the buggy man and find out where he is for me. I yet again fall on my feet’s 😁. Good thing I came early or would have lost some touristing time😁. Things do rather move at island time especially as most people seem to have more than one job. The buggy man came about 20mins later than he should have and in his defence the tourist place had me down as an overnight hire starting yesterday🤷‍♀️. Anyway he went through everything and it was his wife who told me about the pop up food. I have taken a photo of my bright blue buggy and will post. Being short the distance from the seat to the steering wheel meant I had to have arm extending and reaching or sit on the edge of the seat to reach more easily. He forgot to show me reverse but figured it out. Got going a bit shakily with the accelerator but soon buzzing along😁. Certainly can’t speed as max any where on that island is 30km/hr and parts of residential area are 8km/hr. The man also warned me that the locals don’t even notice Give Way signs to keep eyes peeled! Seems the local kids might be a traffic hazard as he also said that I was lucky I was only driving around in school hours🤷‍♀️. In case you think the kids can use the buggies every driver has to have a drivers licence and all the buggies are register just like cars. I did keep an eye on the battery light thing but was fine but another couple told me on the ferry home that theirs had just gone flat fortunately in town and they had to abandon it and return the key. I suspect the fact they went flat is the weight their buggy was carrying compared to mine. Both husband and wife were morbidly obese.

Good news is the sun is out, lots blue sky and wind dropped so looking good. Having said that the weather does turn quickly!

Well the buggy arrived,the sun came out, clouds pretty well cleared and a beautiful day. Still some seriously strong winds on and off and depending on the side of the island you are. Good thing as golf buggy not equipped for rain😁. Once I had the buggy and a map I was off. Even with my famous sense of direction or lack there of you can’t get lost on Home Island as very small. As only buggy’s or quad bike type things allowed the roads in the main area are lovely small paving squares and a dream to drive on. Very well thought out and neat tidy homes with everyone it seems having one or more boats😁. Once you get a bit further especially along the coastlines the roads become dirt or limestone but as all people have is these little buggy’s even these roads are well maintained. It seems everyone who lives here takes great pride in the place and it shows. The beaches on what they call the lagoon side are pristine and safe as well as photogenic. Even the ones that aren’t on the lagoon side look wonderful. If they were in WA they would be alive with people even with the strong wind as the temp is in the mid to high 20’s and you can’t feel the humidity because of the wind. Apparently it doesn’t blow this hard normally at this time of the year but they do normally get lovely breezes during this period . The whole place is just picture perfect and like being in Malaysia with a western twist. Unfortunately at present no reliably open places to buy a snack or lunch and all a bit random re opening. However there was a pop up doing Malay takeaways outside the Supermarket. It was busy and I wanted to keep going so didn’t bother. Never got lunch and forgot to bring the snacks I usually carry for such occasions (blame the early start). I also realised on the way home that other than my water bottle I hadn’t even drunk enough water. There was just so much to cover and I got caught up😁. There was a restaurant but it has been closed for renovations and it looks like it is going to be sizeable. They have a shop which is pretty good but to stay here you would have to cook or go back and forward to West Island on the ferry.

I did a tour of Oceania House the home of the Clunies Ross dynasty until 1983. The tour was an hour and I had the guide on my own and it was fantastic as is the house. Because she gave me so much information I am going to do a separate section about that tour and what I learned. As there was so much it might take a while for me to remember and be sure I have got as much as I can down. There is a book apparently you can buy here about the dynasty but it is written by a CluniesRoss and as such should be read in context😏.

I did among many things go out to the cemetery where I got photographs of 4 Clunies Ross grave and also one that is in the grounds of the house. They seemed to be the only Christian graves amongst the rest who are Malay and I assume Islamic faith. The cemetery is still being used. Before you get too high expectations I was so entranced with what I was being told during the tour I didn’t take photos inside the house. Anyway a photo wouldn’t do it justice. To soften the blow I will tell you that there is a Clunies Ross living on West Island but none on Home island☹️.

I have taken lots photos of my buggy tour but they won’t give you the reality. It is a real piece of paradise albeit a very isolated piece and I am not sure if any one who is not Malay or was or has links even lives on the island. It seems a very Malay enclave although over the years the locals have developed a few quirks to their ancestry that are quintessentially Home Islanders quirks. It is basically a Kampong.

I am just writing this and chilling out after a busy day and have eaten a bit and drunk lots water so back on track. I seem to have mastered my car’s oddities but still very careful and am not going to get cocky.

I am off on a motorised canoe tour tomorrow. Bit of a worry me and canoe skills😂😏. According to my paperwork we meet outside the guides house(about 3 down from me) at 0550hrs . However whether that still holds not sure. I have learned to expect the unexpected and roll with the dice🤣. The weather remains sunny and dry so I am hoping for good things over the weekend. Might actually get wet other than from the rain🤣🤣.

Home Island photos:

The lovely gazebo type structure on the island with it unique centre and looking out to the ferry jetty.

My buggy,a typical street on Home Island,

[periantari]

I’m not a descriptive writer but I liked how I wrote this - part of a multichapter fanfic I’m working on

There was a smell of salt water while persistent waves crashed down upon a foundation of stone. The structure had fallen and the powerful waves had ruined its once spectacular establishment. There was only a remnant of a citadel that once stood. Another one the proud head of a statue was no more, chipped away by the unrelenting waves.

The wave towered over an entire city, and when Faramir could almost feel the water upon him. He started to run.

Suddenly, thunder and lightning became visible in the background as the dark clouds threatened closer, coming to envelop the old stone structures and him. He heard someone weeping for his son, but could not make out who it was and why he heard that. Distracted by the drops of rain that were falling from the overcast sky.

Now hues of turquoise and blue swirled about. Faramir felt cold dark sand seeping between his toes. The wave still threatened from a distance and started to envelop everything in its path, inching closer to him. The wind had picked up and gusty gales of seawater and spray doused him. Dark wraiths on wings suddenly appeared and tried to snatch Faramir but he kept running and running. The wraiths and the waves were gaining on him. He slipped on the cool sand upon the puddles of salt water. He tried to rise up but suddenly, it went cold.

[magevivika]

Emotional Landscape

The wind pulls at my shawl but it remains fastened with a button and a fist nestled in the stitches. My feet are enveloped in thick socks and sturdy boots as I walk the land covered in moss and low shrubs. Though the sky is overcast it is not rain I feel on my face but the spray of the sea as the waves crash far below the cliff and break onto the ragged rocks.

If I turn back I see the little cottage, made of stone and thatch, where my cat warms herself by the hearth but the only warmth of which I can imply from the smoke gently billowing from the chimney. My eyes are set to the vastness of the sea, however. Despite the drama at the shore the ocean is vast and stretches out to the horizon then beyond where my perception ends. There is so much more for me to experience. Where I meet with others is where the focus often rests as they cannot perceive further than that - some not even that far - but I know the depths that I can return to whenever I choose.

It is no one’s business but my own, my grief, though I may choose to share it at times. To have connected to something or someone is a gift I do not neglect to acknowledge. But nothing is eternal. Knowing that a flower will wilt, for me, does not diminish its beauty. The fleeting nature of life, in all its forms, enhances my appreciation of each unique form it will briefly assume the release. That is what we do here: appreciate, feel, and release.

Once I have walked the edge of the cliff and listened to the raging of the seas then I can return to that comfortable place by the fireside. All the pieces, the memories, that I have left are mine to cherish. No one can take them from me. I may choose to share them or simply enjoy them in solitude. A smile as my mind wanders back, a breath of laughter, or a sigh of relief. It is up to me. I have that choice.

[omlsheen]

DULL NIGHT

18 + DNI MINORS

Words : 2k

Author’s notes : for my bestest friend who i’ve loved for 4 years 😐 @karasukakikomi. Sometimes I think about how friendship and question things. Anyway, Reiji is mine.

Summary : Reiji invites you to dinner in the mansion with his brother. He catches you flirting with one of his brothers, Shu. Reiji gets jealous and punishes you.

A day that’s gray and cloudy overcast and with a dull, sunless sky. The night was windy and gloomy. Everything is silent, the streets. As if it isn't even alive, just like a ghost town. The breezy wind rustles through the leaves of trees as tall lamp posts shine a yellow light throughout the streets.

Reiji invites you for dinner to meet his brothers. You get in his elegant sleek black car.  Reiji enters the driver's seat and turns on the ignition. You put on your seatbelt. 

Click…

As you and Reiji drove off away from your house, it started to rain. Raindrops fell from the gloomy, cloudy sky as they hit the car windows. Puddles began to form on the sidewalks as you looked out the closed car window. The rain on the car danced with spray, and you could hear thunder and the murmuring of the rain through the window. It sounded like the buzzing of swarming bees. 

The soothing sound of rain makes you close your eyes, and you fall deep asleep. As you open your eyes, you see Reiji next to you. 

“We are here,” Reiji approaches you as he leans to unbuckle your seatbelt.

You step out of the car with a small smile, beginning to appear on your face as you lay your eyes on the mansion. Gigantic doors open, and low dimmed candles welcome you as you enter. Extensive windows with blackout curtains shine a glimpse of light from the moon. A beautiful extended, narrow red carpet lies on the stairs. Alluring decorative lights hang from the living room as each light bulb gleams in the whole room. 

“Come meet my brothers,” Reiji holds your hand and approaches the dining room table. He introduces you to his brothers.

“This is Laito.” Reiji points with his hand at the five men who are standing in front of you

“Hey, Bitch-chan!” Laito licks his fangs.

“Knock it off!” Reiji aggressively pulls you away from Laito.

“Sorry, about Laito,” Reiji politely apologized

“No, that’s alright,” You answered.

Reiji continues and introduces the rest of his brothers.

“This is Ayato. He is the troublemaker of this household,” Reiji answered as he looked at you. 

“I’d expect a woman like her to be a bit larger up there, but I guess Chichinashi is a fitting name,” Ayato chuckled.

You backed away from Ayato and had an irritated facial expression as Reiji looked at Ayato with his eyes.

“That’s enough. Why don’t you follow me to the dining room?” 

You politely said, “Reiji, you forgot to introduce me to the rest of your brothers.” 

“Forget it. They are going to be rude towards you anyway.” 

You hesitated. You took a glimpse of one of his brothers that he did not introduce, and you slightly smiled. He smiled back. 

You glance at the table strategically set as if it were set for the queen. Red and white flowers on vases filled with water in the middle of the table. Sparkling silverware was placed delicately on white floral vintage placemats. The lights are dimmed low as classical music plays from the background. 

You sat down next to Reiji.

“Anyway, this is Kanato, Subaru, and Shu.” Reiji points to each of them as he calls out their names.

You are star-struck by one of his brothers that smiled at you earlier. A nice-looking man with handsome features, including light ocean blue eyes kinda looks like the deep blue sea. Slightly curled blond hair and he has two black studs on both of his ears. You finally know his name, Shu.

“Everybody this is Y/N.” Reiji smiled. 

The rest sat down and Shu sat next to you. 

“How is everyone doing?” Reiji asked as he motioned his hands to grab a plate of food in the middle of the table. 

They all answered the question as they interrupted one another. 

“One at a time,” Says Reiji.

“Laito, how have you been?” 

“I’m good.” Laito rolled his eyes.

“How about you, Ayato?” 

“I’m fine I guess,” Ayato said.

“So, I guess you all will answer the same thing then.” Reiji annoyingly sliced his steak with his fork and knife. 

Dinner was silent. Everyone ate their food quietly.

You took a glance at Shu for a second. He noticed, and looked at you back. You looked away with a hint of blush on your cheeks. 

“So, how are you Shu?” You asked.

“I’m okay, it’s boring here,” Shu answered with a smile on his face.

“How about you, Y/N?” 

“Oh um, I'm doing pretty good.” You answered back as your cheeks blush even more.

Reiji notices, but was not bothered at first.

As time passed, everyone finished eating their dinner. Maids came and cleaned the dining table.

Reiji got up.

“Should we look around the house?” Reiji answered as he fixed his tie. 

You got up from the chair and followed Reiji. The others stayed in the living room, but Shu followed you and Reiji. 

Reiji asked, “Why are you here, Shu?”

“I just wanted to follow you around the house.” As Shu focused his eyes on you.

Reiji squinted his eyes at Shu, unsure of what he was about to do.

“Alright, you can follow us around the house,” Reiji grabs and holds your hand.

As Reiji walked towards his room, you looked back to Shu. He focused his eyes on you with no hesitation. 

Reiji looked back and you two immediately looked away from each other's eyes. 

Reiji opens the door to his room.

“Here is my room,” Reiji implied. “It’s nothing special.”

As you step foot into the room, dimmed lights twinkled your eyes. Polished cabinets full of glistening silverware and cups. 

“Your room is very pretty, Reiji.” You looked at Reiji and smiled. 

Reiji smiled back with a blush on his face.

“I have to get something from another room. Shu can you look after Y/N for me. I will be right back.”

Reiji walks towards the door as he exits the room, leaving you with Shu all alone.

“He-” You paused.

“I like you.” Shu interrupts you.

“Oh um, thank you. That is very flattering of you.” 

Shu grabbed your hand. 

“Shu, please. Reiji will be back and he might see you holding my hand.” You answered with fear in your voice.

“I don’t care.” He answered as his eyes still focused on yours.

You heard heavy footsteps coming from outside of the room. Reiji opened the door and you immediately pulled Shu’s hands away from your hand. 

Reiji looked at both of you. His smile slowly turned into a frown while he was holding the flowers he brought for you. 

Reiji threateningly walked up to Shu.

“Get out now!” Reiji shouted.

Shu obeyed. He opens the door and slams it behind him as he walks out of the room. 

“What was that?!” Reiji is filled with anger.

“It was nothing. I swear.” Your eyes filled with horror.

Reiji locks the door. He grabs you and pushes you down on his bed. He opens his closet and takes out a whip and handcuffs. 

“Reiji, what are you about to d-” You answered with fear.

“Stop talking.” He interrupted.

Reiji slowly lends towards you and grabs your wrist as he puts the handcuffs on you. Your face is filled with terror, but at the same time, you like it. You told Reiji to stop, but he became more aggressive.

He began to take off your clothes. He slipped your shirt up to your face using it as a blindfold. He took every inch of clothing from your body. Reiji flipped you over. Your back is now facing him as he made you arch your back. 

He didn’t take off his clothes, only his glasses. He brings out a whip. Whipping his hands while he gets into a good position to whip you.

“Reiji, please.” You murmured.

He did not answer. 

He pulled back with a force. The sharp crack of the bounded leather as it contacts your ass. The stings are worse than a slap. Only hitting a certain area, but you like it. 

Tears come falling down your face, but they are happy tears. You are worried about Reiji catching you with Shu.

You asked yourself “Is this why he is like this? Jealousy?” 

Every time, he whips you even harder. You are not breaking. You want to tell him to stop, but you feel good. 

He unfastened his leather belt before unzipping the material of slacks. He spat on the palm of his hand before stroking his hand along the shaft of his hardened cock. He spat out a dab of his saliva onto your pussy for lubrication. 

He slipped it in as you moaned very loud. He reached down and covered your mouth. He aggressively penetrates you. It reaches your sweet spot. You can’t stop moaning, it feels so good. 

He turned you over to your side and lifted your right leg. He rested your leg onto his shoulder. Every time you moaned he put it inside even deeper. He had no intention of stopping. Reiji was jealous. He put all his anger toward you and made you pay for it. 

He lifted you up and put your body on top of him while his dick was still inside you. He grabbed your hips and rocked you back and forth. A slight moan hints out of his mouth. You couldn't see anything, you were still in the blindfold, but you could tell that he liked it. 

He was so intense. He kept going, he would not stop. He was filled with anger and jealousy. Your face filled with tears as they dripped down the bed sheets. 

You were getting uncomfortable and your thighs hurt by the second. You couldn't handle him. 

"Reiji, please stop!" As you kicked him away from you. You couldn't use your hands because you were still in handcuffs. 

You broke down crying. Reiji stood up quickly, zipping up his pants and releasing you from the handcuffs. Once your wrists were free, you quickly pulled down your shirt that he used as a blindfold. You curled yourself on the corner of the bed as you were scared to even look at him. 

"I'm sorry. I went too far." Reiji tries to pull you in closer as he holds your hand.

You pulled away. You didn’t recognize him. It was like he was not himself anymore.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was frustrated after I saw you and Shu." Reiji picked up your clothes from the ground as he put them on for you. 

Your hands move him away. You grasp your clothes away from his hand, putting them on. You stood up from the bed leaving Reiji behind. You opened the door, slamming it behind you. 

He runs after you. He didn’t want you to go. Reiji still loves you. As he was getting close, he hugged you from behind, stopping you from walking away further from him.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." Reiji kisses you on the forehead and the lips.

"Shu was holding my hand. I forced my hand away, but he insisted." You were distressed. 

"I believed you." Reiji pulled you in even closer, hugging you tightly. He wiped your tears away, and you hugged him back.

You both said sorry to each other.

"It won't happen again," Said Reiji.

You two both smiled at each other as you rested your head on his shoulder. 

"Let's get out of here," Reiji holds your hand tightly. 

Reiji did not even say goodbye to his brothers. He casually opens one side of the gigantic door. As both of you walked out of the mansion, leaving the brothers behind. He opened the car door for you as you entered. He closed the door and walked to the other side of the car to open his side of the door. He turns on the car's ignition.

He took a glance at you as a glimmer of a smile filled his face.

"I love you," Reiji softly said.

"I love you too, Reiji." 

He held your face pulling you in closer to him and kissed you on the cheek. He backed away as he drove off from the mansion.

[zarvasace]

I want to know how the boys in your disability au celebrate their birthdays, please and thank you ^u^

@arecaceae175

Thanks so much guys, I needed something to write! I didn't really mean to, but this ended up combining these two prompts and is longer than I thought it would get.

Pineapple

LU, gen, Wind-centric, disability AU, 99.9% fluff. ~4k words. AO3 link here, and I suggest you read it over there for maximum chapter-break impact! ;)

---1

He didn't regret it. Not one little bit. 

Wind had seen the opportunity, he'd run the consequences through his head, and he'd decided that Legend's head was way more important. So he'd run, he'd leaped, and he'd let his leg get caught between a nasty set of serrated teeth as he pushed Legend over. 

He remembered what it felt like to get dragged through the air by the ties on his prosthetic, and how the leather had bitten into the end of his leg, slightly swollen from a day of walking. He remembered seeing the overcast sky as he landed hard, and wondering if it would rain. He remembered frowning when the spray of liquid that coated him a few seconds later didn't taste like rain, fresh or salty. 

It had been, of course, blood.

And now Wind sat upright against a tree, staring at his lap and the mangled remains of his wooden leg. It had been a nice leg, his first real one that he didn't need to worry about. The leg now ended above the ankle with splintered wood and stretched leather. He wouldn't be able to walk on it. He wouldn't be able to walk at all. 

At least Four had crutches that Wind knew he'd be able to borrow. They were a little small, but he'd manage. He refused to be dead weight. He wouldn't complain, because he didn't want Legend to feel bad. He'd be okay. 

Still… the sight of that sad leg almost made Wind want to cry. He didn't know when he'd be able to get a new one, and he was less useful without it. The others were sure to baby him even more now. 

Maybe he could save the leather and find a nice stick to replace the wood part. Hyrule was good at finding sticks. 

Of course, that's when the portal showed up, and Warriors came over to help Wind up through it. 

---2

With the gold of the candle on the table licking over the wood and leather of the contraption in Legend's lap, along with the bright white light from the moon in the window, he could see his work just fine. His head ached a little as he stuck the needle into the leather to keep it there and stretched his arms over his head. Ugh. At least this thing was almost done. 

Legend knew that Warriors had been keeping very good track of the days, going so far as to do so in every era's calendar. While most of their time periods used the same division of weeks and months, or very close to it, a few used something wildly different.

Sky's months didn't last as long, but he had four extra months in there that seemed to disappear from Four's calendar, though not very long before him. Hyrule's year had random weeks at the equinoxes that weren't part of any month at all. Wild's world had reduced the calendar to four vague seasons and four transitional periods, though his holidays seemed to match up to Warriors's. 

Wind's calendar, though… now that was a mess. Apparently, his world didn't have normal seasons, it had a wet half of the year and a dry half of the year. Dry being relative, of course. Wind claimed that his weeks were five days long, not seven, and that each week had a unique name that combined into some traditional poem. He said he knew the important ones: wet-golden week was his birthweek, dry-seafoam was Aryll's, and dry-beach was Tetra's and  grandma's, but he didn't know all the names of the other weeks.

It sounded like a mess to Legend. Someone had to be insane to come up with a system like that, though he did have to admit that a five-day week sounded nice. Wild, of course, was fascinated, and Warriors took it as a personal challenge to find someone in Wind's world who knew the calendar. He wrote it out in his notebook and dutifully kept track of every calendar, noting holidays and anniversaries. Warriors's diligence was rewarded about a week ago, when they returned to Sky's world to find that he'd kept accurate count. His records confirmed that the portals taking them from era to era did so in a parallel manner, so five days here was five days anywhere. 

And, according to him, Wind's birthweek began tomorrow. 

So, with eight days to go, Warriors had set a plan in motion that the rest of them snapped up with as much secrecy as they could muster. This wasn't the first birthday that had passed while they were together, but it was the first that they knew was coming and could do something about. Besides, their gifts were obvious. 

While at a floating market on the Great Sea once, Wild had picked up a few books about tradition and culture. Though apparently not everyone celebrated so thoroughly, each day of one's birthweek had a symbol associated with it, and each of those symbols could be represented with food. In fact, it seemed that the tradition of gift-giving had nearly died out in favor of just sharing food. Legend wouldn't mind that so much. 

On the first day, you had coffee without sweeteners to say that although this year may have been bitter, you had the energy to make it this far. You could have coffee with sweeteners at the end of the day. 

The second day, you had pineapple or tomatoes in as many recipes as you could handle so that the acidity could clear out any lingering pains.

On the third day, you made eggs, usually with pork and rice, to symbolize the sun and the new day beginning. 

You ate something expensive, hard to get, or hard to prepare on the fourth day. It was supposed to represent all the good things you would fill the new year with. Wild's book suggested sea urchins, which in Legend's experience, was expensive, hard to get, and hard to prepare. 

The fifth day, of course, had something sweet and hearty that you shared with as many people as you could. On the Great Sea, that meant everyone on your small island. 

Wild looked forward to cooking all that food, and most of the group had fallen into figuring out where to get everything. Sky, however, had a different idea, and recruited Four and Legend into making a more traditional birthday gift for Wind. It was good luck that they'd ended up on Skyloft, where they could get good-quality materials and had access to equipment. They'd worked hard to keep Wind distracted, and to finish up their gift in time. 

Legend worked on the finishing touches, stitching leather in a decorative but sturdy pattern. He hadn't done much of the work on this actual gift, but he'd done a lot of distracting, mostly by letting Wind fool around with some of the more harmless of his items. Wind probably thought that he was doing it because he felt responsible for Wind's leg getting absolutely destroyed, and that wasn't entirely wrong, but it wasn't quite right, either. 

Stifling a yawn, Legend tied off his last string and shoved his work back in the bag. He arranged it behind a few barrels of Sky's small childhood home before heading out to the bedroom to get some Din-damned rest.

---3

Hyrule tapped his heels against the chair legs, holding a cup of coffee in both hands as he listened to the others slowly getting up. Something about Skyloft just invited sleeping in. Even considering that, the Heroes were a determined bunch, and the absolutely delicious smell of this morning's breakfast definitely played a role in getting them up. 

Yesterday, Hyrule had gone to Skyloft's bazaar arm-in-arm with Wild to get the last few things they needed for Wind's weird birthday thing. Hyrule didn't have any traditions like that, none that he actually celebrated, anyway, but he was excited to participate in Wind's. Wild picked up a bunch of Skyloft eggs—which he swore were the best he'd ever had—and then he and Hyrule found a coffee bean merchant. 

Hyrule was now no longer under the impression that coffee was just coffee. That merchant carried different breeds, different blends, different flavors. Hyrule wanted to try them all, but he refrained. After smelling a lot of kinds and listening to the merchant prattle on about them, Hyrule ended up choosing a sweeter kind that he thought Wind would love. This was for him, after all. 

And it was delicious. Hyrule liked things on the sweeter side, so he usually loaded up any coffees or teas he got with honey or sugar or milk or whatever it was Wild had available that day. However, the tradition here was to drink it unsweetened, and with this blend, Hyrule barely minded. 

"Morning," Twilight said from the doorway into the kitchen. 

Hyrule smiled. "Good morning, Twilight. Sleep well?" 

"Yeah, it's nice here. I can't blame Sky for being so sleepy all the time, if he grew up here." Twilight made his way to the kitchen counter and poured himself some of the coffee. "Did you make this?" he asked after a second. 

"Oh, no, I might have ruined it, you know I'm awful with food. Wild made it, he just went out to do something."

"It's really good. Even without any milk." Twilight set down his mug with a clunk and started to scoop some food from the skillet onto a plate. 

"It is," Hyrule agreed. "Wild wouldn't tell me how much it cost, so… probably a lot."

Twilight sat down across from him. "I like this tradition."

Hyrule laughed. "I think I do, too. I wonder if we'll have any left over to use for someone else."

One by one, the others filtered into the kitchen. Sky yawned loudly, making Hyrule laugh again. Did he even know he was loud about it? Wild came back in and demonstrated making more of the coffee to Time, who'd asked about it. The house was a little bit cramped, so Four came in with his crutches rather than his chair, and Wind followed a few minutes later. 

"Ooh, coffee," Wind said with a smile in his voice. He clearly expected someone to tell him no, like they did most of the time. He paused, and then in the most incredulous tone Hyrule had ever heard from him—

"Cyclos's teeth, Time, are you actually giving me coffee?" 

Four snorted something out of his nose, and someone pounded his back to help him cough it out as he laughed. 

"Special occasion," Time hedged. 

Wind tapped his toes against the floor. "If this special occasion is my leg being gone, I'm going to knock your teeth so hard you'll see stars in both your eyes."

"That's not it at all," Sky interrupted before Time could dig the hole any deeper. "I want to go flying today, and thought you in particular might want to come along."

"Oh?" Wind immediately got distracted. He made his way over to the table to sit down, only using one crutch so that he could carry the coffee cup. "Yeah, I want to!" 

Hyrule smiled to himself and finished off his own cup. 

---4

Wild liked pineapple. 

Correction: he had liked pineapple. A little sour, a little sweet, a pleasing crunch, a fruity zing to all kinds of things… Pineapples were very, very nice. 

Until you made them in every dish for an entire meal. He'd made pineapple cake, pineapple chicken, pineapple ham, pineapple greens, a pineapple dressing for the pineapple salad, pineapple casserole, pineapple smoothie, pineapple bread. He did not eat any of the bread. His tongue was tired, and he wished that he'd foreseen his hubris and made plain rice. Plain rice sounded wonderful right about now. 

"What possessed you?" Wind asked from the bench at the kitchen table, staring at the (rather numerous) leftovers. Everyone else had fled after eating as much as they could handle. "Wild, I've seen you do themed dinners before, but that was the weirdest thing I've ever seen you do. Why pineapples?" 

Wild sighed at the tin of fancy coffee he'd picked up with Hyrule. "We had too many."

There was no way Wind believed that. 

---5

The next morning, Warriors made himself some rather bitter tea to try and get rid of the lingering sweetness of pineapple. Whoever said that pineapple represented scouring away your failures was wrong. The taste would now only ever remind Warriors that he'd eaten far too much. The tea helped, though, and Wild stayed pointedly away from pineapple as he and Twilight fried up some bacon and eggs. 

How did anyone stand to celebrate a birth week? Warriors wondered if people stopped celebrating like this when they got older, or if they just did it in token rather than full-on. 

Wind was the last to get to the kitchen that morning. He'd spent most of the day yesterday—before the pineapple—running errands with Warriors and Sky, mostly taking important things to be mended or replaced entirely. Hyrule had needed a new bedroll, and Wind was only too happy to help pick one out, since Hyrule wouldn't do it himself if he knew the prices. 

The walking and talking and a bit of sparring later really tired Wind out. Warriors was impressed by how well he got on with the crutches, but they were visibly a bit too small, and not Wind's preference. He'd been exhausted at the end of the day, and woke up late this morning. 

Wind sat down, then someone slid a plate of fried-egg-topped rice in front of him and he frowned at it. Warriors raised his eyebrows, waiting. He knew how smart Wind was. 

"Okay," Wind said, and every other conversation in the kitchen stalled. "Is it someone's birthweek—birthday, I guess—and nobody told me?"

Warriors put his teacup down with a click and raised his hands. 'Why would you think it was?'

Wind gave him a flat look. "Fancy coffee that nobody told me to stop drinking, all the ridiculous pineapple last night that I can still taste, by the way, and the eggs? How dumb do you think I am?"

'You're not dumb,' Warriors laughed. 

"Yours!" Wind pointed at Time, who looked startled. "It's yours, right?" 

Warriors pulled his notebook out, flipped to the page where he had drawn a grid of Wind's calendar's weeks, and tapped the page. 

With a suspicious look, Wind pulled the notebook closer to him and squinted at the words. Warriors vaguely wondered if they needed to get him glasses. He'd hate that. 

It only took a few seconds for Wind to work out what Warriors was trying to say with the notebook. He looked up. "Mine?" 

"Your world is weird," Four told him. "The rest of us have some traditions regarding food, but nothing this weird. Yes, according to Wars's count, it's your birthday."

A slow grin took over Wind's face as he gave the notebook back. "Wait, you mean it's all been for my birthweek? The coffee, the awful pineapple, and these eggs?" 

"Hey!" Wild called over. "I did a great job with the pineapple!" 

Warriors winced, though it was half a smile, too. 

"For the first dozen bites," Twilight grumbled. 

"Yeah! Why was there so much?" Wind asked, laughing. "We usually just cut up and eat one after dinner, not have everything pineapple-flavored!" 

Wild threw the wooden spatula down on the counter, gave Wind a playful narrow-eyed glare, and pulled a book out of his slate. He flipped to a marked page and shoved it in Wind's face. "Because! It says that's what you do!" 

Wind took the book out of his hands, his nose wrinkling as he squinted to read the words. "Wild, this book is really old."

"Well," Wild said, snatching the book back, "it's what we're using!"

"You didn't have to." Wind leaned his elbows on the table, and Warriors could hear his heel knocking on the bench underneath him. His face turned pink, and he evidently couldn't stop smiling. The energy was infectious, Warriors's cheeks had begun to hurt. 

Sky took his plate to the sink. "We know we don't have to, but we wanted to. Besides, your traditions are unfamiliar, and it's fun to experience them."

"And we always want to eat more food," Time added. 

'What he said,' Warriors signed with a nod at Time. 

Twilight got up to start on breakfast dishes. "Though I will riot if we have pineapple ever again."

'...what he said.' Warriors winced. 

Wind started in on his food with a vengeance. "So… what do you have planned for tomorrow? That's the fancy day." 

"You'll just have to see," Wild told him haughtily. "You little criticizer."

Warriors laughed at Wind's sudden, exaggerated, chipmunk-cheeked pout. 

---6

Twilight poked at the weird chunk of orangeish meat on top of the noodles on his plate. He tried very hard to not look unsure about it, though Legend was right there with him, making faces. It smelled strongly of fish in the room. Wild and Wind dug right in, with Time not too far behind. Warriors seemed to be hesitant, but his face changed when he tried the meal, and of course, Hyrule ate anything and wasn't put off by the appearance. Four didn't seem to have an opinion. Sky took a bite, said it wasn't for him, and scooped his portion of the meat onto Wind's plate. 

"It looks disturbingly like a tongue," Twilight muttered, and Legend grunted in agreement. 

"Close your eyes, I guess." Legend winced one more time, and then did just that. 

Twilight waited to see what he thought of it, stalling for time by wrapping noodles on his fork and eating those. It just tasted like seafood. 

Legend finished chewing and shrugged. "Not bad. Tastes different when it's pulled from the spines and cooked."

The kitchen went quiet. Legend turned red. 

"When it's cooked?" Wind asked. "You've had these before, but raw?" 

Clearly, Legend did not want to give a straight answer. His shoulders climbed a few inches under the attention. "It's not that weird. It's like fish. You don't have to cook a lot of fish."

"Pretty sure you do, actually," Twilight said, appropriately confused. 

Wild perked up. "Actually, no you don't! I've never heard of raw sea urchin, but you can definitely eat fish raw."

"It's true," Wind said, and the conversation devolved into arguing about fish. 

Twilight tried the sea urchin meat. It wasn't that bad. But it still looked like a weird orange tongue. 

---7

"So, uh…" Wind looked at everyone standing and sitting around the small living room of Sky's little cottage. He sat on the fanciest wooden chair at Four's command, the borrowed crutches leaning up against it. "What's all this for?" 

"It's the last day," Sky said, taking point with a smile and flutter of excitement in his chest. This was his idea, after all. 

"I know that. You're all going to so much effort for me, it's not like I need it more!" 

Sky shook his head. "It's fun to celebrate a little, Wind, don't feel bad. Anyway, most of our birthday traditions are a bit different from yours. You know that, too. Ours usually involve dessert—"

"—so does mine!—"

"—and a gift or two," Sky finished. 

Wind's ears turned pink first. "Hold on."

"In my era," Time interrupted, "birthday gifts are small trinkets, things like flower crowns and carved spoons. The birthday celebration is more important, with lots of food and people." 

Wild chimed in. "That's like mine! Though the gifts are usually practical things like clothes or shields."

"We give kinstones and other gifts," Four said. "They can be anything, really, though not too expensive: journals, wind chimes, blankets. It's nice if you can make something." 

Twilight spoke up. "Ours are usually made out of cloth, clothes and blankets and pillows. Though, I think that has less to do with my time period and more with my village." 

"In my time," Legend said, "for every gift you receive, you should give one back to the same person, though it's things like flowers or sling bullets or songs." 

"We do songs!" Hyrule said next, tilting his head. "The one being celebrated usually gives a performance, and then others do them while everyone else eats. I've been to a few!" 

Warriors lifted a hand for attention. 'Birthday gifts in my era are usually purchased. They're something meaningful and practical, and should be chosen with a lot of thought.'

"And here," Sky said in conclusion, pleased with the sudden recap, "gifts are always something you make." He reached behind the bookshelf to pull out the finished gift, wrapped in an extra green blanket. 

Wind was frozen, staring with wide eyes at the thing. "You really, really didn't need to get me anything…"

"We didn't," Legend told him, leaning back in his own chair. "We made it."

Four had a wide smile on his face as he watched Sky set the bundle in Wind's lap. "I did the mechanisms, Legend did the stitching, and he and I worked together on the enchantments, with a bit of help from Hyrule, of course. Sky designed it, refined it, and did the woodwork." 

Sky bit his lip as he watched Wind unwrap the blanket. He hoped they hadn't overstepped or made too big of a deal out of it all. He knew that Wind had a habit of seeing any extra attention as coddling, but he hoped that Wind saw this whole thing as what it was—an excuse to eat something interesting and relax, as well as a very practical gift with a bit of extra love in it. 

Wind threw off the last fold of blanket. Sitting on his lap was a new prosthetic leg. The attachment and laces were patterned directly after the intact pieces of his old leg, recreated and reinforced by Legend. The rest of it was turned wood with a metal interior, a sturdy post that ended with a rubber tip. 

Four leaned in. "It has a spring inside, so it'll absorb some shocks. And that part is adjustable, see the screw? You won't have to deal with it being too short again, at least not for a long time. There are enchantments to keep it clean, to absorb some shock, and to resist elements and damage, a lot like what's on my chair and Legend's cane."

"Zephos's song," Wind swore, picking up the prosthetic. His eyes blew wide open. "It's so light. You guys…"

"Is it okay?" Sky asked. 

Wind laughed loudly and suddenly, a carefree sound that lightened the air and seemed to make the curtains rustle in a breeze. "Okay? This is amazing. You guys!" He pushed the blanket off of his lap and went right into attaching the leg. Legend and Four threw instructions at him about lacing and adjusting. Everyone else exchanged looks and wide smiles, relieved and very glad that the gift had been received well. 

"Oh yeah!" Wild straightened. "Cake! I made cake! Come on, Wars, let's go get some."

Time eyed him. "What kind did you make?" he asked suspiciously. 

Wild turned around and clasped his hands innocently. "Pineapple!" 

"You didn't," Hyrule burst, looking comically horrified. Sky covered his mouth to muffle a snort. 

'Hyrule's not the only one who'll stab you for that,' Warriors signed, and Sky repeated the words out loud for everyone's benefit. 

"I lied, I lied!" Wild shrieked as Warriors reached for him. "It's vanilla! I promise!" 

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

Sea of Ghosts. End of autumn. The furious wind absent, silenced by a stern word. Timbers creak below Jurgen's feet as the ship sways slowly with the role of the tide. He moves with it on instinct, shifting weight from one foot to the other, one hand grasping a rope overhead, the other hanging loose and easy by his side. Metal clacking as his crews wench tight the harpoon-ropes, sad whisper of wind around a mast bereft of its sail. These things he knows without seeing, like he knows that if he lowered his gaze he'd see, in the distance, the thin white line representing the Dawnstar coast.

He doesn't lower his gaze. His eyes are raised to the overcast sky.

"Taljekam?" calls his bosun. Do you see it?

"Hilyekam," Jurgen replies in the same tongue. Waiting. "Kaan," he adds, a soft thrum that sends a breeze through the air. The wind feels it too.

And then it appears. Through the low clouds sinks a bulbous white belly, small at first but seeming to grow ever-wider as it descends. A pair of fins larger than a man appear next to churn the hazy grey sky. With the beat of a massive tail the whale dips towards the ocean, its blunt head finally breaking through the cloud-layer, descending weightlessly, carelessly, as if its gentle black eyes have failed to see the boat.

There are gasps. There's a sense of awe. This motley crew of ten in the middle of an ocean far from their native Port Telvannis have never seen such a beautiful thing. There is stillness, wonder, and then Jurgen barks: "Let fly!"

The whale has only just taken her first sip of water when the harpoon rams into its flank.

She's silent as she dies. She thrashes once, but her light-as-air body is too slow to make good an escape, and three more harpoons fired in quick succession tether her to the little rocking boat. She's silent, silent behind the straining ropes and the grunts of men and mer reeling her in, silent when they pull her close enough that her bright red blood spills onto the flank of the ship. The crew have trained for this; they pull her flush against the ship so that her tail dangles behind them and her blunt head comes to rest at the prow, only a foot from Jurgen.

Jurgen himself is unable to move. She's not so big as he's heard sky-whales can get, only about as long as his little Telvannis ten-men, but her dewy black eye is as large as his hand and it's fixed on him. He'd thought she would fight against her death, he'd expected writing death-throes and a vicious battle while her shocking-red blood gushes onto the planks. But her gaze is devoid of hope, just as it is devoid of judgement. She stares at him only with a mournful sadness.

"Erufi el!” the bosun shouts at him. Kill it.

"Krii" says Jurgen and the whale dies.

Jurgen helps his crew haul the carcass onto the deck, and his crew repay him by pretending not to notice that he's weeping all the while. Then again, maybe they all are, who can say, perhaps the salty wet on their faces is the dew from her skin or the sea-spray in the air now that the wind, thinking Jurgen won't notice its misbehavior, has picked up again. The world seems a little bluer now, in contrast to the vivid red spilling across their boots.

Never mind. The young Tongue and his crew have triumphed.

The sail is hoisted again. The whale's steaming-hot body is secured to the deck. Jurgen, wiping tears off of his face, climbs back to his perch on the prow. Now is not the time for crying, but the time to rejoyce, the time for him to return proudly to his father, having proven himself by his impossible prize.

And yet-- when Jurgen speaks the first word that will carry them back east, “Kaan”, Kyne-- the wind hits the whale's body and blows it all away as snow.

[sl-walker]

Blindsided, Part 22

Read prior parts here.  Sign up to be tagged when this fic (or any of mine!) updates here.  Read it on AO3 here.

--

The beauty of the moss being used to create guidelines was that it wasn’t constrained to just their room.  Instead, thanks to Obi-Wan having Maz's blessing, he was able to paint (plant?) it throughout the castle.

So, of course, that was what he did.

He took the tiny spray applicator and the rest of the packets of moss and started with the hallway outside of their room, and then moved on, trying to think of every place Maul might want to go and how to place the moss to warn him of obstacles.  Beyond that, Obi-Wan had to account for the fact that it glowed once it was established and would be visible to other people, so there had to be some artistry involved, too.

(He could not, for instance, write a lewd letter to his beautiful boy on the walls talking about where he wanted to put his tongue in graphic detail.  But the thought did occur while Obi-Wan was brainstorming, and he giggled and blushed and ignored the beings eying him curiously as they walked by him.  The number of marks still on his neck probably didn’t help matters.)

He ended up doing winding vines and leaves for the hallway lines, though, falling into an almost meditative state as he turned a disability accommodation for his Force sensitive lover into something of an art piece.  At each public door, he painted something different to illustrate what was on the other side, though that was less for Maul and more for the people who could see it and didn’t know where everything was; drink tankards and a plate with a loaf of bread on it for the bar, a cute caricature of Maz outside of her ‘office’, a spiral staircase outside of the stairwell.  Other things.

"I see you're sprucing up this old haunt of mine," Maz commented to him as she passed him by.

Given Obi-Wan was paused by a door to the outside which would lead to the woods and the lakeshore and was in the middle of painting an actual spruce in illustration of that fact, he snorted and flicked a bit of nutrient water at her.  But he was smiling as she laughed at him and went on her way.

Obi-Wan had studied art, enough of it to make conversations with people; it was expected that he should be able to engage with a number of high-born subjects, given he was supposed to be the nephew of Sheev Palpatine.  But he had never tried his hand at art himself, until now.

He was doing fairly well with it, he thought; he was still working in the bar whenever he could, but he also spent a couple hours every day moss-painting, and he could see his own skills improving over time.

When he showed it to Maul after he was finished, the door with the trees and the lake painted beside it, and watched Maul take it in with a smile tugging on his lips -- admiration and pride and love singing down their bond -- Obi-Wan thought perhaps he would keep experimenting with living mediums and expand his ability to make beautiful things for Maul.

When he saw it glowing himself a few days later in a soft gold, he decided he definitely would.

--

--

Winter in this hemisphere of Takodana coincided with the Festival of Stars, which was mildly amusing because the sky was overcast more often than not.  Outside, the lake was freezing over and the snow fell thick over the mountains and forests; blanketed the castle and made walking outside a little more treacherous than most non-fur bearers appreciated.

Despite the cold and ice outside, though, Maz tended to throw quite a party during all of the galactic holidays.  The castle was packed with regulars and new people who lived on the fringes of the more civilized galaxy; a lot of beings had to sleep aboard their ships because there simply wasn’t room for them inside.

Obi-Wan smiled every time someone complimented the glowing moss paintings adorning the walls.  Thanks to the bustle of the holiday, he was able to pick up extra time in the bar, serving and bussing and even taking a turn on the dishwasher; the tips were better and even though it would take him ten years to save up for cybernetic eyes and surgery at this rate, he was still in high spirits.

One of his favorite bands was playing, there was dancing, there were shouts for more drinks or more food or requests for songs, and for all of the terrible things he had learned about people under Master’s teachings -- how selfish and cruel they could be -- he could see the good in them in moments like this.  He wasn’t a Force-native empath like Maul was, but even he could feel the good will and shared joy of dozens of species of sentient beings, all coming together to celebrate in a place where all were welcomed, and it made Obi-Wan-- oddly hopeful.

(At times like these, he thought he would have made a poor Sith; while he knew he could kill any one of these people, with the exception of Maz and Gissk, should they threaten him or Maul, he also wanted to see them in their best light.)

The only thing missing from this celebration was his lover.

Being around crowds was hard for Maul; beyond how much mental pressure he felt there, he just was so badly socialized that he spent most of his time darting looks at any exit he could whenever he was surrounded by too many people and it wasn’t for the purpose of a job.  He could grow fond of individuals, albeit often slowly, but even then there were only a handful who Maul even tentatively trusted.  And only two -- Obi-Wan and Maz -- that he deeply did.

He was much more comfortable with droids, which Obi-Wan thought was downright bizarre given Maul’s Living Force alignment, but Maul had explained once, “There’s no weight with them.  I can’t feel them pressing on me.  I can sense them, but it’s not the same.  And-- they’re more honest.  Even when they’re mistaken, they’re usually honest.”

(Then again, Maul’s most formative years were spent being raised by a droid.  He had been almost exclusively raised by Deenine, unlike Obi-Wan, who had human tutors and more of Master’s attention; that was why, despite being raised in the same place, they had different accents.  Obi-Wan’s was decidedly Coruscanti, while Maul’s was the Inner Core’s received pronunciation.  Both considered high-bred and cultured accents, but not identical.  Anyway, even though Deenine’s legacy was complicated and he had often hurt Maul, droids were what Maul knew; living beings were often a large, highly unpredictable and potentially horrible unknown for him.)

Despite knowing how much Maul didn’t like being in crowds, though, Obi-Wan wished he’d come to the bar.  Maul was so much more comfortable navigating the castle now that he had the moss-paintings to help guide him -- Obi-Wan even outlined the stairs, every single one, painting a stripe on each one -- and a few days ago, Maul had even made it to the bar for a hot bowl of stew and fresh bread, but probably the festival crowd now would prove too much for him.

“Don’t tell me you want more,” he groused, good-naturedly, dragging his thoughts away from his lover as he passed by Gissk’s table, where their crew and their mother was.  Gissk was signaling, maybe for another round of booze; Obi-Wan was in excellent shape, but even his shoulders were getting sore hauling trays of drinks.

“When do you get done working?” Gissk asked back, turning their big green head to follow his progress back to the bar.

“When everyone’s passed out, of course!” Obi-Wan had to raise his voice over the sounds of the people and the band now swinging into their next number, but luckily Gissk’s table was reasonably close.

“Don’t you get a break?” Fara asked, leaned back with an arm around Gissk’s back.

Gissk’s Mandalorian mother was a human woman with such black skin that it looked almost blue, and paired with her short-clipped hair where her clan symbols were shaved in relief and her ink-dark eyes, she was so strikingly beautiful that Obi-Wan felt a flutter of attraction for her in the pit of his stomach; even though he’d never stray (or tell Gissk!), he did flush when she addressed him.  “I’m afraid the tips are too good to take one tonight, Fara; there’s only one person who’d be able to convince me otherwise, and he’s not here.”

“Oh?  Sseems that’ss no longer true,” Gissk said, sounding as smug as a transdoshan could, and Obi-Wan blinked once before whipping around.

Maul stood in the main doorway in that pale gray sweater of his; his posture was tense and he was scanning the crowd, no doubt visualizing them in the Force, before his attention landed on Obi-Wan.  Under the loud ‘static’ of the crowd, Obi-Wan could feel that attention and then the relief down their bond.

The rest of the crowd ceased to matter for the moment entirely as Obi-Wan shoved the tray across the bar and decided now was a perfect time to take a break.

@shadowmaat -  @doorsclosingslowly - @emphasisonthehomo - @blackat-greneys - @vengeful-nerd - @sammelbegriff - @kenobispunk - @sundavr - @mock-ing-bird​ - @fancandy77​

[the-huntress]

Little Moth - Chapter 2 - A Friend

[Thank you to everyone that has read my story so far. I really hope that you enjoy it. My apologies for the slow burn, but all good things come to those that wait… <3]

Masterlist

Y/N Protagonist, female. Reader X Karl Heisenberg. [18+]

Summary: Awoken by the clang of metal another strange dream haunts you as you make your journey towards the ominous ‘village’, searching for your life-long friend, Leon.

Trigger Warnings: Supernatural violence.

Song Suggestion: ‘Keep Me Alive’ by All We Are.

[Photos are my own] The next 24 hours were a blur; bagel, taxi, airport, flight, layover in airport, Frankfurter infused pretzel, flight to worryingly small airport, ride in the back of a 1980s Toyota pick-up truck (with cages full of chickens and feathers flying about), which took you to the smallest train station you’d ever seen (one platform), two steam trains later, a weakened moment of purchasing unidentified brand of cigarettes with picture of a goat on the front from a man that smells profusely like garlic, and then a moment of mildly suppressed panic at being in a completely unknown to you part of the world with not a word of Romanian to your repertoire.

Standing at what kind of looked like maybe the side of a road-ish, you pulled out the badly printed map, co-ordinates and a compass. You looked up at the sky, despite it being overcast the clouds were still thin enough to be able to see roughly where the sun was sat. It was 2pm, your phone no longer had a hope in hell of working out here signal wise, but at least for now, it could tell you the time, after that it would just be you and the sun.

You couldn’t deny as the treck took you further away from the already very small towns and villages, and further into the countryside and wilderness, that the landscape was incredibly beautiful. Snow-capped mountains, like you’d never seen anywhere but the movies graced the horizon, leafless tree branches began to out-number their more lustrous looking sisters, and yet, dotted amongst the white, a spattering of green, forests and woodlands a-like, untouched by the torrents of snow, as if by some magic. The fresh air in your lungs made you feel powerful somehow, like you were on a path leading to destiny, something inside you was being fulfilled. Even during the time sat alone on the steam train, staring at the hillsides and woodlands as they flew past, catching your own reflection in the glass here and there, you’d felt as if you were heading towards something exciting yet familiar.

The day seemed to go much faster than you’d imagined, but then it was late into the year, the days much shorter. Grateful for the fact that you’d chosen to wear a zip up hoodie under your usual work jacket, you still had to give the tops of your arms a rub with your gloved hands. You’d also prepared with thin leggings under your black combat trousers and worn hiking socks under your military boots. There was still more than enough light to see, but the Village was still not yet in sight. The hike had been challenging, your knee was now starting to protest, both with an ache and with a sharpness too it. Just a little further, you thought, wincing against it.

You stopped dead in your tracks. There was a noise nearby but not anything that you were used to. What was that? A train? There were no train tracks running through this part of the wilderness as far as you knew, you’d hoped not at least, else you’d be kicking yourself in the ass if you could have saved yourself from the pain that you were in after all this time. A rumbling, chundering, rickety sound, drawing closer and closer. A light in the distance, a lantern, two of them, swinging wildly now on the front of a carriage and a man’s face, crazed with panic, and what a man, at least two times the size in both height and girth of anyone that you’d ever met before.

“Run my darling adventurer, run, for it is not safe for you here!” He yelled towards you. But you couldn’t, you were frozen solid, seeing now what he was trying to escape; and you’d thought this man was larger than life. What approached behind him… was unearthly. The wind was thrown out of you as you were yanked by the collar and swung onto the back of the carriage. The man had tossed you up to at least temporary safety, although how stable this thing was you did not know. You stared back towards the rear of the carriage, eyes narrowing on what you now identified as your target. In short, you could see some kind of humanoid being, roughly 8 foot tall, muscles rippling, pale, sallow skin, with patches of thick hair covering various parts of its body, a loin cloth, beady, mean cold gold eyes, pointed ears and a mouth full of needle sharp teeth. Hurtling along in front of it, in its grasp were two humungous beasts, covered in shaggy hair, almost like two huge dogs or bears, but with some of the most nightmarish faces that you’d ever seen. All you could see was that fact that they wanted nothing more than to tear you limb from limb.

You didn’t mess around for shit and your pistol was in your hand before you could say ‘boulder punching bastard’. You fired one, two, three times, each shot tearing through the shoulders of the front two beasts.

“You really think that thing is going to take them down?” Yelled the driver, craning his head around to take a quick glance at you. You grimaced, thrown down to the roof by a sudden jolt, and quickly tore your glance back at your enemies. They were closing the gap.

“Make a quick turn, here, around that rock!” You yelled, pointing ahead. The man began his manoeuvre as you’d instructed, and without question, for which you were grateful, you only had a couple of seconds to act and one shot at this. You pulled the aerosol from your pocket. This wasn’t just any can, this was something that you’d created yourself. Looked like a normal deodorant or spray can for sure except for two minor differences; it was re-fillable, and it had a range of up to 15 feet. You swiped the lighter back from your cap and took aim, lighter in your left hand in front, aerosol in your right hand, the U-turn took your right back past the trio as they came tearing down the slope. The noise wasn’t quite deafening, but it was loud enough, and you’d succeeded. The two hairy beasts were covered in flames and yelping, running frantically and tore off into the forest. HAHA! You laughed, another bump and you were back on the roof, stealing a glance at the man steering who had a grin on his face too. “Trick shot!” You called back.

The wolven giant roared in fury, for he was scorched, but his rage burned savagely more so than any flame that you could create.

“Very good little moth, but we need something bigger for that one. In the carriage, the room below you there is something that will help, you will know it when you see it, retrieve it now.” You nodded, not noticing for a moment what he’d called you, but you didn’t have time to think and ask. You slid down through the small hatch in the roof, just wide enough for your body, some kind of sky light you guessed and fell to the floor. The dwindling sun light now blazing red over the horizon and through the silhouettes of the trees lit the inner carriage just enough for you to take in what was around you; a lot of meat for one thing. You were never any good at hiding your thoughts on your face, but no one was here to see that right now. There were a couple of larger crates, a globe, typewriter, trinket boxes. Parts rolled and rattled, but you knew what you were here for, right in front of you on the bed. You pulled yourself back up through the hatch.

“This it?” You called to him, holding up a hefty and yet ornate bow. It seemed to be built in the way that somewhat resembled a modern-day compound bow but had a more traditional look to its materials and smaller details. “That’s the one’” he called back. “Here, take these.” He went to pass a bundle of arrows without quiver, but as he did so the beast threw itself at the back of the carriage. You yelled, the impact threw you into the arrows, your blood now over a few of the heads, and all at once you were thrown into darkness, your back slamming against the floor of the inside of the carriage. Shaking your head, you realised what had happened, scrambling on the floor and grabbing as many of the spilled arrows up as you could. Blood began to soak the garments covering your right hip. It was just a flesh wound, but deep enough to sting, reminding you of a time in your childhood when you’d crawled through brambles and the thorns had left 12 longs scars down your torso.

Back on your feet, you booted the doors open, throwing them into the beast’s face, both his clawed hands firmly sunk into the wood either side of the carriage, half running, half being dragged along. He reared his head and roared at you, and you roared back, raising the first arrow and taking aim. “FUCK YOU!” You cried out, the arrow sliced through his cheek but this only made him angrier, throwing one arm into the carriage now, half in, the other arm pulled him further, you realised quickly with terror that you were very quickly being pinned against the bed at the back. It grabbed you around your waist, yanking you down onto the floor, roaring madly once again, into your face, the foulest smelling breath hot and slick with spittle. Something crashed off the shelf above you and onto its head, almost like it shot out of place of its own accord, against the natural trajectory of the way of which the carriage was now turning. It threw the beast back out of the carriage and you only had a moment to grab onto a fixture on the wall which held tools in place before you felt the carriage begin to topple and hurtle.

You lost count of how many rolls it took, but when it stopped it was deathly silent, like a veil had been pulled over this part of the woods. Rain began to fall on the deathly branches above in the would-be canopy. You pulled yourself out, scathed and bleeding, but you weren’t done. Good job you’d thought to throw on your light armour mid hike. You looked around at the driver, he didn’t say anything, but he was breathing. “Are you ok, friend?” You asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. He brought his head up and looked up at you. “Yes.” He replied, placing one of his hands over yours. You nodded and started walking to the hulking heap of hair, blood and muscle only meters away. With each step you took you felt the presence of something growing behind you, like a shadow. The sound of metal scraping. “He’s here.” You heard your companion breathe. You had no idea who or what he meant, but right now you had one thing on your mind and that was your kill.

Still closing the gap without a falter, you took three arrows that you had clipped to your bag only moments ago, set their heads ablaze with the fluid and lighter. You set them against the nock, the flames burning bright now in your eyes, and a shower of metal, knives, bullets, scraps came flying down from around you and into the flesh of the beast. They didn’t just stop upon impact, they kept going, embedding themselves further and further into its flesh. It bellowed and swung its arms in pain, standing tall above you, arching it’s back, but still you stood your ground, unblinking, until it fell back down to the ground, writhing now. You leapt up onto its twisting shoulder, taking aim with the bow and let the trio of burning arrows do their work, shattering through the skull, two ending it all at once, and one at an angle coming back halfway out of its blood shot eye.

You stayed there for what seemed like an eternity. Staring and waiting. No thoughts going through your mind, the darkness in you waning back to the parts of your mind where it usually hid, flowing away like black smoke or the tide going out.

Something was calling. Not out loud, but in your head, your heart, something was calling just for you, but without any sound. You looked up towards the carriage, which strangely was now upright again, though in a bit of a mess, your friend there besides it, a little worse for wear, and a glint of light, the reflection of the flames that had begun to grow around you in the darkness just beyond, the crunch of the undergrowth, and whatever it was, was gone.

[deithe]

the bones (2,847 words) (1/1)

(an introspective on jason grace. kind of?)

read here on ao3 or read below the cut!

jason falls in love with the human equivalent of a forest fire

(his mother fell in love with the sky itself)

jason grace grew up being told that his destiny was very, very simple.

his first and most important mission, handed down to him from lady juno and mother lupa, was that jason was destined to save rome. that his destiny lay with new rome and camp jupiter, a new romulus to lead the pack to greatness. he would spill so much blood in new rome’s name that the little tiber would overflow and the gods would crown him with a golden laurel made from monster ichor.

he would be everything everyone else needed.

a spear for the senate, a shield for new rome, a standard to replace the one that had been lost, a sword for the gods to wield, and another pack member for lupa. he would be the perfect soldier, a demigod fashioned by two god-mothers for the simple act of being a weapon.

his second duty was that jason was to be nothing like his father.

his father, evil, unpredictable, selfish and cruel, was to be jason’s antithesis. lady juno stressed this, as did the senate, as did his praetors (though praetor saville jason eventually killed in battle, so jason doesn’t take her words to heart anymore). jason was never, ever to be like his father. all sons of jupiter before him were either driven insane or were killed, and jason’s great destiny could not afford for him to do either of those things.

‘hubris’ lady juno once told him, while going through his latin lessons in the damp cold of the den (or wolf house, as she called it), ‘is the thing that kills sons of jupiter’.

so jason was to never be prideful, but at the same time, never to believe he was inferior. he was to be subservient but never meek, he was to be a capable fighter but never violent. he was to be kind but not a pushover. open but not flirtatious.

he was to be perfect. he could not afford anything else.

then he, in the span of a few months, murdered his prateor after finding out she was a traitor, watched his friend be assaulted by a family legacy of prophetic visions which turned him into a paranoid asshole, watched his other friend assume a leadership role, one which he tried to refuse, and fought an army, killed a titan and toppled kronos’ black throne.

he also became praetor and then was promptly kidnapped by lady juno, leaving said other friend with all the responsibility.

then any and all plans the gods had for him were ruined by a daughter of aphrodite with eyes like the earth and a son of hephaestus with a smile like war.

how could jason be the perfect soldier when his loyalties no longer lay with new rome? he loved his home, he loved his siblings-in-arms, he loved the legion-

he loved leo and piper more than the breath in his lungs, than the sky and earth and more than his destiny. he loved them enough to try and find whatever scraps of himself he had. to create something they could love too.

(heracles killed himself after accidentally killing his family. love killed him in the end)

and so, jason failed in his first mission. he could no longer put new rome above them, above camp half-blood.

jason doesn’t think becoming his father is an option for him, however. his father is prideful and arrogant and his father's likeness, he will eventually learn, belongs only to his prodigal sister.

and so, jason grace finds his last name, a family he never knew, friends he could die for and an empty cabin that seemed less lonely with leo or piper in it.

then they went on a quest, leo built a ship and they all set sail to stop gaia from rising.

then jason lost leo, then jason lost everything, then jason lost himself and then lost piper-

and, in the middle of winter, leo valdez came crashing down on a metal dragon with eyes like a nuclear explosion and teeth made for tearing meat from bone, or tearing jason’s heart from his chest.

and then jason found himself again in the space between the junction between leo valdez's fourth and fifth ribs.

leo valdez is a lot of things. he’s a son of hephaestus and a complete asshole. he’s the first child of hephaestus to be born with the ability to create and control fire in over 400 years. he’s a 5’4ft guy who wears platformed boots to make himself seem taller. he’s so powerful that he obliterated gaia. he’s a genius. he thinks spraying axe bodyspray on himself is the same as a shower. he overworks himself even when he doesn’t have to. he can fight gods and go toe-to-toe with any big three kid and hold his own. he likes to survive on a diet of mango monster energy and takis. he's obnoxious. he's thoughtful. he makes mean-spirited jokes at other people's expense. he's the best person jason's ever met

he’s-

currently late for their date.

It’s not that jason minds, per se, but leo has a nasty habit of getting so completely lost in his work that he can plan a date for the next day, and jason won’t see him for at least three days. it’s one of the downsides of being the trophy boyfriend of a genius.

jason sighs and rocks back on his heels, eyes darting up to the grey, overcast sky. he can almost hear leo in his head, asking if he could pretty please make it less goddamn cold? and his pout when jason refuses to change the weather for him.

it's not that jason won't. it's just that he can't. it makes aeolus snappy.

sometimes he still does it. manipulates the air currents just enough to warm the air around them and leo smiles, a real one, small and soft. like it wasn't meant to be seen. a secret thing, just for jason.

jason doesn't see leo smile like that often.

it's mid-february in new york and jason is kicking around central park in the grey mid-day light. it's quiet, this part of the park, with barely anyone passing jason as he leans against a tree, wet dew dripping into his unstyled hair. it's cold, but not cold enough for a freeze or snow. just the right amount of cold to turn your hands numb and purple from cold

which. if you've never seen leo 'was raised in texas and has fire powers' valdez in new york snow, jason fully believes you've never lived.

he spends another 30 minutes splitting his time from staring into space and wandering around the meeting spot they've arranged. it's peaceful here. jason can even hear some birds twittering and chirping in the trees above. the cold even stops bothering him. jason likes being alone sometimes.

it reminds him of the lupercal and lupa. long days and nights in the loneliness of the redwood forest. just him and the wolves and the stars.

though now jason has sturdy boots and a wool jacket, so not exactly the same.

he's in the middle of trying to coax a timid sparrow onto the hand, crouched on the balls of his feet when he feels a presence beside him. he goes stiff when he realises and then, like all the tension has been zapped out of him, goes relaxed again.

"that," leo whispers, also crouched beside jason, "is one fat fucking bird"

jason represses a grin, "don't say that. he's probably barely eaten all winter," and leo snorts, moving closer to jason so their shoulders brush. the bird regards leo with some caution but his black, beady eyes seem to acknowledge that jason would keep him safe.

"he looks better fed than me, jace. do you care more about this bird than your own poor boyfriend?" leo says, faux-sadness in his voice, "how cruel, jason grace. how cruel".

jason turns in time to see leo shake his head, black curls wild around his face as they shudder like leaves in the wind. his eyes are dark brown, watching the bird watch leo. a staring contest.

leo says his name like no one else does. like it's a name. like it's good. like it's something familiar and warm. he does not say 'jason' and imagine a great hero or a wolf-boy with no past. he does not say 'grace' like a joke, like grasp for power, like it carries too much weight for his tongue to bare.

he says it like it belongs to jason. he says it like it's important. not too fast, but not too slow.

leo turns his head to find jason staring at him.

"jason" he calls, lips quirking up at the edge, pulling out the 'o' like toffee, "i know i'm pretty irresistible but please, keep your longing stares for the bedroom"

jason shoves up against leo's shoulder, blush bursting across his already red-cold face.

he pushes just slightly too hard and leo goes spilling across the wet grass, yelping in surprise.

"jason!" he yells, looking up at jason half shocked and half in amusement. "what the fuck, dude!"

jason can't help himself.

leo is wearing jason's hoodie, the black one mrs.blofis picked out for jason which leo claimed as his own even before they started dating. his new denim, fur-lined jacket (from the hide of the nemean lion they killed last year) is just slightly too big and he's wearing black jeans. he looks like the college freshman he is. he looks mortal.

he looks human. he has leaves in his hair and his cheeks are flushed from the cold, teeth showing through the toothy smile he's giving and-

it's uncanny, sometimes, how well they can pass for normal. you almost can't tell leo's died and come back to life. you almost can't tell he's more powerful than any living mortal.

almost.

jason falls on top of leo in the wet grass, which causes leo to yelp, again, and knee jason in the stomach.

jason groans "dude, what the hades was that for?" and he rolls of leo, onto the wet grass beside him, arms protectively covering his bruised stomach.

"you fell directly on top of me, you big lug," and leo sits up, picking a leaf out of his curls absentmindedly, "if you haven't noticed, you're like a bean-pole with muscle mass. that shit hurts!"

jason pouts up at leo, who manages to look both unimpressed and fond. he rolls his eyes and offers his hand to jason, who accepts and leo hauls him into a sitting position in front of him

"hi, leo" jason says finally, "you're late"

"i'm not late, loser, you're just a nerd and get places earlier than normal people. its super weird," leo tells him, matter-of-factly, scooting closer to him as they sit on the ground. "you should really get it checked. might be terminal nerdiness. the glasses are just the first sign"

jason raises an eyebrow, curviving over said glasses. "i didn't know it could be terminal. oh well, guess i'll just wither away and die from being punctual. what an injust life i lead. how the sorrows never end"

leo pouts, eyes sparking with enough warmth to keep out the cold for decades to come, "don't be so down about it, I hear being a nerd has perks,"

jason moves closer, so his knees are half-pulled up to his chest and he's balancing his weight on his hand. leo fits perfectly in the bracket of his arms.

"oh? do tell?" he asks, and leo is close enough that jason can see the faint freckles on his cheeks. they're fading from how far away leo has been from the sun, but jason loves them anyways.

"yup," leo says, popping the p and smiling like the cat who got the cream. "do you know that all nerds get super hot and funny and sexy boyfriends? as compensation for being such nerds, of course"

jason pulls back his head a bit, just as leo laces his arms around his shoulders, "really?" and his voice is soft, but the smile won't disappear from his lips, "wow, didn't know that. guess I'm lucky that you're such a huge nerd or-"

leo kisses him like coming home. and in a way it is.

jason has known many homes. he's known the small apartment with his mother that smelt like spilt wine and smoke and mold. he's known the lupercal and the redwood forests around it. he's known the barracks at camp jupiter and the feeling of purpose in his chest. he's known cabin 1 and cabin 9 and bunker 9 and on the back of festus and on the argo. he's known the feeling of reyna laughing as he tells her wild stories and of the fifth cohort raising him on their shields. he's known lying in leo's private room with piper and leo, listening to low music and feeling safe with just them.

but the one person who jason has felt like home since they met was leo. his high ground through the tsunami. his parachute during a plane crash. the one point of home. like the north-star.

jason smiles into the kiss, his free hand tangling itself in the rough fabric of leo's dark blue denim jacket. it's soft and chaste, more a press of warm lips than anything. it's comforting. it's familiar. it's everything he wants.

leo pulls back a bit, just far enough to speak but still close enough that his breath brushes up against jason's cold face. "hi," he says, brushing his nose against his, "missed you, bro".

jason snorts, "i missed you too, leo, how's MIT treating you?"

"like i'm it's bitch is how it's treating me," leo tells him, slumping slightly into jason, forehead against jason's. "can we not talk about college? i think if we talk about college I might start crying and then our date will be ruined"

jason pulls back a bit to look at leo. he does look more tired than usual, eye-bags darker and lips bitten from nervousness. he frowns, using his free hand to cup his face. "are you okay? we can just go back to your dorm if you're too tired-"

"ugh, no way" leo groans, "fuck that. i just wanna spend time with you, okay? i wanna be mushy and all that gay shit. i want bad food and to kiss you again and again and do more than kissing-"

jason rolls his eyes.

"-and then go back to mrs.blofis apartment and watch really bad movies you like for some reason and then i'll go to sleep beside you and it'll be gay and shit"

"gay and shit?"

"gay and shit, you better believe it grace. but first-"

and leo untangles himself from jason and stands up, brushing the dirt from his knees leaving jason frowning on the floor.

he offers out his hand, brown skin calloused from work, long, thin fingers curled slightly as the palm faced upwards.

"c'mon, super, treat your louis lane to some greasy new york food before he decides batman has better pay"

jason is so, so lucky he got leo valdez. that the fates decides to make sure that his destiny crosses leo's. that he convinced leo valdez to let down his walls, to stay, that jason wouldn't leave him like the others, or hurt him or betray him.

that jason was in it for as long as leo wanted him to be. that jason only wanted leo to say his name, wanted to give it to leo because leo's the only one who's mouth jason trusts with it. that jason wanted to give leo his past. wanted to show him and tell him where he got each scar.

he trusts leo with this. he trusts leo's hands to not burn it all to ash. because he knows that if leo wanted to, he could. he could burn jason alive with a thought. turn him to ash and glass with a flick of his hand.

jason has fallen in love with a nuclear bomb, with a supernova of a boy and jason doesn't care if it kills him, because he has spent so long pretending to be what everyone else needed, that now he was going to be who he wanted to be. even if it got him killed. even if it burned him alive.

jason grace has fallen in love with the human version of a forest fire. he should be afraid of it, of leo. he is not. he never will be.

beryl grace fell in love with the sky itself. wanted all the stars in heaven and didn't care what happened to her. as long as she knew she had the stars attention. as long as she knew the sky loved her back.

as long as he knew the fire loved him back.

he takes his hand.

[kirkwallgremlin]

Walks on the Wounded Coast

1043 words, featuring Esther Hawke, Carver Hawke and me (and the siblings) getting emotional over the Hawke family and all the things they’ve lost once again <3 ao3 link

It was a shock, seeing the ocean at the Wounded Coast for the first time since Esther and her family had settled in Kirkwall. It wasn’t as though there was a shortage of water in Kirkwall, especially around the Docks, but the walls of the city, the towering statues and the imposing chains dominated the landscape, the ocean and the world beyond insignificant in comparison.

The Hawke siblings’ work with the Red Iron had largely kept Esther and Carver within the walls of the city itself, as had the fear that if they left, they would not be allowed back, not without another argument with overzealous guards tired of refugees. It was only now that they found themselves on the Wounded Coast, looking out at the open water, the imposing rocky crags as they followed the path to Sundermont.

It was beautiful and intimidating and Esther found herself feeling both simultaneously awed and very small. The wind whipped around her, goosebumps rising on her arms as she stood at the cliff’s edge, watching the water move.

“You can almost see home from here,” Carver said softly and she jumped, not realising her brother had moved behind her.

“Really?” Esther asked and he nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“This is the Waking Sea. You sail that way, away from the Free Marches, and you end up in Ferelden. On the Storm Coast, I think. I’m not sure exactly where it lines up though.”

Esther peered into the distant sea, trying to make out anything beyond the constant shifting of the water and the dull grey of the overcast sky.

“Highever is that way, to the west of Amaranthine,” Carver continued, pointing. He moved his arm to point more directly in front of them. “And I think if you went that way and kept going once you got to Ferelden, you’d head across the Bannorn and end up back home.” He faltered. “Back in Lothering I mean.”

“If there’s anything still there to find,” Esther said, turning to look at Carver. His eyes were still focused out to sea but his lips pressed into a thin line, tension evident in his jaw.

“It’s still Lothering,” he said. “Even if the buildings are gone and the people have… left.”

Esther didn’t bother answering. Ever since the attack on Lothering, ever since they had fled, leaving the town behind them as it fell to the same Darkspawn that had overwhelmed the King’s army… Carver had always found that harder to accept than she had. And they both knew that while many had fled, many had not made it past the attack the way they had.

“I don't know if it’s beautiful or terrifying,” she said instead as a particularly large wave broke against the rock formation, mist spraying out across the ever changing water. Esther was thankful that the rocky path kept them high above it, safer. “Maybe it’s both.”

“I think Bethany would have liked it here,” Carver said, still not looking away from the ocean. His voice was soft, barely audible above the crashing waves, the wind catching their hair, carrying their voices away. “She always loved the sea.”

“She had that book of poems,” Esther said, the hint of a smile on her lips as she recalled the memory. “The one Father bought her from that market. She always used to make me read the one about the sea.”

Something felt like it was clenching her heart, making her chest feel tight, the way it always did these days when she thought about her younger sister. It hurt less than it used to, or maybe she was just used to the pain, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt.

She wished the wind could carry the pain away too.

“I used to hate reading it but I could never say no to her,” Esther continued. If she tried, she could probably remember most of the words, though she hadn’t thought of it in years. The thought put a lump in her throat.

“I always used to listen as well,” Carver said and Esther let out a soft gust of air, almost a laugh but not quite.

“I seem to remember you telling me to shut up a lot when I did,” she said and watched her brother’s ears turn red. She could have teased him further but she wasn’t in the mood, not now.

“I miss her, Carv,” she said instead, trying to tell herself that the tears pricking at her eyes were just from the wind that blew around them, from the salt in the air and nothing else.

“I know,” he said, one strong arm wrapping around her shoulders. She didn’t hug her brother much anymore, not these days, but it was a comfort to lean into him. “Me too.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both taking the time to remember the sister they had lost as they watched the restless water.

The faint clatter of shifting rocks sounded behind them and Esther jumped, turning to see Varric shifting his crossbow as he clearly tried to make himself seem less visible.

“Sorry Hawke,” he said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just checking if you’re ready to head on up to Sundermont.”

“It’s fine, Varric,” Esther said, stepping away from her brother. She sniffed, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hands. “It’s ok. I’m ready to go. Carver?”

Carver nodded, adjusting his pose to stand straighter, taller.

“Yep.”

As Esther followed Varric back onto the main path, she glanced back at her younger brother. His longer legs meant he normally overtook her with relative ease but he still stood, looking out at the water in the direction where you’d apparently find Lothering. He took a deep, visible breath, his shoulders rising and falling before he turned to follow.

They hadn’t had much chance to get out of the city of Kirkwall but perhaps it was time the family began to visit more often, and Esther made a note to travel to the coast with her brother again some time, a trip where they weren’t focused on some new job and had time to spare.

Maybe it’d do both of them good to have that time together.