#there are still places where you can feel the stone beneath the fields

[valentinevar]

For Love, For Spring

Celebrating @tamlinweek with another commissioned piece from Kannamora where Tamlin is happy and in love 💖

This fanart is based on a scene from my fanfic "A Court of Brittle Thorns" chapter 20.

You can read the excerpt below:

That night, Tamlin said nothing—just took her hand and led her through the heart of the Spring Court. Past fields beginning to green again, through glens and wildflower hollows, into the thickest part of the forest where the trunks grew wide as towers and the light filtered down like falling petals.

There, untouched by war or weather, shimmered a silver pool.

It wasn’t water. Not quite. Amawyn had been here before—once, perhaps a century and a half ago, when the world was still young and Andras had dared her to race him through the woods—but now, it was as though she were seeing it for the first time.

The pool glittered under the open sky, not reflecting starlight but seeming to become it—each ripple catching colors that weren’t present in the world around them. Blue, pink, and glimmering silver danced like constellations being born anew.

She stepped forward without waiting, shedding her clothes in slow, deliberate movements until her bare skin was kissed by the chill of the spring air. Her jet-black hair spilled around her like a silk gown as she moved, waist-deep into the shimmering surface.

Tamlin didn’t follow her—not yet. He only watched, letting her rediscover the lake, letting her move like something sacred.

“My father always said this spring was connected to the magic of the Spring Court,” Amawyn murmured, her voice soft with memory. “The consistency does feel similar to the underground water of the Calanmai caves… but this,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the luminous surface, “this reflects more. It breathes more.”

The lake seemed to stir beneath her feet.

The water—if it could be called that—seemed to rise to meet her, brushing along her skin with a touch like silk and velvet, warm despite the night, ancient despite its light. It welcomed her when she went deeper. It called to her.

She leaned back, letting herself float, her body relaxed and open, hair fanning around her like a dark halo, the peaks of her breasts catching the moonlight. And then—without warning—the pool shifted.

The silver gave way to gold.

The change was slow, reverent. As if the pool had recognized her not just as a guest, but as something kin. The magic of the Spring Court enfolded her, accepted her. Claimed her.

Tamlin watched, still as stone. Watched the water change, watched her shine, watched the soft light wrap around every inch of her body. It was not lust that struck him in that moment, but something closer to worship. As if the land had reached up to bless her, and he was witnessing a coronation spoken in light.

And then—something stirred. Not within them, but within the pool. It brushed against him slowly, like the curl of ivy around stone, like the first threads of spring moss waking beneath snowmelt. Magic old and immense and quiet, winding through the clearing like a breath being drawn. It recognized her, and it recognized him.

The power that lived beneath the forest floor, that slept in roots and rivers and hollow hills, had begun to rise—not as an alarm, not as a warning, but as a welcome. Tamlin felt it in the soles of his feet, in the low hum of power that tugged at the base of his spine. The same magic that kissed Amawyn’s skin now reached for him as well—tentative at first, then bolder, like a memory remembered at last.

And he understood.

This place did not belong to him alone, not anymore. Not just to the bloodline of Spring’s High Lords, not just to the thrones or the crowns or the ancient rites. It belonged to them, together. To the court, yes—but also to the bond. To the two of them, whose magic twined like vines in bloom. To the love that had not asked for power, but had earned it anyway.

So Tamlin stepped forward, the surface of the pool lapping at his ankles, warm as sunlight and thick with that strange, silken weight that was not water. With each step he took, the glow beneath the surface deepened. What had begun as gold now shimmered with green, with amber, with soft-hued pink and the palest violet—Spring’s full palette awakening in color and light around their joined presence.

By the time he reached her, the pool pulsed gently around them both, as if the lake itself were breathing in rhythm with them.

Amawyn floated just ahead of him, her hair spread like ink across the golden water, her body half-submerged, half-bathed in light. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He let the magic settle. Let her feel it fully—what the land had offered her, what it had always held in wait. He watched the way her eyes softened, her mouth parted slightly in wonder, and felt her power curl toward his, not with urgency but with recognition.

He did not speak, words felt too heavy for a moment like this. Only when she turned her head and whispered, “Come closer,” did he reach for her. Their hands found each other beneath the water, their fingers lacing like roots tangling beneath the soil, and Amawyn smiled.

“This doesn’t feel borrowed,” she said.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She floated toward him, face tilted toward the stars. “This peace. It doesn’t feel like it’s waiting to be taken away.”

Tamlin looked at her, really looked. The light, the lake, the ease. The first flicker of joy without weight. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“It’s not borrowed,” he said. “It’s ours.”

He came to her slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might dissolve into the light. She didn’t speak when his arms slid around her waist, and she let her head fall back against his shoulder. No words passed between them—just breath and skin and starlight, the kind of quiet that only exists when nothing else is needed.

Lovely dividers by @olenvasynyt

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 41 Chapter 41 | born of laurel and curse⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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Hermes stepped forward before you could say anything else—expression unreadable, eyes glinting with something hard to place. Not quite relief. Not quite sorrow.

He reached for you without hesitation, like this part had already been decided.

Like he couldn't bear to stay here any longer.

His arms circled beneath your knees and around your back, gentle but firm, the way you might hold something precious that had only just stopped breaking. You didn't resist.

The moment he lifted you, the magic shifted.

You felt it stir beneath your skin—a flicker, a pull, a quiet breath in the bones of the earth.

And then—wind.

It ripped past your cheeks in sudden gusts, cold and fierce, rushing upward like the world itself had tilted beneath you. Your hair fluttered wildly against his shoulder, tangling in the collar of your tunic as your legs curled instinctively closer to his chest.

The air howled in your ears, a thousand whispers caught in a single breath, too fast to hear and too strange to understand.

Your eyes cracked open just enough to see.

The Underworld blurred past in flashes.

Ash-grey pillars.

Twisting stone bridges.

Gardens wilted and bloomed all at once.

And shadows—so many shadows—some still, some watching, some turning away the second they met your gaze.

Colors flared at the edge of your vision: copper gold and sickly green, flashes of bone-white paths and flickering riverlight from the Styx.

You caught glimpses of spirits drifting in the distance—some reaching out, some shrinking back, all blurred by the speed.

And Hermes didn't stop.

His hold tightened as you climbed higher, past the gates, past the Asphodel Fields, past the river's edge that shimmered like an old bruise in the dark.

But just before the veil split—before the light of the living world could break through and claim you again—

You shifted in his arms. "Wait."

He stopped mid-step. Mid-flight. The magic hiccupped around you like a breath held too long.

Hermes turned his head slightly, brows furrowing as if he wasn't sure he'd heard you right. "What?"

You lifted your hand—soft against his shoulder, not pushing, just anchoring yourself.

"...Can we go back?"

The wind stilled.

Not completely. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make the silence feel heavier.

He stared at you. Not moving. Not blinking. Like the question had rearranged something inside him.

"Back?" he echoed, flatly. "You mean to the Underworld?"

You nodded once. Slowly. "Just for a moment. I... I want to see my parents again." Your voice cracked a little at the end.

Hermes didn't respond at first.

His jaw twitched like he wanted to argue, like the instinct to move forward was stronger than anything else. But he didn't speak. Just stared ahead, gaze flicking to the veil above you—then down again, past your shoulder, back toward the Underworld where the shadows still lingered like ghosts of a memory you weren't ready to lose.

Finally, after a long beat, he sighed.

It wasn't theatrical. It wasn't annoyed.

It was... tired.

Like someone giving in. Like someone who always gave in when it came to you.

"Fine," he muttered, under his breath, "Hades shouldn't mind if you linger a little longer. Not like he's ever been good at goodbye either."

And with that—Hermes turned.

The wind twisted backward.

And the shadows welcomed you once more.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how much time passed—maybe a minute, maybe several—but eventually, the cool air shifted. Hermes had said nothing when you stepped through the veil. He simply caught your arm to steady you, like he had done before, then guided you quietly through the gray.

The Underworld didn't jolt you this time. Maybe it should have. But your soul felt heavier now, more settled.

You didn't ask where you were going. You didn't need to.

Hermes led you to the edge of a low, vast hill—jagged and windswept, coated in a veil of mist that hugged the stone like breath on glass. Below it, the fog dipped into a sprawling field... familiar in its shape, but not in color.

The fields looked darker now, deeper in hue. And less clouded. You could actually see shapes moving in the distance—shadows stretched like brushstrokes across a canvas.

He stopped, glancing down the incline. "This is as far as I go," he said. "For now."

You blinked. "You're not coming?"

He gave a small smile—one of those unreadable ones that told you it wasn't really up for debate. "I have to stir up a bit of noise elsewhere. Just enough to keep it on the low that you're still here."

"It shouldn't be an issue since I'm already here, right?"

"Not exactly. Souls aren't too welcome here unless it's their time. And if it's found that you're still here, they'd come for you first and me second." He brushed something off his shoulder—dust or stardust, you couldn't tell. "So I gotta make some trouble. Just enough to buy time. I'll be done before the hour turns. You'll know when I'm back."

Your stomach churned. "How will I know?"

He tapped your forehead gently. "You'll feel it."

Then, just like that, he was gone—his form dissolving into wind and shimmer, swept away before you could call out again.

So, as you had done once before, you turned and walked into the fog.

But it didn't feel the same.

Your footsteps didn't echo this time. There was no pounding fear in your chest, no dread dragging at your ankles. It was quieter now—not in sound, but in weight. The mist wasn't as thick. You could actually see where you were going.

Your head turned slowly as you walked, your eyes tracing outlines that were impossible to see last time: faint ruins in the distance, pillars swallowed by ivy, archways carved from black stone. The field had shape now. Definition. And it wasn't just a field anymore.

It looked almost like a courtyard—or a garden left to decay.

Brittle hedges formed low walls in crooked rows. Marble statues, worn down to featureless forms, watched from raised platforms. The air smelled of ash and dry earth, but also of something faintly floral. Faintly alive.

You walked without thinking, feet crunching against gravel, mist licking at your shins. Each step felt easier. Lighter. As if your soul knew the path even if your mind didn't.

Then—music.

Your ears perked up at the soft sound, a hum more than a song, low and careful and deeply familiar. You knew that voice.

Your pace quickened before your mind caught up. You pushed past a leaning column, stepped around a cracked basin that once held water, and the sound grew clearer. A melody now. Words curling at the edges. A lullaby. Or maybe a memory.

Then, through the branches of a long-dead tree, a figure appeared.

Just like before.

Beneath the withered limbs sat a man, his back turned to you, bent forward ever so slightly. His head tilted to one side as he sang to the bundle he cradled in his arms. The same slow rhythm. The same hush in his voice. Like the world would break if he sang any louder.

Polites.

You skidded to a halt just behind him, your breath hitching in your throat. "Polites." 

The lullaby cut short.

He turned slowly, startled at first. Astyanax shifted in his arms as Polites adjusted the blanket protectively, his brows lifting as his gaze landed on you. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Just stared.

Then the recognition hit.

His face lit up, blooming into a wide, warm smile. "Well, I'll be," he murmured, a soft chuckle in his voice. "Look at you, back again already?"

You let out a shaky laugh, breathless from the walk. "Guess I just couldn't stay away."

He stood carefully, rising to his full height, the baby bundled against his chest. He stepped toward you, his expression soft with welcome, fondness settling behind his eyes. But then—his smile faded. Just a little.

His gaze drifted downward. Then back up. A flicker of something passed across his features—his brows knit together, the corners of his mouth pulling into something more thoughtful. His hand shifted on Astyanax's back, fingers stalling mid-motion.

"You..." he began slowly. "Wait. Are you...?"

His voice trailed off. You didn't need him to finish the question. The look on his face said enough.

You glanced down at yourself instinctively.

Your fingers still moved. Your feet still pressed against the ground. But you weren't solid—not exactly. There was a faint shimmer clinging to your edges, like moonlight trying to hold shape. You were fading in some places, more outline than figure. Not fully here. Not fully gone.

Like him.

"I'm not dead," you said quickly, lifting your gaze again. "I promise. I mean... I was. For a bit."

His expression tightened.

"But—Hermes. He made a deal. With Hades," you added. "I'm just here for a short time. I'm going back."

That seemed to unstick something in him. Polites let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension easing from his stance.

"Gods," he muttered, shifting Astyanax to one arm as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. "You scared me. I thought—" He shook his head, a half-laugh breaking through. "You're too young to be down here for good."

You shrugged, your voice light despite the lump in your throat. "Tell that to the streets of Ithaca."

Polites gave you a look—half exasperated, half fond. "You and that mouth," he muttered, though there was no heat behind it.

Astyanax let out a small coo, his fingers stretching against the edge of his blanket. Polites bounced him gently, his gaze returning to you. "So... what brings you back, then? Risking divine tantrums just to say hello?"

You gave him a small smile. "Something like that."

And for a moment, the heavy quiet returned. But it was a warmer quiet this time. A knowing one.

He smiled again, softer now. "Well. I'm glad you did."

You returned the smile, though it wobbled a bit. The words you wanted to say pressed at your throat—more than just greetings or thank-yous or even memories. This wasn't just a visit. It was unfinished business, still pulling at the edge of your chest like a loose thread you hadn't meant to leave behind.

You hesitated a moment, then shifted your weight, glancing past him toward the mist-covered distance. "Polites... can I ask you something?"

His brow lifted slightly, patient. "Go ahead."

"I... I was wondering if you could take me to see my parents again. Just for a little while."

He blinked, a little surprised—then his face softened into something steady and sure, like it was the easiest request in the world. "Of course," he said without pause. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

A breath you hadn't known you were holding slipped from your lungs.

And with that, the two of you began walking, his steps sure against the ashen earth, yours a little slower, still feeling out the shape of your form in this space.

The air was less fogged than before—thinner, somehow. The trees more defined. The sky a dark slate above, like a never-ending dusk. It looked more like a garden now. Or maybe a courtyard that had long since forgotten it was ever meant for living things.

The silence between you wasn't awkward—it was companionable. But after a few steps, Polites glanced over at you, shifting the bundle in his arms slightly.

"You wanna hold him?" he asked, nodding toward the baby.

Your eyes widened a little. "I—me?"

Astyanax answered before you could. His small hand peeked from the blanket, reaching toward you with a soft, open-palmed stretch. He made a tiny noise—something between a sigh and a whimper—and his gaze locked onto yours with such simple, trusting want that it made your chest ache.

Your fingers twitched. "I don't know if I should. He's..."

But Polites was already moving, stepping closer, cradling the child toward you with gentle encouragement. "It's alright. He likes you."

You didn't argue further.

You reached out and carefully took him into your arms.

And gods—he felt real.

He wasn't warm exactly, but he wasn't cold either. His weight settled naturally against you, small and firm and soft all at once. His little fingers curled instinctively into the fabric near your collar. He blinked up at you, those wide hazel eyes gleaming softly in the half-light.

A ghost, yes—but not empty. Not forgotten.

You held him tighter than you meant to.

"Hi there," you whispered, your voice cracking just a bit. "You remember me?"

Astyanax just yawned, burrowing into the crook of your elbow like he did.

You walked in silence for a while after that, the only sound the hush of mist shifting around your ankles and the soft rustling of fabric as the baby wriggled gently in your arms. You stared down at him, marveling at the weight of someone so small. So still.

Then, quietly, you asked, "Why isn't he... with his father, Hector?"

The question hung between you like a windless chime.

Polites didn't answer right away.

When you finally looked up, his face had shifted. There was something shadowed in it—grief, maybe, or guilt, or something heavier. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes unfocused as he looked ahead.

"Honestly," he said at last, "I don't know. I've wondered the same thing."

You said nothing, watching him.

He adjusted the satchel on his hip and let out a breath. "I think... I think this is my punishment."

You blinked. "Punishment?"

"For surviving," he murmured. "For being part of it."

You kept still, your arms curling protectively around Astyanax.

Polites didn't meet your eyes. "He was a baby," he said, voice tight. "Just a baby. Killed for what he might grow into. For what his father represented. And I didn't hold the sword, no. But I helped the Greeks reach Troy. I scouted paths. Warned of traps. Passed messages."

A pause.

"And when we got in... we didn't stop to ask who deserved to die."

The silence wrapped around your throat like ivy.

You'd grown up with tales of valor. Of the Greeks as heroes. Of Odysseus' cunning. Of the fall of Troy as destiny fulfilled. You'd never really questioned what it looked like from the other side.

Not until now.

Not until you held the child they never got to keep.

You looked down at Astyanax again—his peaceful little face, his gentle breathing, the way he trusted the world in your arms.

You'd never thought of it like that.

Not really.

But now... you weren't so sure who the villains were.

And the Asphodel Fields stretched endlessly ahead, silent and watching.

The mist curled gently around your legs with each step, soft as breath. The wind barely moved here, but when it did, it stirred the grass like whispers—low and half-forgotten, like dreams someone tried to remember after waking.

You glanced down at Astyanax in your arms again, brushing your thumb softly over the edge of his cheek.

He stirred slightly but didn't wake.

Beside you, Polites walked with quiet ease, the silence around him familiar—worn into his bones like a well-traveled path. But something about the moment started to feel too heavy, too sharp-edged with guilt and old regrets, so you cleared your throat softly, searching for something lighter to hold on to.

"Hey," you asked, almost hesitantly, "can I ask something... not exactly cheerful, but maybe less sad?"

Polites huffed a breath through his nose—somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Sure," he said. "You've earned a few questions, I think."

You shifted Astyanax slightly in your arms, careful of his swaddle. "I've been wondering... how did you get here? I mean—past judgment. Most soldiers... especially the ones who weren't buried... they get stuck on the banks, don't they? Wandering."

Polites went quiet for a beat, long enough that you almost regretted asking. But then he gave a slow nod, eyes still fixed on the distance ahead.

"You're not wrong," he said. "Most of us didn't make it very far."

Your brows furrowed. "You mean... from the war?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Later. The Cyclops—Polyphemus. After the lotus eaters lead us to the cave, he managed to kill a few of us. To retaliate, Odysseus blinded him..." He trailed off for a second. "Luckily the rest got out."

You listened, holding your breath without meaning to.

"When I woke up down here," he continued, "it was just me and a handful of others. Confused. Half-formed. Like echoes stuck between two cliffs. The River Styx was close—you could hear it—but no ferryman would come near us."

"Because you weren't buried," you said softly.

Polites nodded. "Exactly. No graves, no rites. No passage. Just that endless stretch of bank. And later..." He exhaled. "Poseidon caught up with the fleet. Sank it. Five hundred men, pulled into the sea."

You swallowed.

"And when they died," he said, his voice quieter now, "they ended up there too. Same bank. Same stretch. All of them confused. Angry. Some still thought they were drowning."

Your fingers tightened a little on the baby.

You imagined it—those wide, haunted eyes. The weight of all that lost hope, pooling in the dark like driftwood.

"So... how did you leave?" you asked softly. "How did you make it past?"

Polites was quiet for a long time.

And then he smiled faintly. "Hermes," he said. "And Athena."

You blinked. "Wait—Athena?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "I don't know the whole of it. But one day, Hermes came walking down the riverbank like he'd just wandered in on accident. He found me. Looked me up and down. Said, 'You're Polites, right?' I said yeah, and he just nodded and told me to follow him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Polites repeated. "Said it was 'by Athena's request.' That she wanted to make sure I didn't rot there like the rest of them."

You frowned slightly. "Why you?"

"I've asked myself that," he admitted. "A hundred times. I wasn't a king. I wasn't even a commander. Just a soldier who tried to do the right thing more often than not. But maybe... maybe she saw something. Or maybe Odysseus said something to her, after everything. I don't know."

You were quiet for a while, your thoughts swirling like the mist.

Polites kept walking beside you, his gaze steady.

"I don't get to live in the Isles of the Blessed," he said eventually. "That's not for people like me. But I get peace. I get the Fields. And... I get him." He nodded toward the bundle in your arms. "So maybe that's enough."

You looked down again at Astyanax, the baby still asleep, still nestled safely against your chest.

Maybe that was enough.

Or maybe peace could look like different things for different souls.

And maybe, just maybe, the gods sometimes made quiet exceptions.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how long the two of you walked after that—minutes, maybe more. The silence had settled back between you and Polites like an old cloak: not heavy, but not quite light either. You didn't mind it.

After everything, it felt... earned.

Then the mist shifted ahead.

At first, it looked like nothing—just another bend in the never-ending fields. But as you stepped closer, you noticed the terrain dipping slightly, forming a shallow alcove tucked beneath the arms of two withered trees. Their trunks leaned into one another like old friends, branches interlocking above a patch of soft grey moss.

And there—huddled together at the base—were two figures.

Your breath caught.

You would've recognized them anywhere.

Your mother sat nestled beside your father, her body tucked against his like a secret. One of his arms wrapped securely around her shoulders, while her head rested beneath his chin, her hands gently folded over his. They looked carved from light and memory, still glowing faintly against the dusk.

Safe. Whole. Together.

You froze.

Polites paused beside you, and when he turned, his gaze was already soft. Wordlessly, he reached out with both arms, silently offering to take Astyanax.

You looked down at the baby.

He was still curled in your hold, eyes closed, but the second you began to shift him, his little nose twitched, and he let out a faint, questioning coo.

Your heart clenched.

You gave Polites a small nod, careful as you passed the bundle into his arms.

"Shh, little one," Polites whispered, rocking him gently as the swaddle shifted. "Go back to sleep."

Astyanax let out a sleepy hum, a flutter of movement beneath the cloth. His fingers curled reflexively, catching the edge of Polites' tunic. And just like that, he stilled again, soothed by the familiar rhythm of arms that knew how to hold him.

Then—

Your mother stirred.

Her head lifted from your father's shoulder, her brows furrowing as if sensing something just beyond her reach. Slowly, she turned.

And when her eyes landed on you—

They bloomed.

Lit up like a sky before sunrise. Her hand flew to her mouth, her lips parting in disbelief. Her body trembled with the effort of rising, but she stood all the same, voice cracking like glass under heat.

"My dove...?"

Your father's gaze followed hers. His face, worn by sorrow just a moment ago, lit up like a man catching sight of the sun after a long winter. "Sweetheart?" he breathed.

You choked on a sob.

Polites smiled faintly. "I think this is where I leave you," he murmured, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't break the moment. "This part... belongs to you."

You turned toward him, trying to find the words—but your throat was tight, your hands trembling.

He just nodded, his expression soft with understanding.

"Don't worry," he added, adjusting the swaddle gently as Astyanax squirmed once more. "We'll be just fine."

And before you could speak, before you could thank him again or ask when you'd see him next—

He turned.

Disappeared into the mist.

And you were left standing there, heart racing, feet frozen—

—as your parents reached for you like they had never stopped waiting.

They didn't hesitate. There was no pause, no disbelief long enough to weigh the moment down—just open arms and trembling hands and a surge of emotion that collapsed the space between you.

Your mother reached you first. She pulled you close with a strength you'd forgotten she had, her arms tightening around your shoulders like she was afraid you might disappear if she let go. Her cheek pressed against your hair, and you felt her shoulders shaking as she whispered your name over and over again, the sound thick with joy and something that almost sounded like relief.

"My baby," she wept, clutching the back of your tunic, holding you tighter. "My sweet girl, how—how are you here? Are you real?"

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, pressing a firm kiss to the crown of your head. His voice rumbled low and warm against your back. "You came back to us," he said, voice cracking. "Gods, you came back."

You let yourself sink into their hold for a moment—just a moment. Because for once, you weren't fighting to be strong. You didn't have to. You were just... theirs.

But then, your mother pulled back.

And when she did, her smile faltered.

Her hands moved up to cup your face, but paused halfway through, her brows drawing low with confusion. Her fingers hovered near your jaw, her eyes scanning your form like something was off.

And it was.

You saw it in her face—like Polites before her. That dawning awareness.

Your body was faint. Not fully, but enough to see the flicker in her eyes. The way her hands passed through your shoulder just slightly before adjusting.

"You're..." Her voice wavered. "You're here."

Your father stepped beside her, his eyes narrowing in concern. He reached for your wrist and felt only the faintest resistance beneath his touch. His brow creased deeply. "What happened to you?"

You smiled weakly, lifting a hand to cover theirs, even if the gesture didn't feel as solid as it once had. "I'm okay," you said quickly, softly. "I promise. I'm not... dead."

Your mother's gaze jumped to yours. "But—"

"Not really," you added gently. "I mean, I was. Briefly. But Hermes—he made a deal with Hades. He brought me back. Or... almost."

Your father looked like he was holding his breath. "Then why are you still here?" he asked carefully. "Why haven't you crossed over fully?"

"I asked him to give me a little time," you explained. "Just a little longer. I needed to see you both again."

Your mother turned her head, glancing behind you as if expecting someone to leap from the mist and pull you away. "Are you sure it's safe?" she asked, worry sharpening the edge of her voice. "You shouldn't play with boundaries like this. Death is not something to bend."

You nodded gently, your hands still cradling theirs. "He's keeping watch," you reassured her. "Hermes said he'd make a distraction, just enough time for me to come see you again. He's always been good at slipping between lines."

They exchanged a glance—quick, full of unspoken words like all long-married couples have—and then looked back to you, still holding you close.

You hesitated.

Then took a breath.

"Honestly... I came because... because I needed to know more," you admitted. "About what happened. About my birth. There's so much I still don't understand."

Their hands tightened just slightly in yours.

The mist around the alcove swirled softly, the silence pressing in.

Your mother's eyes dimmed just a bit, and your father let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady.

And together, they nodded.

"Alright," she said, brushing your cheek with her thumb. "Then we'll tell you... everything."

You leaned in slightly, your hand still resting over hers. Her touch was soft—even through the thin veil of your semi-ghostly form—and something about the way her thumb lingered just below your eye felt like home. Like comfort you hadn't known you'd needed.

She pulled in a breath, like she was bracing herself, then gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. "You were... stubborn," she said, her eyes glinting with something warm and worn. "Even before you were born."

Your father huffed gently, his smile curling tiredly at the edges. "Thirty-six hours," he said, glancing down at the ground as if the memory still winded him. "Your mother was in labor for thirty-six hours straight."

You blinked. "What—?"

"She wouldn't come out," your mother said, shaking her head as a bit of hair slipped from behind her ear. "You. You wouldn't come out. The midwives had no idea what to do. We'd tried everything. The healers were panicked. We were losing strength... Losing hope."

Your father rubbed his jaw, his voice quieter now. "We thought... we thought we'd lose you both."

Your breath caught. "But... you didn't."

"No," your mother whispered, eyes drifting past you—toward the still grey horizon. "Because we prayed. All of us. We called on our god."

There was a beat.

And then she looked back at you.

"Apollo."

You straightened instinctively, your brows knitting in surprise. "Apollo?" you echoed, almost disbelieving. "But I—why would he—?"

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression calm but serious. "Your father and I were both born on Lyraethos. It's a small island—not famous, not powerful. But known. Known for its music. Its devotion."

You felt your heart skip. "Lyraethos... I've heard of it. Barely. I thought it was just... a myth."

"Most do," your father said softly. "But it's real. Quiet, but real. And those who come from there... we've always believed that Apollo's favor lingers in the hills, the stones. The instruments passed down in families. The songs that come to us in dreams."

Your mother's eyes shone. "We grew up learning to play lyres before we could walk properly. We sang before we could write. And when you came—when it felt like we might lose you—we didn't cry out to Athena. Or Artemis. We prayed to him. To the god of music. To the one we'd always believed watched over us."

You tried to speak, but your voice didn't come right away. Your lips parted, then closed again, your stomach twisting in knots you couldn't quite name. 

It wasn't quite dread, wasn't quite grief.

Just a hollow, spinning feeling that made it hard to breathe for a second.

Because now... now you didn't know what to feel.

You had answers—real ones. Tangible pieces of truth that should've satisfied you. But instead, they only opened more doors. More shadows with names you didn't know how to say aloud.

And suddenly...

Suddenly, Apollo's gaze in your dreams, the way it burned gold and ancient and aching—

The way his name always came so easily to your tongue, even when your mind was cloudy—

The pull in your chest, the quiet tremor that always came when he was near, whether in vision or song—

None of it felt like coincidence anymore.

Your father must've seen the shift in your eyes, because he gently reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a steady warmth that tugged you back to the present.

He looked tired—but not weak. Just weathered, like someone who'd seen the storm pass and was willing to walk through it again, if only to guide someone else through.

"I suppose... I should've told you sooner," he murmured, his voice low but certain. "On my side of the family... we were warned. About Aphrodite's curse."

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. He wasn't looking at you directly—just past you, like he was watching a memory play out in the mist.

"We thought we were being careful," he said softly, almost to himself. "We built her a small altar behind the house. Kept it clean, left offerings every first sunrise. Your mother sang hymns. We thought maybe—just maybe—that kind of devotion would soften her."

Your mother gave a bitter little laugh, wiping beneath her eye. "But it didn't. Nothing did."

He nodded. "When the messenger boy came—when he handed us that flower... I thought it meant something. I thought maybe the curse had passed us by. That Apollo had finally decided to help one of his people. Someone who believed in him."

He looked at you again then, and there was such sorrow behind his smile. Not regret—just the sad sort of clarity that came with hindsight.

"But we were foolish," he admitted. "To think the curse wouldn't find a way. That it wouldn't just... wait until we were unguarded."

You felt your throat tighten, the air sharp as you inhaled.

Your mother shifted closer, placing a hand against your cheek. Her eyes were soft but strong. "But we don't regret it," she whispered. "Not a single bit."

You blinked, startled. "Even though—?"

She shook her head before you could finish. "Even though we're here."

"I'd rather it be us than you," your father said. "Every time."

"You were our miracle," your mother added, her thumb brushing your cheekbone like she was memorizing you all over again. "Our greatest gift. Whatever the gods meant by it... we'd still choose you."

Their words settled in your chest like a quiet song—one of mourning, yes, but also fierce, blinding love. The kind that didn't ask to be understood. Only felt.

And for a moment, the ache eased.

Just a little.

Just enough.

A second later, you felt it—first, the soft flutter of feathers behind you, like a bird settling after a long flight. Then, a warm hand found your waist, steady and familiar. The gentle pressure was grounding, a subtle pull back to reality.

"Time's up," Hermes murmured low near your ear, his voice quieter than before. No teasing edge this time, just something soft and knowing. "We gotta go."

You turned, blinking up at him. His golden eyes were solemn, his expression unusually gentle beneath the lazy curve of his brow. His hands twitched, pulsing with restrained urgency. Still, he wasn't rushing you.

You nodded slowly, the weight of goodbye crashing over your shoulders all at once. Your throat burned. You turned back to your parents—still holding each other, still waiting. "I... I have to go."

Your mother reached for you instantly, pulling you into her arms as if she could imprint her love into your very bones. You crashed into her, burying your face into her shoulder, fingers curling tightly into the folds of her dress. "I love you. I love you both."

"We know," she breathed against your hair, voice cracking. "You've always loved with everything you had."

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, his taller frame folding over yours like a shield. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then another. And another. Over and over. Like he couldn't stop. Like he wanted to mark the memory of you with every single one.

"My little one," he whispered. "Be safe. Be strong. Be happy."

You nodded against his chest, your tears hot and quiet. "I'll try."

Your mother's hand framed your cheek as she leaned back, her smile tremulous but shining. "That's all we ever wanted."

With one last, deep breath, you pulled yourself away—slowly, painfully. Hermes stepped in without a word, his arms slipping beneath your legs and around your back in one fluid motion.

He lifted you effortlessly, bridal style, like before. His cloak flared behind him, brushing the ground in a silent sweep.

You clung to his shoulder as he began to rise, but your gaze stayed locked on your parents.

They stood together, arms wrapped around each other, watching you with tearful smiles. Your mother waved softly. Your father nodded once, firmly—like a promise passed between souls.

And you didn't look away.

Not even as the wind picked up. Not even as the mists curled around Hermes' sandals. Not even as the Underworld began to fall away beneath you.

You watched them—until they were nothing more than shapes in the fog, until your heart couldn't hold the ache any longer.

And then... you let Hermes carry you home.

A/N: it's storming pretty bad in my area (tennessee) so i decided to update while my fav weather is flooding the streets 🤣🤣😩❤️also ngl i was tearing up a bit writing the reunion with mc's parents out 😩😭 also, if anyones wondering (i know theyre not) i based the underwolrd off of 'krapopolis' underworld (why the descriprtions talk of galaxies etc.), i found it cool of the shows interpertation of it and thought, why the hell not hahah. so on to the fic 'WARRIOR'.......ok so imma hold off on screaming about WARRIOR in full detail—cuz a lot of y'all said NO SPOILERS and honestly?? fair. super fair. BUTTTTTT just know I am currently vibrating out of my skin and ascending spiritually bc of how GOOD that fic is 😭😭 LIKE Y'ALL. the way it's structured?? it could lowkey be two books fr— ➤ PART 1: Trojan War arc?? Penelope leading like an actual general?? Running tactics, dodging divine wrath, looking hot and haunted??? ➤ Book 2 (TBA and currently eating me alive in its absence): [REDACTED] but just know I will be screaming. AND THE WORLD. BUILDING. Bro. If you EVER wondered what actually happened during those 10 years of war?? The ones Homer just kinda skimmed over like "and then they fought for a decade 💅"? This book fills in the blanks in a way that's smart, emotional, bloody, and ✨fanservice-y✨ in the best way. Like—cough—Achilles??? sir??? why are you written like a terrifying war god and also hot enough to ruin my entire bloodline 😭 And don’t even get me STARTED on Polites getting actual action and emotional depth?? My man finally said I will not be background no more and I respect it. (I've been so obssessed, it's even influenced a bit of my own writings; so if you noticed some... similarities in my fic with hers... maybe reference or two as a way of telling her to hurry up... no you didn't 🧍‍♀️.) Anyway, that's all I can give without combusting and spoiling literally everything. Just know that I am waiting for the next update like a Victorian widow at the shore. Every breeze makes me think it’' finally coming. Every delay breaks me a little more. 😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️

from DragonWhiskers12

Repetitive??? Plz don't apologize!! You can send 50+ doodles over and over again and I'd still love them! This is a series, and I am fully subscribed 😭👏This is absolute divine chaos in the best way. The "THIS IS AN ARMED ROBOT" next to an eyeball holding a gun?? (like is he really trying to rob Hades??? be fr 😭) Birdmes yelling "NO!! POOKIE" like he just witnessed a crime scene?? I am HOWLING. Please never apologize for this again. It's giving "gods losing their minds in a group chat while the mortal world crumbles." You've basically turned Olympus into an  sitcom and I want ten seasons.

from chipsiscurious (same username on tumblr)

OMG NO BECAUSE THIS?? THIS IS PEAK ENERGY. Like... I don't think anyone understands just how perfectly you captured MC's entire vibe after coming back from the dead  😭💀 no spoilers but yeah, death did change MC, so who knows?? You might actually be on that type of timing 😩😩

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[devilmademewriteit]

Drabble request for dbf!joel getting blown under the table or something while he's having a convo with reader's dad?!?! IDK I just love your dbf!joel!!

You Can Be the Boss

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

warnings: rough oral (m receiving); petnames (angel, baby, sweetheart); age gap; choking; hair pulling; (yall this is pure pure daddy issues FILTH, I warned you. I warned you hard).

Hi y’all ty for sending me all ur requests. ummm you guys are insane ! and so am I ! maybe more because I’m actually the one writing these ! this one is so dirty ! don’t say I didn’t warn you !

more to come hehehe. I don’t tag ppl for my smaller drabbles / fics so turn on notifs or whatevs ;)

-em<3

—

“As close as I’ll get to the darkness, he tells me to, ‘Shut up, I got this.’”

- You Can Be the Boss

—

It was still a secret, after all.

Sneaking into his apartment, late nights in alleys, abandoned cars lining the streets of the QZ… you’d managed to keep your joint intoxication with one another under wraps.

Today… today was risky. You usually waited until the wee hours of the morning to even walk by his place, let alone enter, but you’d needed to drop off a sweater that Tess had leant you the previous week, intending to leave it folded up on the doormat before bolting down the hall. Your footsteps were nervous and heavy, which led to the door swinging wide open on its hinges, a gruff “where you runnin’ off to, Angel?” and a set of rough hands pulling you through the doorway.

Then you were spread open against the tattered table cloth of his (busy) kitchen table, underwear shoved to the side, watching a hunched over Joel Fucking Miller spit on his hand and run it up down his heavy, hard length.

“Shouldn’t come here during the day,” as he’d lined himself up, “Can’t fuckin’ help myself.”

That’s when you heard the definite sound of a key twisting inside a lock. Joel’s head shot up — your eyes barely had time to widen before he was shoving you under the table, panties still twisted around your ankles.

A quick zip, then footsteps.

“Oh, sorry man—”

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“—Tess said you wouldn’t be home.”

It’s your father.

You thank God for your his poor observation skills (and the tablecloth) as Joel responds, “ah, no worries,” frustratingly non-chalant as ever.

“While you’re here though,” and your heart sinks, identifying your dad’s intention to stay, “Was wondering if we could go over the plans for our new routes. FEDRA assholes blocked off another south-east one today.”

Your blood turns to ice inside your veins as both men pull out their chairs, settling into a purely-business conversation. Joel barely hesitates, cool as ice.

Not fair that he gets to be so calm while you’re so… not.

Not fair.

If only there was a way to even out the playing field.

Crunched into yourself, you scoot closer to Joel’s calves, clinging onto his denim and doing your best to make as little noise as possible. When it’s clear, however, that your father’s far too invested in the practicalities of the conversation to suspect or inquire into or even notice anything else, your eyes wander towards the slowly softening bulge, still visible underneath Joel’s belt.

And you get an idea.

The man always tortured you, and you were well aware that what made your arrangement especially enticing — for the both of you — was the taboo-ness, the wrongness of it all.

So your pussy drips just thinking about it.

Slowly, delicately, you slide your hands up Joel’s thighs, feeling his every muscle respond, tensing, turning to stone, or jolting with electricity beneath your playful touches.

It’s hard, quietly pulling down his fly. Still, metal tooth by metal tooth, you eventually succeed, unable to hold back a smile of vindication when his cock springs up, swelling and hardening between your fingertips. Joel covers his choke with a cough.

Just as you duck down to lick a fat stripe up his cock’s dark underside, noticing how the lungs above you constrict — freezing — the conversation changes.

“You been seeing a lot of my daughter?”

Joel takes an uncharacteristically long time to grunt out a ���here n’ there.”

You hold in a laugh, both at your dad’s timely question and the reaction it causes. Placing a hand at the base of him, you consider this the perfect moment to start teasing his tip with patient, innocent little kitten-licks.

“Been acting weird,” your old man continues, unphased and unassuming, “Worried she’s been gettin’ herself into trouble.”

Trouble? You’re looking at him.

Your dad’s whole “fatherly concern” (not like he’d ever shown any before) angle makes you bold. You want to make it harder for Joel to deny your father’s suspicion.

You want to make him lie through his teeth.

You part your lips, wrapping them adoringly around the entire head of his cock before gliding down, using your hand to assist you as you please every inch of him.

While he mostly manages to keep it together, his legs don’t, gently parting with desire to allow you better access.

“She-she’s a good girl, man,” Joel manages, and while his delivery borders a groan, he stays surprisingly level (your body doesn’t forget to note his praise, either, aching cunt growing wetter and wetter at his every word). “‘Bit juvenile sometimes, and reckless—” he pauses, and it’s very clear he’s not speaking to your father, “—but good—” you work every inch of him with your hands, throat, and mouth, savouring the feel of his ridges and veins, the taste of his salt on your tastebuds, “—so good.”

You freeze, scanning the room for tension as both you and Joel try to figure out if his desire-stricken tone’s given you away.

It hasn’t.

Of course it hasn’t.

Your dad continues on as if everything were normal, as if Joel’s tip wasn’t kissing the back of your throat. “Just not sure if I’m raising her right—or… or if I was much of a father at all.”

Yeah, probably not. You know, given that I’m under the table sucking your best friend’s dick.

You watch, head still slowly bobbing up and down his length, a hand carving a careful path down his leg. Joel’s fingertips breach your shoulder, his palm slowly graduates to cupping the back of your head.

And he shoves you forward, forcing every punishing inch of himself down your little, gasping throat.

“Just needs a little discipline,” your torturer responds, raising his gravelly voice to mask the definite sound of choking.

“A heavy hand.”

You huff against his abdomen. Just like that, Joel’s taken the reins of your little operation.

Like he always did. Like he always does.

“You’re probably right,” your father responds, sighing with concession. Tears begin to well in the corners of your eyes while your lungs burn for oxygen, mouth stuffed and nose pressed into Joel’s skin. He chuckles, slapping the table. “Give ‘em an inch and they take a mile, huh?”

“That’s right,” Joel responds, a soft coo, tightening his grasp in your hair and somehow forcing more of himself between your lips.

Making his point.

You hold back a whimper, nails hopelessly clawing at his jeans.

Your dad raps his knuckles against the wood, pushing his chair back to leave. Unfortunately for you, Joel doesn’t move, holding you there like a prisoner — suffocating you.

He clears his throat. “I’d walk you out, but, you know—” your eyelids grow heavy, little stars beginning to dance in your vision “—been goin’ hard recently. Wearin’ myself out.”

A huff of understanding and concurrence from the other side of the room.

Eventually, after what seems like an eternity, hinges squeak, goodbyes are uttered, and your father’s left you alone with his buddy again.

Joel’s chair scrapes back — he pulls you along with him, attached to him, out from underneath the table.

Finally, finally, he releases his grasp.

You jump off of him, strings of saliva trailing from your lips, gasping for air as if you were seconds from drowning.

You aim to collapse against his knees, but he quickly grabs you by the throat, presses his big thumb under your chin, and forces your wet, tear-lined eyes up to meet his.

They’re filled with a lust so dark, you wonder if just that look might swallow you whole.

“Prouda yourself?” He speaks, voice low.

Dangerous.

And you just smile, dazed, nodding. Nodding because you know where it’ll get you. Nodding because you just know how much it’ll entice him.

“‘Course you are,” he continues, softer, “Shoulda been honest — shoulda told your old man he raised a fuckin’ slut.”

Joel lifts you up, indelicately shoving you down on the table, right back in the position you’d originally started the visit in.

His eyes darken to black when he sees how wet you are, how fucked-out, needy, and unapologetic you are.

“And you know what, baby?” A deceiving coo as he lines himself up at your entrance, using his other hand to squeeze your jaw — tight.

You look at him with big, begging doe eyes, eyebrows already knitting together from the tantalizing contact.

“I’m really fuckin’ glad he did.”

And as Joel Miller roughly sheathes his cock inside your young, tight cunt, you find yourself agreeing with him.

—

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST

AO3

[nonhuman-help-column]

Hey hey hey! Can you help a werewolf out?

I seem to not be shifting as often and I was wondering if I could have some advice or like ideas on what i could do to help shift (any kinda advice is welcome!)

(Nothing too physical as I am disabled with my legs, not drastically but it can be hard to do thing for extended periods of time)

So, similarly to what I told the tiger yesterday, start with time outside being still and observative. Animals spend lots of their time idle, and sometimes settling down and getting yourself out of your head and into your surroundings is what it takes to quiet the human side of your mind and let your animal instincts take the lead.

In fact, here is a little practice that I personally do to help induce a shift, modified a little for wolf specific language.

Go outside and find a comfortable place to sit. Consider kicking off your shoes if you're in an area without many sharp things to step on.

Look all around you, notice what any birds, bugs, squirrels, etc, are doing around you. Notice what kinds of plants are growing in different areas. Is what grows in the shade different than what grows in the sun? Is anything blooming or fruiting? That sort of thing. This should start to help you stop mulling over your day or any human life worries you have.

Once you feel pretty relaxed and familiar with your surroundings, close your eyes. Remembering what you saw before, try to now mentally recreate your landscape using other sensory input. Notice how the wind hits you and any scents it brings (Did you have a field of flowers? Sun baked grasses? Exhaust from the road?). Notice how it sounds rustling through different plants. What temperature it is. Notice what animals you can hear and what that means in relation to the surroundings you remember. The sound of birds tells you which direction the clumps of trees were. The croak of frogs tells you the direction of any water. The click of grasshoppers wings forms a picture of where the tall grasses were. Slowly, you should be able to paint a pretty vivid picture of what is around you using your other senses even without sight. This trains you to notice that input the way a wolf would.

When you feel you have painted a pretty good picture of what is around you, keep your eyes closed and hold onto that image, but start to turn some focus on yourself. Picture the way your ears would swivel to follow those sounds. How your nose might twitch and flare to investigate that scent. The way your fur and whiskers would be blown by the wind. Think about how your claws might squish into the grass and dirt or scratch against the stones beneath you. Slowly but surely, you should find yourself painted into that mental image as well.

Open your eyes. Look around yourself as a wolf, sharp and ready. Notice how the world looks and feels different in this state. If any of the scents and sounds you noticed earlier interested you, and you feel safe to do so, investigate them. You might be surprised what you find. From this point, do as you wish! I usually find that the shift peters out on its own after a while.

Keep in mind that you don't need true wilderness to do this. A backyard or city park is just fine as long as you won't be bothered.

That's a pretty long intense one though!

Here are some smaller activities to help either as a supplement to doing that practice or in place of it if that one doesn't speak to you.

- Journaling. I've fallen off the habit lately, but I used to love just sitting down by myself with my pen and paper and writing a little journal entry about my kintype or nature or any small shifts or animalistic things I noticed about myself that day. If you're worried about not having anything to write, pick a day to think of a bunch of writing prompts and put one at the top of each page. Then you can just flip through your journal and pick whichever one you feel like answering that day.

- Sleeping with the ambiance of your biome playing

- Watching videos of wolves doing whatever you are doing at the moment. Wolves eating while you eat. Wolves sleeping or cuddling while you rest. Wolves fighting when you're angry. That kind of thing. Wolves are very social creatures, so I imagine seeing others participating in the same thing you are would be euphoric.

[unfortunatelyantipathic]

Thrice-Kissed Upon the Wrist

He’s a boy when he first kisses your wrist.

The courtyard is wet with morning rain, stone slick with moss and memory. You’re twelve, he’s fourteen, and the air smells like copper and blooming lilac. He’s bloodied his nose trying to catch you in a game of chase, slipping on the cobble and landing hard, and you laugh because he looks ridiculous, because you’re too young to know better, because his glare is filled with all the indignation a child can muster and not nearly enough wrath to be real.

“Don’t laugh at a knight,” he mutters, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“You’re not a knight yet,” you respond, sitting by the edge of the fountain. You’ve seen worse than this wound, you’ve had worse, from your brothers’ squabbles escalating to the rest of the household.

He squares his shoulders. “Yet. I will be, one day.”

Then, as if to prove it, he kneels a leg, and takes your wrist with a hand scraped red. You think he’s going to shake it like your brothers do when they finish a spar, but instead, he leans down and presses his lips to the inside. He repeats the action thrice.

It’s a solemn gesture, far too adult for his age, and you don’t understand it, not then. You only feel the damp warmth and the strange, fluttering silence that follows. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of your pulse, loud and clear beneath his mouth.

You pull your hand back and wrinkle your nose, wiping the blood from your wrist with a lace handkerchief. “That’s not where you’re supposed to kiss.”

He only shrugs, snatching the handkerchief from your hand and covering his still bleeding nose.

Later that night, you draw the shape of his gesture on your own wrist with a coal pencil, trying to recreate the stillness you felt in your chest. You sleep with your fist tucked under your chin and wake with your pulse thrumming like it remembers.

He wasn’t born for knighthood, you know like you know yourself. Perhaps better than even that.

No family name, no fortune. His mother was a midwife, or a washerwoman, or a ghost; you can never remember which story is true. He appears one summer with bruises on his arms and appetite like a wolf, and your brothers whisper stories to you beneath the pergola, telling you he’s dangerous. Your father wards them off with a gentle hand. Let the boy stay. Let the boy serve.

He learns fast. How to bow, how to ride, how to smile with only the corner of his mouth. But he never stops kissing the inside of your wrist, even after the etiquette classes. Even after the beatings. Even after the tutors pull you aside and tell you he must not think he’s close to you.

But he is. He always has been.

Once, in winter, you find him asleep in the stables, curled against the flank of a mare too old for patrols. He wakes when you kneel beside him, and he looks at you like he expected you to find him.

“I had a dream,” he tells you. “You were bleeding. From here.”

He taps your pulse. But his fingers land on your wrist, not your heart.

You laugh it off, swaddling him in the blankets you stole from your eldest brother, who you know will go to your other brothers, the servants, your father, before ever accusing you. “Dreams lie.”

He doesn’t argue.

Years pass. He becomes a squire, then a knight. And still the ritual remains. He kneels, he kisses your wrist three times; never the back of your hand, never your cheek. Always the wrist.

Your brothers tease him endlessly, especially once his arms grow longer than yours and he begins to tower over them. They call him puppy, servant, zealot. They call it quaint, laughable. How dare he pretend to be above them. To be noble. Pretending, pretending.

He never corrects them.

He bleeds for you on the training field, fists clenched until his nails draw crescent shaped scars into the flesh of his palms, sparring with men twice his size just to earn his place by your side during ceremonial processions. You pretend not to notice. It’s easier that way.

He watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking. You never bother to address it.

One summer eve, after a tourney where he splits his knuckle down to the bone and yet still somehow rises victorious, you do ask him. “Why always the wrist?”

His answer is quiet, whisper reverent, lips lying on your pulse. “It’s where you bloom.”

You don’t ask what that means.

​​He bleeds when they brand him. You remember the roar of the holy fire well, the way its light reverberated through every hallway of the palace, shadows following shortly behind its path.

The priests call it engraving, but it looks more like searing. Carving. His skin is peeled back and rewritten like a pomegranate turned outside in, and he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. The other boys do, but he does not, lips barely parted, head tilted to the sky. His face is tranquil, and somehow, you sense that he knew. He already knew what this would feel like.

You watch from the balcony, hidden behind a silk curtain, and you shouldn’t be watching, you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. You cry for him, and your tears wash away with the morning rain.

“It represents my oath,” he tells you later, outstretching his wrist, “To the Empire.”

He hesitates before finishing the sentence, and you sense it.

“It didn’t hurt,” he furthers, studying your expression. His wrist bears the mark of the dove and the olive branch and the white ribbon. He holds it out to you like a prize, like a promise, and you smile. That’s what a lady does when someone shows her their pain and asks her to look at it like a gift.

But it watches you, the dove’s eye. Just a curl of ink. You swear; you swear. It blinked. Something watching, gleaming, waiting. Breathing.

Your father dies, and the world does not stop.

That, more than anything, feels wrong.

He passes beneath a red sun. Poison, some say. Others whisper older curses, darker things buried in the carmen ocean beneath the Holy Throne. Your brothers don’t cry. One makes a speech. One makes a threat. One vanishes, sunstreaks licking the skies before his shadow even disappears over the mountain ridge.

And the mountains catch fire.

You stand alone beside the casket. You don’t cry, either. Not yet.

You think your tears are still in the mountains, maybe. Waiting for the thunder of your brothers’ war to die down, so they can come home.

He stands beside you. Your knight. Your shadow. Your.. what do you call him now? He belongs to the Templar, to the future Emperor. He’s much more than just yours.

He kneels again, for the first time in years. And you think to yourself; how strange. How familiar. How odd to see the boy in the man, as if the years between the two of you never quite stuck.

He takes your hand again, like he always used to. But slower, this time. Gentler.

No, perhaps gentler is the wrong word. Surer. And he kisses it, not the back of your hand. The inside of your wrist, where the little mole has become darker and your pulse has begun to race.

Your smile is automatic. Tight. Just a flicker of gratitude through an overwhelming whirlpool of grief. You don’t look down.

You don’t see the golden mark curl into place across your wrist, branches blooming like a brand in slow motion.

You don’t see him again for twelve days.

You don’t ask where he’s gone, you don’t ask why. He’s mourning, too. Or maybe he’s waiting. Maybe the Holy Templar must pause, like one last refrain held in a dying throat, until another Emperor is crowned.

The palace feels quiet. You know the halls echo strange, like someone, something, is always just around the corner. You know you wake in the middle of the night with your wrist burning. But these are small things. Little things.

You don’t know anything. You don’t think about the stories, not yet. Not until he returns.

He returns alone, before the midnight storms have the chance to turn to dew in the morning light.

His armor is dark with ash, his eyes battle hardened. Not empty, no. Full, full of something you can no longer recognize. The kind of fullness that comes after something breaks.

He kneels again. A third time, always three, and the last time, you know. He kneels not as a knight, but as something older. Something raw. A thing fulfilling a promise made long before.

He places a tiara in your lap. It’s not yours. It’s too heavy, too sharp, too full of broken little gems that used to encrust your brothers’ holy weapons. It’s made of violence and absence and tears washed away by absinthe, and you know without holding it in your hands that it was made, not meant, for you.

You don’t ask where he got it. You don’t need to.

He takes your hand and kisses your wrist, where the golden emblem has curled and settled and fused into skin that no longer feels like your own. And he smiles like a man who has finally come home.

The nursemaid used to whisper a story to you, when the wind rattled the shutters and the hearth crackled with ghostlight through winter storm.

A knight, foolish and pure, carved a part of his soul into an emblem and gave it to his saving grace. And so as long as she lived, he lived. So long as she reigned, he served. And when she died, he collapsed back into a sea of carnage—

Salt.

You never liked that story. You thought it was sad, you thought it was lonely.

You think he might have enjoyed hearing it.

Because when he looks up at you, the mark on his wrist glows the same gold as yours.

And you wonder; did he know? Even then? Even when you were small?

When he first kissed that mole on your wrist, did he already know what you would become? Who he would become?

Or did he decide for you?

You feel him breathing when you sleep now.

You think you share a heart.

You think yours’ stopped beating the moment he gave you his.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

thinkin bout the Lucanis in Teia's Armor Mod (edit: made by @emmavakarian-theirin!!) again and i can't draw comics so--

“Mireda,” Lucanis mutters as the chaos of battle recedes back to silence, and Rook glances over out of habit. He’s holding the shredded remains of his cape, and as he shakes it out, both the Venatori’s knife and severed hand tumble from the folds to the grass.

“Gross,” she comments, as he inspects the long slashes in the fabric.

“Spite got overenthusiastic. Just blood would have washed out, but now I’ll have to replace the fabric,” he complains. “And carry this around until we get back to the Lighthouse.”

“Just toss it over the edge,” Davrin suggests as he wipes down his own sword. “Maybe it’ll fall forever, or whatever lives beneath the Crossroads can eat it.”

“Do you think there’s monsters down there?” Rook asks, curious. “Just like, floating around?”

“I try not to think too hard about this place at all, Rook. Nothing here makes sense.”

Lucanis looks down at the fabric, considering, and begins to walk over to the gap between stone walls at the edge of the clearing, where the ground ceases and rocks tumble away into the Fade’s twisted sense of gravity. Rook watches him head away with a sudden intensity.

“Wow,” she says. “That cape really was hiding a lot.”

“Really, Rook?” Davrin rolls his eyes, and then also turns to watch as the assassin steps up to the edge, peering over. “Huh,” he amends a moment later. “Not wrong.”

“Do you think he’d notice if I threw away the rest of his capes, too?”

“He’s a Crow. He’s rich enough to have a different one for every day of the year. It might take you a while.” He pauses, and Rook can feel him turn to look at her. She keeps her own gaze on Lucanis, watching as he seems to debate whether or not to actually throw the blood-soaked bundle over the side. Why hadn’t she noticed before that his armor had so much leather hidden under the cloaks? They were far tighter than the trousers he wore at the lighthouse.

“You know, you’re not the only one I’ve caught admiring the view,” Davrin comments. “You are usually the one walking up front.” Rooks face and ears flush, and she knows he’s noticed by the way he elbows her side suggestively. “You’ve been spending a lot time with Lucanis lately.”

“Ah, well, you know me,” Rook tries to deflect. “I flirt with everyone. I flirt with you all the time. We all have our hobbies.” 

“You used to flirt with everyone,” Davrin corrects. “Lately you’ve seemed more… targeted in your pursuit.”

“Not that it’s doing me much good,” she confesses. Across the field, Lucanis seems to think better of the plan, and turns to head back with the cape still in his hands.

“See any monsters?” Rook calls.

“No, but I decided if there really was something down there, it’d be better not to give it my scent. Or blood, if any of mine made it on there.” He shakes his head as he rejoins their circle. “Back to the Lighthouse?”

“You’ve got some more Venatori blood on the back of your boot,” Davrin points out, and Lucanis twists to inspect the leather.

Rook shoots the warrior a pointed gaze, but he simply mouths a silent You’re welcome, as Lucanis pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and bends over to wipe the red flecks away before they dry. 

Rook pretends not to stare again. 

[cain-e-brookman]

Hey y'all, @creatingblackcharacters has created a challenge for Black History Month and I thought I'd share my entry. I'd like to tag @topazadine @illarian-rambling @mx-ryder and @spideronthesun for the challenge as well!

Uthyr is the main character of my current WIP: The Name, Witch. His is a story of healing, of putting down shame, and of being true to the spirit of what created you, no matter how the world wants you to bend. This is a scene that takes place about 10 years before we meet him in this same garden. Uthyr's greatest victory is always against despair. Uthyr's strength is in his conviction to himself, the culture and virtues that were passed onto him, and his love for the world around him. In my writing, I want my Black audience to see their own resilience in Uthyr. I want to highlight Black men in roles that are softer, but no less strong.

I also sincerely hope that this book can be a long shout out to my Black autistic sibs who are also obsessed with bugs, amphibians, and/or reptiles. I gave my hyperfixation to Uthyr, and I hope you feel seen with it as well. As I said in the comments to a very needed check, joy is just as important as resiliency, and I hope you find as much happiness as Uthyr does in with cold little buddies!

---

perhaps on the crest of each stiff blade of grass hangs the eternal name of someone who was once loved but is now vanished and just another name in an endless field of names that is newly remembered with each return trip of the eager nose...

-Hanif Abdurraqib from "The Crown Ain't Worth Much

The hydrangea bush to the north of his house was the first thing Uthyr put into the soil in his soon-to-be garden. An old witch tradition. The color of the flowers changed with the humors of the soil. Uthyr didn’t know which color he hoped for, just that it grew to be strong. He hoped the plant would grant him the same blessing.

The last thirty-some years of Uthyr’s life had left behind the cooled pyres of his family, and the last two since the death of his mother had left him adrift. The first, a long year where he’d traveled to nowhere in particular, stayed where he found place to stay, and searched desperately for a purpose. At the end of that long year, he realized, exuberantly, there was none. No end to rush to, no greater deed to be done. He would not be rewarded for suffering, would not reach some peak where it became all worth it. He would not find a purpose, nor would he make his own. He would, instead, simply live. Live brightly, now. Live fearlessly, now. He didn't know where he would go, but he knew where he would start.

He practiced his healing for the first time since his father died. A young girl had taken a fall in the small town in which he was staying. He'd gone to her without a thought, placed his hands around the break, and reached out where he knew the magic still laid. The feel of bone knitting beneath his fingers nearly had him in tears. He could hear his father’s warm, heavy voice as he worked:

Bone remembers its home, just not the way back. Remind it gently, and its journey will be painless.

The little girl hadn’t even cried. He’d pulled a dandelion seed that had stuck itself on his cloak and grew it into a miniature sun before placing it behind her ear for bravery. The Sun Goddess rarely answered his beckons for fire, and his stubbornness never won out over the Stone’s, but neither skill brought about the smiles of gratitude he’d seen in all his time healing. He wished it hadn’t taken him so long to appreciate that part of himself, that part of his father’s influence.

Then, after a long while of fighting with his own head, he finally chose himself. Two weeks in a temple to the God of the Golden Moon saw him leaving behind the word “daughter,” to be replaced with a name that held responsibility to no one but himself. Uthyr of the Asphodels, First of His Name. His mother’s now held nothing a burden of failure on his shoulders. He could have been better for her. Should have been better. But he could not make the dead proud, so he cast off the guilt. It no longer served either of them. 

He changed his hair. Spent a long day removing neat rows of braids from his head, combing and washing then rolling his hair like he’d seen his uncle do so many times. At the end of it all, he had sore arms and a deep satisfaction. The start of those locs still stuck oddly from his head in their awkward stage.

“Ugly stage,” his mother used to tease Uncle Callum when they recounted stories of their youth. His uncle would always raise an eyebrow and inform her in no uncertain terms that he’d never been ugly a day in his life. Uthyr planted snapdragons by his window for them both; their favorites. Yellow for his mom. Purple for his uncle. The seeds had been expensive for the paltry savings he’d kept from his brief stint of odd-job healing around the surrounding towns, but the memory of the two exchanging plants on their shared birthday had Uthyr lightening his coin purse without a second thought.

He continued with a few more plots around his house. A smattering of pansies for color, some herbs for healing, then some more for cooking… 

A single row of daffodils by his doorway. For his father. His birthday would be soon. Uthyr would cut one and light a candle. Pray the Death God pass on his love.

I’m alright, he’d tell his father. It’s hard and I’m tired, but it’s alright. I’ve got good soil under my feet and good hands to dig.

The anemones he planted on the shaded side of his house were for himself, though. They were delicate things, but right now so was his heart and that needed just as much care. He’d stay strong for them and they’d do the same for him. Water and sunlight. The start, his uncle would say, to any life worth living. 

And hope, Uthyr thought. Half of it was always hope.

When Uthyr finished for the day the sun was drawing long shadows across the forest floor. All but his pansies would not see color or flower for a long while, but as Uthyr dusted soil off the dark skin of his hands and forearms, he could already see the future it held. He would get some roses. Maybe not this year. He needed to plant his vegetable garden first. Maybe splurge on a fruit sapling. Tonight he would sit in his mostly empty home, cook a small pot of soup with ingredients from a garden that wasn’t his, and plan recipes for when his own produce grew. But as for now, he felt the waking breath of spring on his face, the softness of the grass under his legs as he dug his toes into the cool earth below him. 

A tentative peace was forming in his chest, walking haltingly like a newly born fawn. He’d found a creek not far from where he sat. He wondered if the tadpoles had yet grown legs.

---

And now, my excited rambling: the title of the poem before the cut is Notes On Waiting for the Dog to Find the Perfect Place to Take a Shit While Morning Cuts Through the Sky, Fresh From Another Darkness, which is quite possibly one of Abdurraqib's best titles and also a wonderful poem. I saw When I Say Loving Me Is Like Being a Chicago Bulls Fan posted on facebook at one point and I've been in love with his poetry since. The way he weaves pain and hope with his anger and his love in a way that criticizes a society that doesn't value himself or people like him, while celebrating his identity is both masterful and cutting. Listen to the man and buy his books! His essay collection, A Little Devil in America: In Praise of Black Performance is going to be my read for my essay collection square for the 2025 book bingo, and I'm really excited to finally get to it!

[oh-no-its-dragons]

No Good Choices

I am just not capable of writing Brennaolin fluff, I think. For "forbidden," day two.

(cw death, vaguely described gore)

"I love you," Naolin whispered. He didn't think Brennan would hear him, but he said it just the same.

He kissed Brennan's forehead, though he couldn't smell or taste anything but the thick coppery smell of Brennan's blood. It was everywhere: on Brennan, on himself, soaking into the earth beneath them.

Blood was all he could see, all he could think. Brennan didn't have enough of it where it mattered. He didn't have enough energy to mend himself. He didn't have enough breath, because the arrow to his chest had stolen that too.

The raw panic, the fear, the grief, all of that receded. It was like diving into the lake he'd grown up swimming in. When the water closed over his head, everything went quiet. Naolin had always loved that silence, loved the way that going underwater made the world stop.

He wanted the world to stop now, but it refused. Naolin held that cold hand like it was his life, and the only thing that stopped was Brennan's heart.

Less than a dragons-length away, Marbh was roaring in pain and grief. Tairn stood beside him, flagging but unhurt, and looked at Naolin.

"You should leave him, Reckless One. There is still work to do."

Naolin looked up at Tairn like he'd never seen the dragon before. "Work to do," his thoughts echoed. 

Some of Tairn's exhaustion escaped down the bond, and Naolin thought it had to be unintentional because Tairn never admitted weakness to him. "Dragons do not show weakness," Tairn agreed, but it seemed patently untrue when Marbh was openly mourning nearby. 

"If it was your mate, you would lay down and die," Naolin snapped, feeling his bitterness creep up the bond. Tairn pulled back and brought his shields down between them, and Naolin slammed his own into place as the dragon took off, leaving him among the chaos of the field. 

Naolin waited until Marbh seemed to have fallen asleep or unconscious or at least quiet. Then he gathered Brennan's body in his arms and stood. 

The nightmares he'd been having seemed nearly prophetic now, and if there was any chance… 

Well, the man who had been haunting his dreams since they came to Tyrrandor promised him the power to put right all the things he'd seen rotting inside Navarre's command. In the nightmares where he watched Brennan die, the man promised the power to protect him. 

Naolin hadn't thought… He hadn't thought it would come to this. But now he was awake and still trapped in the nightmare. 

His shoulders slumped, his hands shook, but he carried Brennan off the battlefield, following the path from his dream. Squelching mud turned into grey, packed earth and then stone that reverberated under his boots. He'd followed the memory of the dream into a very real cave. Sure enough, there was the cloaked man who had appeared so many times now. 

"All of this could have been avoided," he said, "if you'd only listened to me." 

"You promised me enough power to do anything. Anything. Does that include bringing him back or not?" Naolin demanded. 

"If you're ready to do as I say, I know what you can do. Have you ever heard of a wyvern?" 

[grimoirey]

The Fool's Journey

This is the story of the Fool, as he journeys through the major arcana of the tarot.

Each card has a lesson for him, and he becomes wiser with each step.

This story will help your tarot reading and understanding of the cards!

The Fool begins his journey, a soul unmarked by the world, with eyes wide and a heart full of wonder. He steps forward with no map, trusting the winds of fate to guide him, carrying little but innocence and the will to explore. The world is a blank canvas waiting for him to paint his story.

0. The Fool

He takes a leap, unaware of the precipice beneath his feet, trusting in the unknown. In his innocence, he is limitless—yet unaware of the trials that lie ahead. His journey is one of both folly and wisdom, for it is through experience that he will come to know himself.

1. The Magician

The Fool encounters the Magician, a figure with eyes as sharp as lightning and hands that shape the unseen forces of the universe. The Magician shows him the tools laid before him—the sword of air, the cup of water, the pentacle of earth, and the wand of fire. "Everything you need, you already possess," the Magician whispers. "The power to manifest lies within you." The Fool feels a flicker of possibility, learning that creation starts from belief and will.

2. The High Priestess

The Fool then crosses paths with the High Priestess, veiled in moonlight, standing between the pillars of wisdom and mystery. She does not speak, but her silence is louder than words. She beckons him to look inward, to the quiet places of his soul, where the answers lie hidden beneath the surface. "Not all knowledge is found in the world," she tells him in the language of dreams. "Some truths live in the stillness between breaths." Here, the Fool learns to trust his intuition, to listen to the whispers of his own spirit.

3. The Empress

Walking through lush fields, the Fool meets the Empress, the earth incarnate, her presence a song of life and creation. She is the mother of all things, her hands nurturing the seeds of the future. She teaches him about the cycles of growth, about the art of nurturing both the world and himself. "To create is to love," she says, as the earth blossoms at her feet. In her warmth, the Fool learns the lessons of abundance, of receiving and giving with open hands.

4. The Emperor

In the realm of structure and order, the Fool encounters the Emperor, seated upon a throne of stone. The Emperor’s gaze is steady, his rule absolute. He teaches the Fool about boundaries, about building strong foundations to protect what is important. "Discipline is not the enemy of freedom," the Emperor tells him. "It is the means by which you can uphold your dreams." From him, the Fool learns that while spontaneity is valuable, structure and control are needed to truly thrive.

5. The Hierophant

The Fool then finds the Hierophant, standing in a sacred temple. With one hand raised to the heavens and one pointing to earth, he bridges the divine and the mundane. He teaches the Fool the wisdom of tradition and the importance of shared knowledge. "The teachings of the past are your foundation," he says. "They connect you to something greater, a lineage of wisdom." The Fool learns the value of guidance, of learning from those who came before him.

6. The Lovers

The Fool walks further and finds himself standing before two figures—the Lovers. Their union speaks of harmony, of choice, and the balance between dualities. From them, he learns the power of connection, both with others and within himself. "True love is a mirror," they tell him. "It reflects your soul and teaches you who you are." Here, the Fool begins to understand that love, whether romantic or divine, is both a gift and a challenge, demanding vulnerability and trust.

7. The Chariot

The road before the Fool becomes rough, but soon he meets the Charioteer, who rides a chariot led by two opposing forces. The Charioteer teaches him the lesson of willpower, of steering through life with determination. "Victory is not won by force alone," he says. "But by balancing strength with patience, and will with wisdom." The Fool learns that to reach his goals, he must master himself as much as the path ahead.

8. Strength

The Fool next encounters a woman gently taming a lion with her bare hands, the embodiment of Strength. She shows him that true strength is not brute force, but a quiet resilience, a courage born from inner calm. "To master others is power," she tells him, "but to master yourself is true strength." From her, the Fool learns to embrace his inner strength and to approach life with compassion and grace.

9. The Hermit

On a quiet mountain, the Fool finds the Hermit, cloaked and holding a lantern. The Hermit walks the path of solitude, seeking wisdom not in the world, but within. He teaches the Fool the importance of reflection and introspection. "The answers you seek are inside you," the Hermit says, lighting the way with his lantern. "Sometimes you must walk alone to find them." In the silence, the Fool begins to understand the value of solitude and inner guidance.

10. The Wheel of Fortune

The Fool’s journey leads him to the Wheel of Fortune, a great wheel turning endlessly with the cycles of fate. Here, he learns that life is ever-changing, a dance of highs and lows. "Nothing is permanent," the Wheel says as it spins. "Fortune turns, and so must you." The Fool realizes that he cannot control everything, but he can learn to move with the rhythm of life’s unpredictability.

11. Justice

The Fool is then met by Justice, holding scales and a sword. She stands for fairness, truth, and the consequences of one’s actions. "Every choice you make shapes your future," she tells him. "Balance must be maintained." The Fool learns the importance of accountability, of weighing his actions carefully, knowing that justice will always prevail.

12. The Hanged Man

As he continues, the Fool encounters the Hanged Man, suspended upside down yet serene. The Hanged Man teaches him the power of surrender and the value of seeing things from a different perspective. "Sometimes you must let go to move forward," the Hanged Man says. The Fool learns that not every struggle is solved through action, and that patience and sacrifice can reveal deeper truths.

13. Death

The Fool is then faced with Death, not an ending, but a transformation. He learns that life is a cycle, and with every death comes rebirth. "Do not fear change," Death tells him. "For it is through letting go that you are reborn." The Fool realizes that to grow, he must release the old to make room for the new.

14. Temperance

Emerging from transformation, the Fool meets Temperance, a figure blending water between two cups, symbolizing harmony and balance. She teaches him the art of moderation and the importance of integrating opposing forces within himself. "Harmony comes not from extremes," she says, "but from finding the middle path." The Fool learns the value of balance, of tempering his passions with wisdom.

15. The Devil

The Fool soon encounters the Devil, a figure that represents materialism, temptation, and bondage. The Devil teaches him about the chains he creates for himself through fear, addiction, or unhealthy desires. "Your chains are self-imposed," the Devil tells him. "You are free to break them whenever you choose." Here, the Fool learns about the power of liberation, that he must confront his shadows to reclaim his freedom.

16. The Tower

Suddenly, the Fool faces the Tower, struck by lightning, crumbling to its foundation. In a moment of chaos, he watches as everything he thought he knew is shattered. "Sometimes destruction is necessary for growth," the Tower says. The Fool learns that upheaval, though painful, clears the way for new beginnings.

17. The Star

After the storm, the Fool finds solace in the Star, a serene figure under a starlit sky, pouring water into the earth and a pool. The Star represents hope, healing, and inspiration. "After destruction comes renewal," she tells him. "Trust in the light that guides you." The Fool feels a deep sense of peace and faith, knowing that the universe holds his path, even in darkness.

18. The Moon

As night falls, the Fool enters the realm of the Moon, where shadows blur reality. The Moon teaches him about illusions, dreams, and the unconscious mind. "Not everything is as it seems," she warns. "Beware of your fears and delusions." The Fool learns to navigate his inner landscape, understanding that confusion and uncertainty are part of the journey.

19. The Sun

Emerging from the night, the Fool is greeted by the Sun, shining brightly with warmth and joy. The Sun symbolizes clarity, success, and vitality. "After darkness comes the light," the Sun tells him. "Revel in your achievements and share your light with the world." The Fool basks in the radiance of self-awareness, feeling the energy of life renewed.

20. Judgment

The Fool then hears the call of Judgment, as an angel blows a trumpet, awakening the dead. He is asked to look back on his journey, to reflect on his choices and how they have shaped him. "Now is the time to rise to your higher calling," Judgment says. The Fool understands that this moment of reckoning is about embracing his true self, leaving behind past mistakes, and stepping into his future with clarity.

21. The World

At last, the Fool reaches the World, where a figure dances within a wreath, encircled by the four corners of the earth. Here, the Fool understands that his journey, though filled with trials and transformation, has brought him to a place of unity and completion. The World speaks of fulfillment, of harmony between the inner and outer realms. "You have learned the dance of life," she tells him. "Now, you are whole, and the world reflects your growth." The Fool realizes that his journey has come full circle, but with each ending comes the promise of new beginnings. He has not reached the end, but a new level of understanding—ready to begin again, but wiser now, and deeply connected to the cosmos.

[beeandthescreen]

In Unholy Matrimony

E | Vampyr!Ellen x Thomas | Canon Divergence | 4/?

Ao3 | An unconventional journey home requires equally unconventional methods.

All ch. | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Hello! I have not died. It's just that this chapter was an utter bitch to write for some reason. This one is over 5k, so don't say I don't feed you.

This monster was going to be wayyyyy longer, but I decided that splitting them up into two would be appropriate AND ensure that I don't leave you guys hanging!

Enjoy, my little freaks.

—————————————————————

They sit in growing darkness, matted with filth and anticipation, watching the light of day disappear through a hair-thin crack. 

Ellen is wrapped around his arm, fingers entangled with his own. They’ve come to the unspoken, unanimous decision to enjoy this short purgatory they’ve been offered. 

How often they have held each other the same— in pretty fields and beneath trees. In their marriage bed. Under country bridges. Against Gingerbug’s warmth.

Yes, they look horrendous. Yes, he is sure he cannot walk. Yes, they are so very very exhausted.

—But Ellen is massaging slow circles into the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. She asks if he has eaten. She picks away the most unsightly flakes of dried mud from his neck. She scolds him for the state of his knees, the pallor of his skin—demanding to know why he has not been tending to himself.

She knows why, but she does not like it. She coddles him with words of comfort and touches so soft he almost forgets his troubles entirely.

Almost. 

His eyes follow the last slivers of light down and down until— ah, they will be able to leave in only a few moments. A spike of pain jolts up his calf. Maybe a little longer than that, then.

It is when Thomas becomes effectively blind when Ellen makes a strained noise. She tucks her face further into his shoulder. Her nuzzling makes his lashes flutter to a close. He feels her breathe him in– her chest swelling against him. 

Ellen stills. 

Opening his eyes, he sees the faintest glow of two beady circles peering at his neck, unblinking.

Gooseflesh. There is a sudden, sharp, oppressing silence. Thomas’ throat constricts with a thick swallow—his scar aches.

“My love?” he whispers. He flattens a hand to the small of her back, pressing lightly.

They flicker shut. A beat passes, and the hair on the back of Thomas’ neck settles. 

Ellen shifts, resettling herself. She peels away, and Thomas resists the urge to lean in and follow. She places her hand on the stone between them, their fingertips brush– placating. 

“Forgive me, I—” 

“It is alright, dearest.” He assures, trying so very hard not to sound out of breath. He does not know what else to 

Thomas does not need to be told, for it is the distinct, familiar feeling of being prey that tells him enough.

The lapse is ignored. She entwines their pinkies “Only a minute more.” she whispers, and Thomas would be a terrible man to say no.

He is lucky that he hadn’t frozen to death in his sleep. The mausoleum walls were ancient and ugly, but thick. When there was still light, he had noted the lichen blanketing the stone, sopping up the chill of winter. Instead, hypothermia had been traded with cold sweats and soaked underthings. 

He feels horrid.

Think of food, water, a bed, a bath. 

He is placated enough to start ruminating on the many—stepped plan of returning home. 

The line of thought starts and fails to make purchase, many times. He decides that future, 5-minute later, Thomas can pick up where he left off.

Somehow, in his overwhelming grief, he’d spirited Ellen’s belongings into their shoebox of a guest room. It could have been his own, crude, brand of foresight– or maybe the lingering fire in his heart that told him to save whatever was left of his wife from the desecration of that vile creature. 

Tonight, he will lay out her favorite nightgown, ready her a bath, and clean out the wounds that have yet to be properly tended to. They will need wood to boil water. There is also the issue of their lack of a door, and Ellen’s sleeping adjustments. 

They need to procure the soil from this graveyard— a lot of it. They’ll need to come back with something that could hold enough to cover her.

He feels the stirrings of a headache.

Fingers tip his chin downward. “I can hear you think.” Ellen lets her hand fall to his chest. When it grazes his heart, she pulls it away, digits flexing. “Share with me your troubles.” 

Thomas allows himself a deep sigh. “There is much to do.” His head shakes. “If there was a list…” they could probably use it as kindle for the bath.

Ellen’s eyes crease at the edges, tight. “Then our minute is over.” 

She squeezes his arm. It hurts like the devil, but what doesn’t? Thomas is a bruise on two legs. She stands, and though he sees little, he feels its odd grace. It is a singular shift of damp fabric, lightly grazing his thigh. 

He loses the details of her in the dark, but he feels hands gathering him up, pulling gently. He is startled by the ease in which she takes him. He groans, his knees popping. 

They exit the tomb, and at their first steps, they are ankle—deep in a swirl of mud and snow. 

—————————————————————

Bodies no longer litter the streets, but there are faint remnants of the sickness. Bandages, tonic bottles, and broken cloth stretchers— all blanketed in a layer of white— as is the entirety of Wisborg.

They are nearing the end of December and it feels significantly colder than when he was a boy. 

Perhaps the holidays have lost their spark. Would it be silly to say he still wishes to celebrate?

Their first Christmas together.

He would scrounge up the funds to get her a new gown and a proper easel. God knows where he’d find one on such late notice. He is no seamster, but he can work wood. He’ll build the blasted thing if he has to. 

At this, a picture appears. Ellen, sat on an artist’s stool, bristle brush in hand, buffing out tufts of pinked clouds. It would be parallel to his desk, so he could humor her while she worked.

Thomas will count their savings when everything has settled. 

The trek is much slower than yesterday, significantly so, but Ellen has taken on his weight without complaint. He’d been reluctant at first, to burden her with it. In the end, she’d given him a hard look, wordlessly fixed his arms around her shoulders, and walked.

“It is not the time to be stubborn.” She’d chided, and Thomas could only give her a sullen nod.

Over time, his body had begun to sag. More than once had he found his face dipped into the crook of her neck. He’d pull himself up again, only to find himself in the same position only a moment later. He’d stopped trying to stand up straight only a half-hour in.

Ellen, however, takes it in stride. Her slow, purposeful steps are for his sake rather than her own. There is not even a pinch in her brow— only the occasional tilt of her head to meet his eyes, and to softly ask him if he needs to rest.

With how effortless she is in her guidance, one would think she’s carrying an empty sack.

They leave a snow—parted trail behind them. He hadn’t needed to tell her to take the side streets. If not for the absence of whispers—and of people in general—he might not have noticed at all.

Even in near darkness, Ellen tiptoes over every crack, bump, and stone. They only pass a lit streetlight on occasion, which is in their favor. With the plague, there are probably only a handful of lamplighters to spare. Thomas suspects that it will grow brighter as they move toward the inner, wealthier districts.

Thomas, for once, is grateful he lives on the more… dubious side of the city. Still, they need to cross over the middle of town, so they will not get out of this with their propriety completely intact.

When he starts to shiver, Ellen instructs him to stay put, and then disappears into a dark street. 

Not a moment later, she returns with a thick, ill-fitting coat. When handed it, he moves to drape it over her shoulders, but she stalls his wrists.

“I have no need for it.” she whispers, a meaningful look on her face. Thomas relents.

She maneuvers him into it with a practiced hand, buttoning every closure to keep the warmth in. She doesn’t need to make it look pretty, but she adjusts what needs adjusting, and then continues leading the trek.

A long while later, when he has warmed just enough, he has the mind to ask her where the hells she got it from.

“Do not worry yourself,” she says, patting his hand. “He was not going to use it.”

Thomas, trusting that it is less ominous than it sounds, can only kiss her cheek.

They eventually run out of alleys to hide in.

“Thomas.” A soft movement of the shoulder his forehead is currently resting on shakes him from his stupor. He glances up— bleary-eyed, and answers with a hoarse hum.

They’ve traveled further than he thought. Surely not? We are nearly halfway home. 

A busy plaza is just around the corner. The barrier between the dark, quiet outskirts and the bustle of city life is stark. A harsh line of yellowed lamplight cuts across the street, and a horde of shadows dance on the tall brick beside them.

"Of course. Reederplatz Plaza never sleeps; perhaps we might find a carriage here?" Ellen turns, shifting his weight so that they are facing each other in a less tender version of a hug. She looks up at him with concern, and a gentle nudging that suggests she wants his input.

As true as that may be, Thomas doubts that even the kindest of Samaritans would subject themselves to their presence. 

Ellen, to put it very politely, looks like she’s gone and rolled in shit.

She is beautiful, nonetheless. 

He cannot fathom what image he must paint to anyone of good sense. Their standing in society aside, there is no other option—lest they decide to waste the precious time they have dragging his failing body across the city.

“Let us try.” He says, because there has to be at least one person with a kind enough heart and a low sense of self-preservation to say yes.

Using the wall to guide him, he hobbles forward and peaks his head around the corner. 

It is moderately busy. It is the standard mix of people for wandering vagabonds and wealthy patrons returning from their parties and dinner reservations. Even in the wake of tragedy, there is little that can halt the cushion of life of those with large coffers and even larger hats. 

A swathe of carriages line the outskirts of a small park, most of them loud and gaudy. A wide, marbled statue of a ship serves as the plaza’s center point. Thomas was right in his assumption, for every single corner is lit up well enough that the idea of remaining subtle is almost laughable.

There is a pressure on his lower back. He looks over his shoulder and sees Ellen peering over his shoulder, coat bunched in her grip.

He turns to her, his hands finding their way to her arms. With their uncertain knowledge of Ellen’s condition, Thomas hesitates to bring her into the crowd. He knows her flesh is not rotting off the bone, nor is she frothing at the mouth and biting at people’s ankles– yet he cannot say how she would fare among so many. 

His thumbs press into her inner elbows, his lip caught between his teeth. It would be wise to procure a ride and take her from there rather than wade into the thick of it and hope for the best. 

As if she could hear him, she squints, jaw working. “You will return to me if you encounter any disagreeable sort.” her eyes dart behind him, surveying. 

Thomas huffs,  “My love, were that the case, I’d be gone a minute.”

Ellen clicks her tongue, unamused. “Thomas.”

“Yes, darling. If and when the genteel people of Reederplatz Plaza do me wrong, you will be the first to know.” 

Her eyes lighten.

“My good boy.” she whispers, the edges of her lips upturned.

Even in the freezing cold, his face grows warm.

He coughs, willing away the sudden stirrings in his chest. He dips his head to place a chaste kiss on her hairline and turns to limp his way into the street.

“Wait.” 

Ellen steps in front of him, eyes roaming in scrutiny. After a moment, she reaches upward, running her hands through his hair. He ducks on instinct, letting her fiddle. She smooths the sides and runs a nail across his scalp, straightening his part. His eyes flutter to a close, and he lets out a weak exhale.

Her fingers are replaced by a soft, gentle pressure on his forehead. 

When his eyes open, Ellen has pulled back– her mouth still in a fragile, sweet grin. She looks so pretty.

“There.” Her head tips in the slightest of nods, content. Their eyes lock, and they acknowledge each other— assessing. Saying much, but nothing. There are a million words to be whispered, and all it takes is a quiet, ardent moment of connection to know them.

Ellen blinks, and then, she’s ushering him forward, a mushy be careful on her lips.

—————————————————————

Thomas will not have the heart to tell her that smoothing down his flyaways does nothing to plead his case.

Nor does the stolen coat.

He stands in front of a recently slammed carriage door. He’s left having learned a good amount of—or at least, what he would think are—expletives. The sort that make you question your self-worth. 

It rides away. The elderly, thin, evil woman stares him down the barrel of her nose until she disappears behind a corner. 

He is…weary.

Well, wearier.

That was the fifth to shoo him away. His pride has been wrung out. It lays at his feet, shriveled.

He takes a deep, ragged breath, and turns to go for a sixth.

“Which ones have you not tried?”

“God— “ He starts, scuffling back on his heels, hand pressed against his chest. She catches his sleeves, righting his balance. 

Ellen is looking up at him, brows pinched, fine dots of snow in her hair. “You are shivering.” She eyes the coat with contempt— as if she could will it to be thicker.

“It is going fine.” he says, diverting. “The people here are most occupied, is all.” They are increasingly unpleasant.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, my sweet?”

“That woman called you a worm.” Her voice is hard. How long has she been standing there? 

“Ah, yes. The elderly do lose sense with age.” He chews the inside of his cheek, eyes darting to another line of coaches. “And now, onto the next–” he goes to move, but a light tug on his coat sleeve halts his retreat.

She does not release him, instead, she turns her head to eye the thinning crowd in silence. She takes a deep lungful of the cold, port-city air, and whatever she finds makes her start pulling him in the direction of the gaudy, boat sculpture.

“Ellen?”

“I trust it will be well enough." she mutters, letting go of him in order to form some modicum of class. She rights her posture, her stride is even. “My composure remains.” 

He stays at her heels, clamming up as they approach the foot traffic. His peripheral, as expected, consists of varying forms of disturbed, horrified faces. 

It seems silly, now. For Thomas has seen true wretchedness. Their facsimiles make him all too aware of the thin separation between this world and beyond.

Would a poor man scream louder than a lord, or a duke, when gutted? 

Ellen does not veer to the side and start gorging on the nearest passer-by, and Thomas’ blood pressure remains safe, for now. 

As they near the center of the plaza, he notes that the carriages are larger, more colorful, and have intricately carved sections that look like they cost a leg and some Schillings.

They pass one, and the man inside makes him look twice. A tall hat, a full beard, young, donning black—

The small, dark hole he’d unceremoniously shoved his grief into begins to spill over.

He wrenches his eyes away, culling the thoughts of whiskey and laughter.

Their destination is clear now. Ellen has chosen one at random— or one of the only ones with the curtains drawn— She parks him a foot away and taps delicately on the side. 

Her voice is light, sweet, and tells of her good breeding. “Good eve, Herr—“

Thomas does pray that this one has a soul.

The man startles, letting go of his reading monocle with an alarmed 'Oh!'—his ledger nearly slipping from his hands. 

“What the devil—!“ Thomas cringes. The man sounds as if they’ve reached into his window and snatched his coin purse.

“—Away with you woman! You– you’ve soiled the leather!” Never mind that Ellen has not done so. He’s loud. Loud enough that people begin to stare more. 

The man, with exaggerated haste, begins to tuck away all his belongings into the nearest compartment. Ellen withdraws her hands from his window sill. Even at the quality of his reception, she does not retreat.

He suppresses the urge to glower.

He does not enjoy Ellen being the object of ire. Much less from sour, insipid, untoward, miserable wretches—

“I’ve no taste for a bed-warmer this night. Take your business elsewhere.”

Thomas’ hackles raise. 

“You-“

The man’s eyes flicker sideways to take in the state of her, expression puckered in disgust. However, it is when he looks at her face, handkerchief now poised to wipe at the invisible stain, that something changes.

The horses stir. A biting waft of air tunnels through the street. 

The man softens, almost immediately. Lulled by her visage. Thomas’ words die on his tongue at the shift. He would push Ellen behind him, if their return home hadn’t been of utmost importance.

— and the fact that he has begun to realize that it does him well to trust her word. 

Thomas sucks in a slow, steady breath. 

He settles for making himself very visible behind her. 

He knows his Ellen is a remarkable beauty. He too, even after the years he has known her, swoons— but there is something so strange about it all. The man is smiling, giggling. His cheeks are ruddied and flushed. 

He leans forward, beckoning her to speak once more. He takes off his hat, pressing it to his chest. 

“My sincerest apologies, my lady. Herr Augustus von Reichenbach, at your service.” He says, saccharine, sickly. 

Sweat beads at his forehead. The edge of his lip is quivering. “Of Reichenbach’s Royal Tobacco Trade.” he continues, his stubby, ring-covered fingers reaching into his pocket to procure, of all things, a trade card. 

A beat.

There is a moment of hesitation, but Ellen eventually plucks it from his grasp. The man pulls back to cradle the hand to his chest, rubbing his wrist. 

She studies the card for an appropriate amount of time— enough to placate the ego of a man of good standing— and then begins to speak. 

The cadence of her voice makes the edges of Thomas’ vision blur. He feels its pull. It is hands roving over his skin, pressing the ache away. It is the absence of any troubles, any hardship. It is a warm, fresh glass of milk. 

He shakes it from himself. 

The words are nothing special— a mere request for aid, a white lie of their wagon being turned over. They were on holiday, you see, and the storm had startled the horses.

The man is nodding before she’s finished, scrambling out of the other side of the carriage in a flurry of nervous movement. Has he ever seen an ugly, old, bald man simper like an infant? 

Thomas decides that he does not like this very much. 

He now sees that the coach’s driver has peeked his head around to stare at her with parted lips. Thomas steps closer, his chest ghosting her back. He has half a mind to take her hand and slip away, but a hand discreetly pats his thigh, and Ellen is turning to meet the man, sounding all too pleased to make his acquaintance. 

Hm.

Somehow, after a few exchanged pleasantries with Augustus, as he so insisted Ellen call him, they are being ushered into the cabin. 

Thomas doesn’t need to think to slide in before her. The sudden warmth is incredible. He scoots in with as much grace as he can conjure and offers his hand to his wife. She takes it and settles in beside him. Thigh to thigh.

Now that Thomas has become a physical barrier between Agustus and Ellen, he is forced to pause in his blubbering to acknowledge his presence. 

“This man…is with you?” he eyes him with thinly veiled contempt, looking eager to be rid of him. 

He can try.

Thomas squints— but because he is a good, patient man, who listens well to his woman’s word. Thomas’ eyes dart to Ellen, letting her bargain for his fate. He is afraid that if he’d been keen to answer they will not be in here much longer.

Ellen gives a sharp nod. “My husband.” She introduces, “He is weary. His health is of the utmost importance.” He notices that she has not let go of his hand. He squeezes it and runs his thumb over her knuckles.

At the tail end of her words, there is another shift. Augustus’ face slackens, ire gone. Then, his head bobs in a series of jerky nods.

“Of course, of course. The utmost importance. Coachman! Make haste!” Ellen must have told him of their residence because he sticks his head through the partition to bark orders at the still fish-mouthed driver. 

Thomas turns to Ellen, a silent question of ‘are you okay with this?’ on his lips. When their gazes meet, despite the composure she holds, there are many things he can decipher. 

It is an Incredulous, curious, but ultimately, conflicted sheen. A moment yields the tiniest hint of satisfaction. She squeezes his hand in return, and then with her other, offers the tradecard between two fingers.

He takes it from her, flipping the lithographed image of a cigar to reveal two lines of serifed, embossed text.

Reichenbach & Compagnie

Finest Tobacco from the Colonies & Beyond

His mind flits to Greta, lazing on their windowsill, a rat between her maw. As per usual, she’d drop them at the foot of their bed, purring the annoyance from Thomas’ brow. 

Thomas tucks it gently into his stolen coat’s pocket.

Then, they are moving. Just like that.

“—The crates, of course, must be sealed tightly—no moisture, no air, nothing that could spoil the tobacco; we cannot afford to have a single leaf damaged on the journey, you understand?—” he’s regaling Ellen, and only her, of the very detailed process of his trade. 

He’d, unfortunately, decided to return from bickering with his driver.

He speaks of how laborious it is as if he carries the crates on his back himself.

Thomas ensures that he rubs his crusted boots against the carpet more than necessary.

His mother had not raised a rude boy, but it is almost impossible to even attempt to tolerate someone who had yelled at, and disrespected, Ellen. Much less so that he ogles her freely, now.

Has he no semblance of decency?

He thinks mother would forgive him for it, just this once.

Ellen gives the occasional, polite nod. She answers his questions with the most basic, boring responses, and even then the ugly man looks at her as if she’d hung the moon. 

Much of the ride carries on as such, and by the end of a half hour, Thomas’ eyes ache from how much he’s rolled them. He’s tuned most of it out— only keeping himself half aware, less he begin to cross even more boundaries.

They’re a corner turn away when Ellen says a soft “This will do.” and Agustus is hollering through the partition, again. 

The carriage jerks to a halt.

Sitting back, Agustus quickly turns to Ellen. There is a hopeful look on his face. He’s wringing his hands in his lap, fidgeting. He looks barely contained, as if he does not wish to upset her with too much of his forward affections. Ah, but looking at her was just fine. The nerve.

Thomas sucks in a breath, lips parting— but Ellen squeezes his hand. 

“Thank you, Herr Agustus.” Ellen starts. She tips her chin in delicate acknowledgment. There is nothing that suggests anything other than common decency, but the man’s eyes sparkle, and he just…sits there, smiling to himself, breathing heavily.

Thomas glares at the man until he manages to gain a lick of sense.

Do not ask him how long that takes. He pops out of his stupor in a flurry, muttering a range of apologies that will never be enough to make Thomas not want to hit him.

When he sees the man throw himself out the door and start to walk around to Ellen’s side, Thomas follows suit. The blast of icy cold does not stop his pursuit. He all but shoulder-checks the man—half-wit— out of the way, and gently guides his wife down to the cobbled street. 

He murmurs a small ‘careful’ when her heel sinks into a thicker patch of snow.

Her brow is raised, to which he answers with his own. He keeps close behind her when she moves to approach Agustus, again.

The man is fixing his hat. He does not even look upset. 

At the sight of her, he’s back to blubbering. He takes the hat he just adjusted and presses it flush against his chest. 

“My lady, it has been so very delightful to be of service. It will be most upsetting to part. Might there be anything else…” he trails off, eyes flickering upward to look up at her. There is an edge of desperation, and Thomas knows that desperate men are rarely brushed off with ease.

Thomas’ resolve frays and snaps.

“Actually, there is nothing else—“ He begins, all venom, but Ellen steps in front of him. In a smooth, almost imperceptible, movement, her hand guides his own to the back of her dress. Pressing his hand flat against the small of her back. 

Leaving it there, she moves hers to the front of her soiled skirts, clasping them together. 

She begins to speak, and it is a hair different than earlier. This time, It coaxes out the sweat from his palms, the stutter of his breath, the buzz in his ears. His anger is soothed down by the weight of apprehension.

In his peripheral vision, the neighboring lamplight flickers, plunging them into a moment of darkness.

Even in the oppressive atmosphere, Ellen’s voice is calm. There is no underlying malice, or threat. She is polite, undeservingly.

“You will go to the churchyard.” She begins. Ellen has seemed to drop any pretense of this being a request. She speaks her intentions clearly, without room for error. 

“You will take the broken coffin from the mausoleum with the angels carved into the door, and fill it with soil from the grounds.” as coaxing as she sounds, there is an edge of something so unyielding. Strict. An invisible chain wrapped around the man’s neck, pulled taut as Ellen continues to speak. “To the brim.”

She seems to hold it with a muted reluctance, unwilling to tug too far.

Herr Agustus has gone lax. The flush of admiration settles into the pallor of blank parchment. His hat has fallen into the snow, darkening with moisture.

“You will return to our home no later than an hour before sunrise.” Ellen punctuates the end with a step forward. The click of her heel brings a heavy silence. There is nothing to be heard. No wind, no midnight crows, no rolling carriage wheels. 

A moment passes.

The man is stirred into action. He is nodding, again— Thanking her for the pleasure of her acquaintance. The driver is still staring. 

He’s halfway into the carriage when Ellen stops him with a quiet ‘wait.’

He freezes, quite literally. It’s an instantaneous tensing of every muscle. His leg is still raised, and shaking at the strain.

Hesitation, and then— “Give me your billfold.” Ellen’s hand lifts and unfurls, expectant.

Thomas blinks.

What?

His eyes flicker to the man.

There is not even an ounce of reluctance. He slackens and reaches into his waistcoat, producing a small, folded, leather case. He gently deposits it into her hands, turns, and all but throws himself inside. 

He shuts the door behind him— not before snapping the driver out of his trance with another round of shouting.

“G’bye Milady.” The driver tips his cap, voice shaky. He snaps the reigns with a hyah! and they’re being propelled forward.

She is silent in watching them hurry in the direction from which they came.

As they disappear into the night, Thomas is left quite speechless. Ellen tucks the billfold somewhere because it is now gone. He cannot see her face, but wonders what he would find should he look.

There is a stirring in his chest, a desire to ask so many things—to question, to peel back the layers of whys and hows he seems to only ever skirt the edge of truly knowing. 

Instead, he settles for circling his fingers around her wrist. “Come, Ellen.” he whispers. There is a renewed, but ever-dwindling, fight left within him, and it tells him to use the last of it to bring them home.

She still does not face him, her wrist is limp in his grasp. His brow furrows.

Thomas’ arms encircle her from behind. He squeezes tight, placing a kiss atop her head. 

“Should I have done that?” she asks, a flat murmur that makes Thomas wonder if she is asking him, or herself. 

Thomas does not know. In general? He feels that everything that led them back here was worth it—a means to an end he chooses not to pick apart. Later, perhaps. When they have settled, they can sit down and decide what to feel guilty over. 

“You did well.” he whispers, tucking her under his chin. Ellen stays in his grasp, quiet. The cold grows sharper with each passing breath, but Thomas stays put.

Eventually, Ellen tugs him forward, looking over her shoulder to give him a grin that does not reach her eyes.

—————————————————————

I do so love transitionary chapters, but they're so hard to make interesting! I do hope you enjoy Thomas as a narrator because he is so fun to write. As sweet as he is, he doesn't play about his girl. He's extra pathetic here. I feel like I need to give him a small win.

I'm trying to introduce Ellen's newfound abilities in ways that'll ALSO serve as character building and plot devices. Yes, this isn't just Ellen and Thomas being adorable losers together (unfortunately) I have an idea of where this will end up, but getting there is going to be a ride.

ALSO! Notice that the chapter count has turned from 10 to ?. That's because I realized this is going to be larger than I thought. Yay? I hope I don't succumb to the Ao3 author's curse.

Let me know your thoughts! And *holds up gun* Follow me on Tiktok at @beeandthescreen because I posted TWO Nosferatu edits and one of them is inspired by the fic. That's for all my maladaptive daydreamers.

Note | Comment about the dynamic between these two because I FEEL like I have them down, but of course I want your guys' lovely opinions :>

SEE YOU SOON!! The next chapter should be here by next week! I have a lot written down already. Its gonna be juicy. Promise on my momma.

[a-s-levynn]

A Series of Small Offerings

or a Sleep Token prompt list based on lyrics

A 4 part art challenge that can be an extensive several weeks long endeavour or you can pick and choose the part(s) that interest you the most.

Big or small, wonky or beyond artistic, just a scribble or a masterpiece; drawing, sculpture, drabble, full on fanfic or even a piece of music? Everything has a place here so long you enjoy creating it. No offering is too small to be a worthy one. 🫶🏻

Pick one (or even both) of the lines from the given song. Take it as literal or abstract as an inspiration as you feel fitting and let the creativity flow.

Worship. 🙏🏻

(edited version with Shelter added, a line switched for TMBTE, corrected Blood Sport lyrics)

PART I - ONE, TWO and the singles

Thread the Needle

You turn the lights down / Come on and find out or Just look at where we're lying / An invisible space

2. Fields of Elation

The daylight recedes in unison, this room / Buries the hours like death, in motion or And nobody else can pull me out / And the fields of elation, quiet and loamy

3. When the Bough Breaks

We could stay suspended / Even when the bough breaks or You don't really love, you just hate to be alone

4. Calcutta

I sweat and I ache for / Your eyes and the way you breathe or Melting skywards more than silence broken / I'm whole again for just a moment

5. Nazareth

Building you a kingdom / Dripping from the open mouth, [I'll show you] or Manifest pain at the core of pleasure / I'll see you when the wrath comes around

6. Jerico

Tread, ancient water salt / Like I sink, down like precious stones or My hands are not worthy

7. Jaws

The whites of your eyes burn / From across the room or Caged and always provoked / By prey left unattended

8. The Way That You Were

To tear that knife from what once / Would have been dead fingers or And you will no longer / Stand between collapsing walls

PART II - Sundowning

The Night Does Not Belong To God

The whites of your eyes / Turn black in the lowlight in turning divine or And the night comes down like heaven

2. The Offering

And you are a garden, entwined with all / You are the silence on sacred shores or So take a bite, I want to know

3. Levitate

And we imitate a story of perfect days / A ballad we fabricate or Will you levitate / Up where my love doesn't matter?

4. Dark Signs

And where we met, there must have been dark signs / Omens in your skies or And I hate who I have become (I might break and bend to my basic need to be loved and close to somebody)

5. Higher

And we are exhausted by all this pretending / We just can't resist the violence or When you're alone / I am granting you more than / The debt that I owe

6. Take Aim

And it sends me shivers / How you love like weapons kill or Call, won't you call out my name? / Like a curse on this world?

7. Give

I'll tear the fibre from the filament / I'll be the limit of your light again or Want to give you all that I can give / All my darkest impulses

8. Gods

No more teeth to bite with / No more smiling faces i am alone again or Like fire from the heavens / Tearing me asunder beside you

9. Sugar

We still know how to feed / We still know how to bleed or Let me wrap the chains / Addicted to the pain, oh

10. Say That You Will

Is that a glint in your eye? / Is that a blade in your palm? or In this light you are mine

11. Drag Me Under

And I know the gods will abandon the heavens just to find us or Hold me beneath the surface (And I know the angels tonight are as lost for words)

12. Blood Sport

Even if the sky cracks in mourning / And the heavens just won't open up for me or Tangled with what I never said / You say it doesn't matter

13. Shelter

When it rains, you don't take shelter / You don't take signs from God or And as you become part of my waking rituals, I can tell / You gather up all of my demons

PART III - This Place Will Become Your Tomb

Atlantic

Crumble like a temple built from future daughters / To wasteland when the oceans recede or So flood me like Atlantic, weather me to nothing / Wash away the blood on my hands

2. Hypnosis

Lift, oh, lift me out / Of my own skin or Split my skin, no / Just make me bleed

3. Mine

We balance fire in the earth we walk / Will never stop me reaching forth or With colors over all the wasted years / Eternity will bring you near

4. Like That

New weapons to snap those final strings / Just to watch me fall back or Push down into membranes and layers / Creating a slow dissection

5. The Love You Want

Too many swallowed keys / Will make you bleed internally someday, oh or Now keep the freakshow talk / To a careful minimum

6. Fall For Me

In a city of ice there are burning cathedrals / Turning the skies into glass or And I feel like I'm losing touch with what I am again / And slowly I remember why I cannot pretend

7. Alkaline

It's too late for me now, I am altered / There is something beneath or I see in a different light / The objects of my desire

8. Distraction

'Cause I am broken into fractions / Oh, and I am driven to distraction or Something much more than I could ask for

9. Descending

Create, release or My love withers and chokes in perfect awe

10. Telomeres

And we go beyond the farthest reaches / Where the light bends and wraps beneath us or Through death / My arms are open

11. High Water

When the mouth of infinity / Buries its teeth in me or Wash me clean again before I pull myself beneath the waves

12. Missing Limbs

The blessings rain on battles in the heaven's arms or 'Cause it still makes my blood run cold / To remember what I did before

PART IV - Take Me Back To Eden

Chokehold

A sacred guardian or Even if I can't sleep / Oh, and though we act out of our holy duty to be constantly awake

2. The Summoning

A taste of the divine or Take me past the edge / I want to see the other side

3. Granite

Between the second hand smoke and the glass on the street or Never mind the death threats / Parting at the door

4. Aqua Regia

Following a bloodtrail, frothing at the maw or Between the pain and the way you look / I'm stuck in a time where the mountains shook

5. Vore

You have become the voice in my head or Will we remain stuck in the throat of gods? / Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

6. Ascensionism

Your reflection, your bitter deception / Setting you free or With one eye on the door, other eye on a rail / Other, other eye following a scarlet trail

7. Are You Really Okay?

I was trying to hold back the darkness or But I, I don't believe you when you tell me you are fine

8. The Apparition

I wake up to a suicide frenzy / Loaded dreams still leave me empty or Just let me go or take me with you

9. DYWTYLM

Do you pull at the chains? / Or do you push into constant aching? or Do you ever believe / That we can turn into different people?

10. Rain

Refracted in light, reflected in sound or And I know, I know, I am what I am / The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb

11. Take Me Back To Eden

We dive through crystal waters, perfect oceans / But no one told me not to breathe or I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired / Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher

12. Euclid

The night belongs to you / This bough has broken through or The whites of your eyes / Turn black in the low light

Thank you so much if you took any part of this on or just read through it.

Never forget, that the most important thing is that no matter what,

Worship 🙏🏻

[heyitsmechuey]

When it Rains, It Doesn’t Always Pour (Rauru x Reader)

Rauru x Reader Fluff Shot - No content warnings

It’s Rauru just being Rauru (or at least my perception of him; soft and sweet, and very convincing in his ways when he wants to be ;) I haven’t wrote for a while, and this is my first time writing for TotK, but there really isn’t any spoilers in this one! I did proof read but please understand there still may be errors Word Count: 742 words

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heavy rain padded softly on the stone railing beneath your uncovered arms, effectively dampening them as you looked longingly toward the fields of Hyrule where small pools formed within the courtyard. It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but it did, and now more than ever you felt anxious and trapped within the castle’s hard, stone interior - your only saving grace being the balcony for a moment to reflect, fearing the dreariness. A soft sigh left your lips as you cupped your chin in your hand, accepting the defeat that going out to explore the lands with your husband was now out of the question.

You felt like a child being punished, and thought yourself childish too, for acting so sombre over an uncontrollable aspect. At least 10 minutes passed, staring into a landscaped void and feeling sour in your own thoughts. “The time will not pass any faster if you watch it, you know?” The sound of his soft gravelly voice snapped you from your depressive state, and the chuckle that followed made you forcibly pout as you spun your heels around, looking upwards at the playful features he displayed for you. He didn’t seem bothered by cancelled plans at all. His regal capabilities surfaced as he chose to carry out other duties earlier that day, but now what was left was a lover - playful but wise. You sighed again before attempting to justify yourself. “I know...”, your confession came slow as your gaze studied the floor, “but we had plans..” His hands came from where they rested behind his back, to folding over themselves once again in the front, waiting patiently for you to have your moment. When your eyes darted back up to check him, a pitiful smile let him know that you were okay and visibly, he loosened up and took gentle but determined steps forward. When he held his hands out, you instinctively followed, placing your own on top of large, outreached palms. Taking a moment to run your thumb over the faint lines, you let out a puffed laugh as he visibly shuddered under your touch; like it was the only thing keeping his heart beating. He studied you, then proceeded trail his hand up to your cheek and moved your sullen gaze to align with his. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, Rauru had a natural, calming charm at all hours, and he was smart enough to know how to get you to forget the little irritations with ease - with love. “Come, we can make new ones.”

He brushed lightly at the locks in your face, dampened by the rain that rode the wind. On the second sweep, he leaned in closer until warm breath against cold skin was tickling you,

“I can prepare some tea and then we can have a moment to ourselves for once.”

His voice was like honey, convincing you to turn a blind eye to your worries, to take only him in, and forget that there was a problem in the first place.

You felt suspicious for that reason, catching on after years together that his hold on your heart was powerful. With an eyebrow raising uncontrollably, you had to ask: ‘Just us?’. You reflect on how long it had been just the two of you for company; whether it be chatting, reading, or playing chess to pass the time. There was a sting for loss and you cursed on Ganon for taking such tender moments from you, leaving you desperate to want your King as a partner, not a diplomat. Rauru gave a curt nod, fingers coming to rest on the small of your back, giving a delicate push to signal it was time to get out of the cold. “You have my word, my love.” You trusted his words, always, and allowed him to escort you back inside. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, closed but cocky as you gave into him his touch - a sense of accomplishment filling him as you straightened yourself up and ditched the previous sadness for a genuine better mood. His lips were soft and sweet as he placed an endearing kiss upon your head, muttering that he loves you as the two of you retreat into the warmth. You could go out tomorrow - weather permitting - but if it rained again, the thought of spending it indoors with him, didn’t sound all that bad.

[abbi111]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝑾𝒉𝒐'𝒅 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑽𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒆

Tags: Kabuto x Kana, more scrolls, secretes, slow burn, tense moments, flirty, manipulation, stalking, tensions

Act II, Part 8: “Whispers Between the Lines” (Part 1/2)

The note was coded in chakra ink—visible only when heated slightly with her own chakra signature. Kana had found it wedged beneath the stone at the far edge of the training field, exactly where it would appear. She didn’t know how Kabuto placed them without detection, and maybe she didn’t want to. He always changed up the way he communicated with her after a point in time.

A word. A time. A location written like a dare.

Tonight: By the ruins. After the moon breaks the trees.

She was already there before it rose.

The ruined border shrine was half swallowed by vines and dirt. No one came here anymore. It reeked of abandonment, of history the village wanted to forget. Fitting, she thought.

So was she.

“Kana.”

His voice slipped through the dark before his form did. Kabuto emerged from behind one of the fractured walls, arms folded casually. His glasses glinted silver in the low light.

“You’re early,” he said, smiling. “Anxious to see me?”

She scoffed, looking away, but he was already circling her like prey.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to miss a chance to punch you.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “But you didn’t bring your fists. You brought that perfume again.”

Kana stiffened. She hadn’t meant to—but she had. Just a hint of something floral, something softer than she ever wore on missions. Her silence was damning, and Kabuto knew it.

“Don’t worry,” he said, mock-soothing. “It’s flattering. Dangerous, though. Smelling like that, sneaking out at night to meet me?” He stepped closer. “You’re giving me ideas.”

Her heart kicked, but she stood her ground.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you keep coming back.”

He didn’t need to reach out. His presence alone was invasive, intimate. But tonight, he did. Gloved fingers ghosted along her jaw, brushing hair back, tracing the curve of her cheek like he was studying a map made only for him.

“You know,” he said softly, “Most people flinch when I touch them. You don’t.”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

“You didn’t say no, either.”

His smirk was wicked, but behind it—something more restrained. Controlled. He always tested the boundary without fully crossing it, savoring the tension like a wine he didn’t want to finish too quickly.

Kabuto stepped around behind her, close enough that she could feel the whisper of his breath at her ear.

“Maybe it’s the chakra threads,” he murmured. “Tied to emotion, right? Fear. Guilt. Lust.”

She froze.

“I wonder,” he went on, “what would happen if I touched you while casting one of your genjutsu. Would it reflect my feelings… or yours?”

“Kabuto—”

“You could make me see anything,” he continued, ignoring her protest. “Trap me in some perfect illusion. But you don’t. Why is that, Kana?”

She swallowed, her throat dry.

“Because part of you wants this to be real.”

She wanted to say something back — anything, but her body stood still as stone. Her chakra flared, flickering like a candle pulled toward heat. Kabuto noticed. He always noticed.

Then, slowly, he stepped back. The air cooled again instantly.

“Come on, Kana, I see how you look at me,” he said quietly, almost teasingly. “But I’d rather watch you fall apart on your own.”

She spun to face him, eyes blazing. “You’re sick.”

He chuckled, utterly unbothered. “Maybe. You’re slowly starting to understand me.”

He tossed her a scroll, the air shifted to something more serious.

“More fragments,” he said. “Your clan’s real purpose. Their methods. Why does your jutsu scares the people who trained you? Read it, if you can handle the truth.”

Kana didn’t catch it. She let it fall to the ground between them, but her eyes never left his.

He bent, picked it up, and pressed it into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

“Next time,” he whispered, “maybe you’ll stop pretending you don’t like the way I see you. The way I envision you.”

“I’m not anything to build onto Kabuto,” she whispers.

His eyes met hers; something shifted behind his dark orbs, something almost amused. “You’re so much more than even that Kana Kurai,” a smirk slowly grows on his face, “you have no idea.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark, leaving her heart pounding and her resolve dangerously frayed.

The scroll in Kana’s hand felt heavier than it should. Not in weight, but in what it meant. She didn’t want to open it. Didn’t want to need to open it. And yet…

Her fingers moved on their own.

A soft hiss of parchment. The seal bore no village crest—only a crescent curve etched in dark ink. The Kurai Clan’s lost sigil.

She knelt slowly, unrolling it on the ground like it might catch fire.

THE SCROLL – CONTENTS (Visible to Kana and Reader)

TOP SECRET – CLASSIFIED: ROOT FILE #K-213

Subject: Kurai Clan Experimental Program – Terminated

The Kurai Clan’s emotion-based genjutsu posed an unacceptable psychological risk during field operations.

— Tactical Deviation: Over-emotional feedback loops compromised squad integrity.

— One documented instance resulted in a full ANBU team collapse during a joint-op mission.

Directive Issued: “Contain or erase”

Root agents embedded within the Kurai were given orders to provoke a genjutsu-based “accident,” later blamed on clan instability.

Secondary Purpose – Suppressed

Kurai bloodline research indicated potential for long-range chakra suppression fields and emotionally resonant weaponry—technologies deemed unstable.

Notes:

“Too much heart. Not enough control. Let the past die with them.”

- Shimura Danzō

Only three confirmed survivors. Two absorbed into Root. One remains unaccounted for.

Current Status: Designated Class-S Potential Threat.

Codename: KANA.

The world tilted.

Kana stared, vision blurring. Her name. In Root black-ink. As a threat. As a mistake that slipped through the cracks.

Her breath hitched—pain blooming in her chest.

Another page lay beneath. This one… different. Older. A field report from the Second Shinobi War, smeared but intact.

Kurai operatives deploy “Spirit Mirror” jutsu across a mountain pass. Enemy forces collapse within minutes, struck dumb by their grief. Some clawed out their eyes. Others wept until death. One kunoichi, identified as Hisayo Kurai (Kana’s grandmother), was seen walking calmly through the chaos, untouched.

Witness noted: “She didn’t even draw a blade. She let them drown in their own minds.”

Kana’s hands trembled. Her eyes dropped to her own fingers. Same hands. Same blood.

And they feared it.

That was why they let her clan die—not because they failed—but because they succeeded too well.

A third sheet, this one clearly Kabuto’s addition, was pinned to the end.

Handwritten. Elegant.

Now do you understand why they trained you to hold back? To smile when it wasn’t safe?

The Leaf didn’t forget you, Kana. They buried you. And like all things, they bury… they didn’t expect you to bloom.

But I do.

– K.

Kana sat in stillness, the scroll beside her. Her hands were empty now. Her tears streak down her face falling to the cold dirt underneath her.

‘The village - the village- the village - the village,’ ran through her head repeatedly till it was. Silent. Replaced with a cold hard promise.

‘The village destroyed my people and they won’t destroy me’

Above, the wind ruffled the trees, and her pale hair slipped loose from its toe.

Strand by strand, it spilled down her back. Smooth. Alive. Cracking faintly with yin-chakra.

The forest grew quieter. Even the crickets were silenced.

Her chakra began to veil.

She thought about he only decent memory of her mother.

——

‘There’s a scent that lingers, soft and elusive.

Lavender. Faint, like smoke caught in the wind.

I can see her hands—cool, steady—braiding my hair, the strands slipping through her fingers with practiced ease.

“You’re not letting it fall into your eyes, are you?” she murmured, a note of concern in her voice, but it was always more like a reminder than a question.

Her touch was firm, not tender, but it never felt harsh. It was just… the way she was.

Each twist of the braid felt like a silent promise, as if the world could unravel if she didn’t hold it together.

The mirror was always there, just a corner of it in the reflection of the window.

Her face, a shade too pale, eyes too distant—but when she looked at me, there was a flicker of something. Not love, exactly. Not pity. Just recognition, maybe.

A fleeting moment where we both knew the weight of the silence between us.

She never said much, but sometimes that silence felt full—like it could fill every corner of the room if we let it.

I remember her hands, the soft scent of lavender, and how still everything felt when she was close.

It’s funny, how the smallest moments stay with you.’

——

And somewhere, far off in the dark, Kabuto smiled because the transformation had begun.

[pastacarver]

The Duet of Swords and Secrets By John Carver, Part Malus; The Baptism of CROWS

The road wound like a scar through the barren fields, the cart creaking beneath the weight of its passengers and the unspoken things between them. Malus sat with his arms braced on his knees, watching the horizon drift past. His tunic clung to his back with sweat, despite the chill in the air. Beside him, Natasha shifted uncomfortably, trying to settle herself without speaking.

Neither had spoken much since they’d boarded.

Malus hadn’t wanted to come. Not truly. Not like this. Drafted into a war he didn’t believe in, torn from the vineyard rows of his youth, while Malum—brilliant, gilded, beloved Malum—was already halfway to Silverrun in a velvet-draped carriage, bound for an officer’s education and the safety that came with it.

He should’ve hated his brother for it. But he didn’t.

Malum hadn’t asked for any of it. Malus had chosen to step aside. That didn’t make the ride to Camp Caldrick any easier.

“I still can’t believe you actually followed through,” Malus said, breaking the silence.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You mean leaving my entire life behind to go die in a muddy trench with you? Yeah. Neither can my parents.”

Malus gave a weak snort, looking out the side of the cart. “They seemed ready to drag you back by the hair.”

“They would’ve, if I hadn’t bolted.” She adjusted her beanie, still frayed where her mother had tried to rip it off her head. “Palavens don’t take rebellion lightly. Especially not when you’re supposed to inherit the business and make babies with some sniveling textile heir.”

“You could’ve had a comfortable life.”

“I could’ve had a dead one,” she shot back. Then her voice softened. “This? This is terrifying. But it’s mine. And I didn’t come just for adventure.”

He looked at her then, eyes shadowed. “You came for me.”

She shrugged. “You’re not the only one allowed to throw away their future for someone else.”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t throw anything away. Malum—he—he deserved that place more than I did.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t mean to. Just that you did.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, just honest. “That was a stupid kind of love, Malus.”

He leaned back against the cart wall, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Seems like we’re full of it.”

For a while, the only sound was the crunch of wheels on gravel and the occasional caw of a distant bird. Camp Caldrick loomed somewhere ahead, past the broken hills and frost-bitten brush. Neither of them had seen it yet, but they could feel its weight—like marching toward a thunderstorm.

“Do you think he’ll write?” Natasha asked suddenly.

“Malum?” Malus thought for a moment. “He’ll send poems. Bad ones. Probably scented.”

She laughed—really laughed—and it broke the heaviness around them like glass. “Gods, I hope so. I need something to burn in the stove.”

A pause.

Malus turned his head toward her. “Thank you for coming.”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “You better make it worth it.”

He nodded. “I’ll try.”

As the cart crested a ridge, the first sight of Camp Caldrick came into view—Gray barracks, marching drills, and smoke curling from chimney stacks like a signal to abandon hope.

They didn’t flinch. They sat forward. Together.

The carriage jolted to a halt, its wooden frame groaning in protest. Dust billowed as the doors were flung open, revealing the desolate expanse of Camp Caldrick. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and something more primal—fear.

"OUT! STRIP TO YOUR UNDERCLOTHES AND LINE UP!" bellowed a voice that could shatter stone.

Malus was the first to descend, his boots crunching on the gravel. He glanced back at Natasha, who hesitated, clutching her beanie—a relic of her lineage.

"Now, girl," the voice snapped again. "No exceptions. Uniform standards start now."

"I'm not giving up my hat," she said, stepping down from the carriage. Her voice was low but unwavering. "It's my family crest."

"That's not uniform."

"You want it, come take it," she said, shoulders square, eyes sharp.

The sergeant’s jaw tensed. The yard fell into that eerie kind of silence when everyone holds their breath, waiting for someone to bleed.

Another voice broke it.

"Hold," came a calmer but colder tone.

A tall man stepped forward from the officer’s platform—a dark-haired figure in pressed black fatigues, silver bars gleaming at his collar. His boots didn’t crunch dust so much as command it. His nameplate read: Captain Darsen.

His eyes locked on Malus first. “Emerald.”

Malus straightened. “Sir.”

“I hear your twin went to the Academy,” Darsen said, voice smooth as snake oil. “You must be the lesser one.”

A few chuckles scattered among the recruits. Natasha bristled. Malus kept his face still.

“You’ll earn no special treatment here, boy,” Darsen went on, circling them like a vulture. “In fact, you’ll earn less. Anyone who thinks they come from gold will be buried in mud until they forget how to shine.”

He stopped before Natasha, studied the beanie, then her scowl.

“I like spirit,” he said finally. “We’ll burn that out soon enough.”

He paced before the assembled recruits, hands behind his back.

“You are now CROWs— Caldrick Reclamation and Operations Wing. Get used to the sound. You’re not soldiers. You’re not citizens. You’re not sons, daughters, nobles, or names.”

He turned on his heel.

“You are disposable. You are what the Empire sends into forests no map will claim, into tunnels no light returns from. You clear mines with your boots. You test poisons with your breath. You are sent where glory cannot survive and only ghosts write reports.”

He stopped in front of a boy with crooked teeth and a terrified expression.

“You think this is a punishment? You’re right. But if you survive, if you endure, you will be sharper than steel and twice as unkillable. Because we burn weakness here. We break it. We strip it.”

His voice rose, thunder now.

“By the end of this month, you will either be dead, discharged, or forged. And if you fail—” He let the silence drag, eyes raking the line. “—you will beg for a death the Empire won’t grant you. We are CROWs. We scavenge the rot so the rest of the Empire stays clean. We suffer so it thrives.”

A long silence followed. Then a snap of his fingers.

“Process them.”

The next hour was a gauntlet of humiliation. They were weighed, measured, and prodded. Each item they owned was seized and tossed into crates with zero ceremony. A ring—probably an heirloom—was thrown into the same bin as a sock. Someone's carved pendant was stomped underfoot for "hesitation."

"You are not people," another sergeant barked. "You are not names. You are weapons. And weapons don't wear necklaces."

When Natasha refused to remove her beanie again during the full strip-down, the sergeant reached for it. She slapped his hand away before Malus could intervene. There was a scuffle, a growled warning, and finally, the order to “let the damn girl keep her stupid hat.”

They were herded into ranks. Bare feet on hot dirt. Malus's skin was prickling. A lanky boy next to him was quietly crying. Another, shaking, had a long scar over his ribs.

Darsen made one last circle before barking to a wiry man in chain-wrapped boots. “Senn. Sort the Crows.”

Corporal Senn, eyes tired and sunken but voice clipped and clean, stepped up with a slate board. “Hut Three. Step forward when called.”

He began reading names. “Barnabus, Henry, Clement, Meg, Natasha, Malus.”

As they gathered, a stocky woman with greying hair and a voice like gravel joined them, chewing a twig and smirking.

Sergeant Vega.

“Look at this batch,” Vega said with theatrical disdain. “A librarian, a street rat, a mute ghost, two lovebirds, and—” she pointed her twig at Malus—“whatever the hell that is.”

Malus raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Sergeant?”

“Just wondering if those pretty green eyes come with a perfume bottle, or if we have to suffer through that stink raw.”

More laughter. Vega sauntered forward.

“Let me guess—‘noble blood,’ right? Vineyard family? Silk sheets and flute lessons?”

He said nothing.

“Don’t worry. We’ll see what spills out when the silk gets torn.”

Senn cleared his throat. “Enough, Vega. They’re not broken yet. Let’s give ‘em a day.”

She grinned. “Fair.”

The bunkhouse was already sweltering by the time they arrived—more oven than shelter. The air hung thick with heat and the scent of mildew and old regret. The windows were slits barely wider than a handspan. Mosquitoes buzzed in lazy, vengeful clouds. Dust clung to every surface.

A massive figure looked up from a cot in the corner, sharpening a jagged dagger with a river stone. His arms were thick as oaken beams, beard a tangle of red chaos. He squinted at Malus like he was sizing up meat.

“Name’s Barnabus. Most call me Barney,” he grunted, not stopping the rhythmic scrape of metal. “You snore?”

“Doubt it,” Malus replied.

“Good. I do. Fair trade.”

He grinned with teeth like chipped stone and went back to sharpening.

The door creaked again, and in bounded a boy with wild curls and a satchel so swollen it looked like it might explode.

“Hi! I’m Henry. Did you hear the sergeant call us ‘cattle’? That’s actually accurate. Caldrick was built on the ruins of a slaughterhouse. There's even a drainage tunnel system under the—”

“Stop.” Barney held up a hand. “Breathe, lad.”

Henry paused, looked around. “Right. Sorry. I talk when I’m nervous. Which is always. Fun fact: I also talk in my sleep.”

Barney groaned and resumed sharpening.

Next came a sliver of shadow—Clement. She moved like smoke, silent and exact. Her face was sharp, unreadable, with dark eyes that assessed the room in one slow sweep.

“Put me by the window,” she said in a thick accent, setting a small bag by the narrow opening.

“You mean the hole?” Malus gestured.

“Oui.”

She didn’t unpack—just sat with her knees drawn up, arms folded. Later, Malus noticed her eyes weren’t closed. She was watching, always watching.

A soft thud interrupted the quiet as a girl tripped over the doorframe and landed on her knees.

“Ugh—damn it.”

Malus stepped forward, offered a hand. She looked at him, hesitated, then took it.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

“No worries. I trip on flat ground all the time. Part of my charm.”

Her lips twitched. “Meg.”

“Malus.”

Her hands were small but calloused. She had braids woven close to her scalp and eyes that darted constantly—like a rabbit halfway between flight and fight.

She picked the bunk nearest the door, dropped her bag, and immediately began fussing over her boots, unlacing and relacing them three times.

Finally, Natasha appeared. She walked in like she owned the floorboards, already unrolling her blanket. She didn’t even ask—just dropped her things beside Malus’s bunk, sat cross-legged, and began cleaning her boots like it was holy work.

“Cozy,” she said without looking up.

“We’ll be fine,” he replied, voice low.

Barney gave a short laugh. “Hope y’all aren’t picky sleepers. This place hums like a haunted forge after midnight.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do haunted forges hum, or—?”

“No one cares,” Clement murmured from her shadowed perch.

Introductions settled into silence. Outside, the wind rattled through the tin roof like a warning. Inside, bodies shifted and cots groaned.

But the night wasn’t done revealing its secrets.

As the others slipped into restless sleep, Malus found himself still staring at the beams above. His muscles ached. His ears rang from Darsen’s voice. Every breath felt like it cost something.

He turned on his side—and saw Clement still awake.

She was crouched near her cot, barely lit by the slice of moonlight through the window. Something small glinted in her hands—metal parts. Springs. Cogs. Bits of copper wire and broken hinge. Her fingers moved with eerie precision, fitting pieces together, testing tension, disassembling again.

Where had she gotten those?

She moved like she’d done this a thousand times. Her focus was absolute. She paused only once—to slide something metal from the bottom of her boot and pocket it silently.

Not stolen from them. Stolen from somewhere.

Malus closed his eyes, but the quiet clicking of gears kept time in his ears like a strange lullaby.

By dawn, Barney was snoring like a dying bear. Henry’s papers had somehow migrated into Meg’s bunk. Natasha was still polishing her boots. And Clement, eyes dark with lack of sleep, was gently cradling a tiny, spring-loaded mechanism in her palm.

The first morning at Camp Caldrick began with the sound of violence.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The bunkhouse door slammed open so hard it bounced on its hinges.

“RISE AND BLEED, MAGGOTS!” came the hoarse bark of Sergeant Vega, a woman carved from corded muscle and bad decisions. Her voice rattled the rafters. “Assembly ground in five minutes! If I come back and find you still breathing under blankets, I’ll staple you to the flagpole myself!”

Just behind her stood Corporal Senn—younger, quieter, with ice-water stillness. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His eyes looked like they’d already buried cadets.

Malus sat up fast, slapping off his blanket. “Up! Let’s move!”

Barney groaned, dragging himself upright like a bear from hibernation. “Already?”

Natasha was already half-kitted. “Get moving, Barney, you old ass.”

Henry blinked blearily, holding a sock like it had betrayed him. “I was dreaming about edible books…”

Meg was tangled in her blanket, rolling off the cot with a muffled, “Ow.”

Clement sat up slowly, her hair a bird’s nest, muttering something in a foreign tongue that didn’t sound kind.

Malus was a blur—pulling straps, tossing boots, barking directions like he’d done this before. His eyes, one emerald green, one light blue, shimmered in the light leaking through the slats. He barely noticed it. He never got blinded by glare—not since he was a boy. The mismatched eyes handled light like a trick of nature. No flash ever caught him off guard.

“You’re putting that shirt on backward, Henry.”

“I’m under pressure!”

“Barney, both boots—now. Clement—is that a door hinge in your hair?”

“I like to stay prepared,” she replied, yawning.

Natasha slapped the side of Meg’s boot. “Laces. Fast.”

By the time Team Three stumbled into the morning glare, most of the field was already in order. Teams had formed up in ragged lines across the assembly yard—sweaty, half-awake, but standing.

Team One, however, looked like they’d been born standing. Every shirt tucked. Every boot shined. Their formation was so straight it looked unnatural.

Captain Darsen approached in his sleek black uniform, the silver bars gleaming in the sunrise.

“Team One,” he announced, his voice smooth as ever, “first to arrive. Fully kitted. Fully assembled. Fully trained. Every one of them honouring their military lineage. The Empire notices you.”

The praise was dagger-sharp, and his pause afterward was the slice.

Across the field, the rest of the teams stood in shameful contrast.

Malus squared his shoulders. Natasha shook her head softly, brushing a piece of lint from her beanie.

“It’s only day one and we’re already behind someone,” she muttered.

Barney cracked his neck and mumbled, “Exactly. It’s only the first day. Plenty of time to outshine those pricks.”

Darsen’s gaze drifted, slow and measuring, like a predator surveying meat.

“Today,” he began, “you are to undertake your first official test as cadets of Caldrick: the obstacle course. You will complete it as a unit. Each team will have a time limit. You will carry the weak. You will lift the slow. You will succeed together—or fail as one. And if you fail…”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“…you get to do it again. And again. Until your bones forget the taste of comfort.”

He walked the line, pausing as he passed Team Three. His gaze lingered—first on Malus’s mismatched eyes, then on Natasha’s beanie, then to Barney’s unbuttoned sleeve.

“Team Three,” he said coolly, “try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Then he moved on.

Corporal Senn stepped forward with a clipboard. “Team One. To the start line.”

Team One marched like they were already halfway to a medal ceremony.

Meg groaned. “I already hate them.”

“Je suis entièrement d'accord,” Clement said, folding her arms. “Sorry—I agree with you,” she corrected.

Malus looked over his team. Henry was studying the map, muttering to himself about coordinates and strategies. Barney was already sweating. Meg bounced on her toes, radiating nervous energy. Natasha was doing something between a shrug and a war prayer. Clement was crouched down, already pocketing a loose mechanical piece from the gravel.

“We’re not polished,” Malus muttered, “but we’re here.”

“Team Three,” Senn called. “Step forward.”

Malus tightened his straps and exhaled. “Let’s go prove we’re soldiers.”

The obstacle course loomed like a battlefield: a sprawling, sun-scorched expanse of trenches, rope climbs, mud pits, balance beams, and swinging logs. Flags marked each checkpoint. A line of instructors waited along the perimeter—clipboards in hand, eyes hungry for failure.

Team One moved like clockwork through the first stretch—clean vaults, silent signals, no wasted movement.

Team Two followed. Slower. Sloppier. Still together.

“Team Three!” barked Sergeant Vega. “You’re on deck!”

Malus rolled his shoulders and checked the straps on Meg’s vest. “Breathe. And don’t overthink it.”

“Too late!” Meg squeaked, bouncing slightly.

“Henry, map away. Just move forward.”

“I can calculate the—”

“No.”

Clement twisted her hair into a bun,"que les dieux veillent sur nous" she muttered to herself, crouching low ready to begin.

Barney was already jogging in place, shaking out his arms. “Let’s go”

Natasha cracked her knuckles. “Try to keep up Malus"

The whistle blew.

They ran.

First: the wall. Ten feet, straight up, no handholds.

Natasha didn’t slow. She hit the wood, kicked off the brace, and vaulted. Malus followed, launching from the same foothold. Barney reached up, grabbed, and hauled himself over like climbing a tree.

Clement didn’t jump—she calculated. Found a crack, jammed in a gear from her pocket, stepped on it, and scrambled over.

Henry froze. “This is—this is higher than regulation!”

“Henry!” Natasha shouted from the top. “Climb or I will use your books for tinder.”

Meg shoved him from behind, and with a yelp, he grabbed the edge. Malus leaned down, caught Henry’s wrist, and pulled him up with a grunt. Meg followed like a spider.

Checkpoint one.

Next came the crawl tunnel mud, barbed wire, and too many shouting instructors.

“Low crawl!” Vega screamed. “Lower, Henry! Are you trying to kiss the gods with your arse?!”

They slid into the muck. Natasha’s movements were surgical. Malus cursed as thorns snagged his tunic. Meg giggled, crawling beside Clement, who muttered curses in her native dialect and spat out dirt.

A wire tore Henry’s sleeve.

Barney just grunted. “Fucking mud”

Checkpoint two.

Then: rope swing over water.

Malus was first. He grabbed the rope, ran, swung—landed clean. Turned. Held it steady.

Natasha came next. No fear. Malus guided her as she landed. “Next!”

Meg squealed as she flew. “Wheee—oof!” She hit the edge, but Malus caught her.

Barney swung like a wrecking ball. Clement used momentum like math.

Henry hesitated.

“You can do this!” Malus called.

“I’ve done the calculations and—”

“Henry, jump or I throw you.”

He jumped. Landed. Screamed. Then grinned.

Checkpoint three.

Final stretch: the beam gauntlet. Narrow planks. Tilting logs. A timed flamethrower at the end, because Caldrick didn’t believe in subtlety.

They moved in a line, arms wide. Natasha in front. She set the pace—slow, steady.

Meg wobbled. Malus caught her waist.

Barney slipped once. Cursed. Recovered.

Henry lost a shoe.

Clement paused on one beam to tighten a screw in her boot, then kept walking.

The flamethrowers hissed.

“NOW!” Malus shouted.

They ran.

Flames burst behind them.

They hit the dirt, rolled through the last gate, and landed in a pile of limbs, sweat, and laughter.

A whistle blew.

Darsen looked down from his perch. “Team Three—acceptable.”

Vega grunted. “Didn’t expect that.”

Barney grinned through the mud. “is that praise?”

Henry laughed breathlessly. “That was… statistically improbable!”

Clement blinked. “I didn’t hate it.”

Meg threw up a double thumbs-up. “We didn’t die!”

Natasha wiped a streak of soot from her beanie and looked at Malus. “Are you okay?”

Malus, panting, let out a crooked smile. “yeah.” he looked at the rest of Hutt three and smiled, "were going to be great"

And maybe, just maybe, they would.

Drills began after lunch, under a sky that couldn’t decide between sun and storm.

The cadets had barely caught their breath before Vega’s whistle brought them to heel again. “Weapons up! Sparring rounds. Pairs. No crying.”

Team Three stood in a loose circle near the training pits, dust rising around their boots. Most of them were still finding their feet—bruised, muddy, and riding the edge of exhaustion. But spirits were high. They’d survived.

“Right,” Malus said, rolling his shoulders and pulling the longsword from his back sheath. “We made it through the course. That counts for something.”

“Yeah,” Barney rumbled, testing the weight of his axe. “We’re not the worst. Team Five’s still crawling.”

“They looked like corpses,” Meg added, stringing her bow. “Sad, sweaty corpses.”

“Charming,” Clement muttered, flipping her twin short swords in a tight, practiced arc.

Henry wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his shield. “Alright. Who wants to hit me first?”

“Me,” Natasha said flatly, stepping forward with her spear already levelled.

Henry blanched. “I didn’t mean immediately—!”

She lunged. Henry barely got his shield up in time.

“Faster,” Natasha barked.

“I’m trying not to die!”

“Then try harder.”

Nearby, Meg loosed arrows into a straw dummy, each one hitting closer to the centre than the last. Her short sword rested in the dirt by her foot like a pet. “Hey Barney,” she called. “You think if I shoot an apple off your head, they’ll count it as extra credit?”

Barney raised his tower shield slowly. “Try it and see what happens.”

Clement was working with Malus—her movements fast and aggressive, like water around stone. Her twin blades flicked and jabbed in relentless flurries, forcing him to stay reactive.

“You’re quick,” he grunted, parrying another swipe.

“You’re strong,” she replied. “Together, we might be competent.”

“High praise,” he said with a grin.

Natasha was still chasing Henry around the sand pit. “Keep your shield up. You’ve got the reach. Use it.”

Henry blocked another thrust and huffed. “You’re terrifying!”

“That’s why I win.”

As the drills dragged on, Vega paced between the pits, correcting stances with the grace of a hammer. Senn said little, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

By the time the sun dipped behind the hills, Team Three was bruised, blistered, and closer than they’d been that morning. They sat in the dirt, weapons beside them, passing around a cracked canteen and sore laughter.

“Clement,” Malus said between sips, “how’d you get so fast?”

“I had older brothers,” she replied with a shrug. “If I didn’t run or stab, I got sat on.”

“Effective training,” Barney said.

“And you, Meg?” Malus asked. “That bow work is no joke.”

She smiled. “My grandma taught me. Said if I couldn’t hit a rabbit from a hundred paces, I’d never get a husband.”

Malus blinked. “Did it work?”

“I got good at shooting,” she said. “Didn’t say anything about the husband.”

Henry was massaging his forearm, looking at the sky. “Do you think they’ll let us rest tomorrow?”

“Do you believe in miracles?” Natasha said.

They laughed. Not because it was funny—but because somehow, in the span of a day, they’d become something more than strangers.

Team Three wasn’t polished. Wasn’t perfect. But they were fighting. And for now, that was enough.

The sparring field was dust-choked and silent save for the sound of leather boots scraping sand.

Corporal Senn stood at the edge of the ring, arms folded, clipboard forgotten for once. His voice, quiet but absolute, cut through the air.

“Team Two. Team Three. One-on-one sparring. Show us what you’ve learned.”

Team Two stepped forward, all confidence and smirks. Their uniforms were pressed. Their boots barely scuffed. Each of them had the kind of sharp discipline that came from private tutors and cold fathers.

Malus glanced at his team. Tired. Sore. Still standing. and stepped forward.

The sparring matches were held in a broad circle of packed dirt, outlined with worn flags and overseen by Corporal Senn. The cadets of Team Two stood with smug confidence, rolling their shoulders and spinning their weapons in practiced hands.

Team Three stood opposite, weapons drawn, faces tight with effort and anticipation.

First Match: Malus vs. Jeral (Team Two, saber user)

Malus stepped into the ring with slow, measured strides. His longsword gleamed dully in the sun. Across from him, Jeral flashed a grin and gave a lazy salute with his saber.

“You sure that thing isn’t too heavy for a fancy boy with mismatched eyes?”

Malus didn’t answer. He dropped into stance—left foot forward, blade angled low.

Jeral moved first—quick, slicing arcs designed to dazzle. The sabre flicked in and out, tapping at Malus’s guard like a drummer testing a snare.

Malus didn’t chase. He absorbed, pivoted, redirected. His parries were clean, economical. The longsword came alive in his hands—each movement fluid, one step feeding the next.

A flash of steel. Jeral overcommitted.

Malus stepped in—pivoted—and slammed his pommel into the other boy’s chest, sending him stumbling. Before Jeral could recover, Malus disarmed him with a high arc and pointed his blade at the boy’s throat.

“Yield.”

Senn’s voice: “Point to Team Three.”

Jeral scowled and retrieved his sabre, muttering under his breath as he stalked away.

Second Match: Meg vs. Laria (Team Two, Warhammer)

Meg bounced into the ring, gripping her short sword with both hands. Her bow stayed behind this time—this was close quarters.

Laria, a towering girl built like a fortress, spun her Warhammer with one hand.

“Don’t blink,” she said with a grin. “You’ll miss it.”

The match started, and Meg darted left—fast, unpredictable. She danced, looking for an opening. Her sword struck out—once, twice—but Laria’s reach was massive. The hammer came down in a blur of iron and wind.

Meg ducked—too late.

The haft caught her in the ribs and sent her skidding backward in the dirt.

She scrambled to her feet, breath ragged. Charged again.

But Laria stepped through her guard, batted the sword aside, and lightly tapped Meg’s helmet with the head of the warhammer.

Thunk.

“Cute,” Laria said. “Try again in a few years.”

Meg backed out of the ring, teeth clenched.

Third Match: Henry vs. Cael (Team Two, spear)

Henry entered with a grunt, mace in one hand, shield in the other. He squared up against a tall boy with a long spear and a smirk like a knife.

Cael advanced first—prodding with quick jabs, staying just out of range. Henry raised his shield, absorbed the strikes, then tried to close the distance.

But Cael spun his spear with infuriating precision, forcing Henry to keep his guard high. He lunged—Henry swung—but missed. The spear cracked into his shoulder, staggered him.

Henry charged again. Got inside.

But before he could bring his mace down, Cael kicked his knee out and tripped him.

Henry fell hard, dust blooming around him.

“Good shield,” Cael said, walking away. “Try using it next time.”

Fourth Match: Clement vs. Vel (Team Two, short axe and buckler)

Clement twirled her twin short swords and stepped lightly into the ring, eyes narrowed. Vel, stockier and built for punishment, tapped his axe on his shield.

They circled. Clement struck first—a flurry of cuts aimed low and fast. Vel blocked with his buckler and countered, the axe whooshing by her ear.

Clement ducked, rolled, came up swinging—but Vel caught her wrist, twisted, and forced one sword from her hand. She tried to stab with the other, but he stepped in and drove his shoulder into her chest, knocking her down.

She hit the dirt, spitting sand, and glared up at him.

“You’d be dead,” Vel said. “But I’ll give you points for speed.”

Fifth Match: Barney vs. Korvan (Team Two, great sword)

Barney lumbered forward, tower shield raised, axe resting on his shoulder. Korvan’s great sword gleamed in both hands, longer than a man’s leg.

The clash was thunder.

Korvan struck like a storm—heavy, overhead slams meant to break defence. But Barney planted himself, shield locked, absorbing blow after blow.

Then he moved. Quick for his size. Axe sweeping low. Korvan parried, grunting.

Back and forth. Neither man giving ground.

The match dragged on. Sweat poured. Dust flew. Barney landed a brutal strike to Korvan’s ribs—but the other boy retaliated, slamming his sword flat against Barney’s thigh.

Senn stepped in. “Draw.”

They both stepped back, breathing hard.

Korvan spat blood and nodded. “Not bad, wall boy.”

Barney grinned. “Not bad yourself, twig.”

Final Match: Natasha vs. Myla (Team Two, curved blade)

Natasha walked into the ring like she owned it. Her spear spun once in her hand, then dropped into stance—low, balanced, deadly.

Myla twirled her curved blade, cocky.

They met at the centre.

Myla lunged—Natasha sidestepped. Spear cracked across the girl’s ribs. Myla spun—Natasha weaved low and jabbed her in the leg. Then, with a blur of motion, Natasha hooked the shaft behind Myla’s knee and swept her off her feet.

She landed with a grunt, and Natasha pressed the blunt tip of her spear to Myla’s chest.

Senn: “Point. Team Three.”

The matches ended.Team Three regrouped after the matches—bruised, scraped, breathing heavy.

Malus had won. Natasha too. Barney had held his own. But the sting of defeat clung to the others like sweat in their clothes.

Meg sat cross-legged in the dirt, twiddling her sword’s hilt. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were,” Natasha said, crouching beside her. “You were just outmatched. It happens.”

Henry leaned on his mace, still catching his breath. “I lost track of his steps. Shield up, but no pushback. I froze.”

“You got back up,” Barney grunted. “That matters.”

Clement muttered curses in three languages under her breath, rewrapping the leather grips on one of her short swords. “He baited me into a high feint. Sloppy.”

Natasha stood tall and addressed them all. “You fought. You learned. That’s the point. Next time, we do better.”

Malus nodded. “We’ll drill later. Work the weak points. One match isn’t the story—it’s just the prologue.”

Laughter from across the field interrupted the moment. Team Two, smug and sprawled under the shade, was watching them like wolves who’d already eaten.

Jeral stood and called out, voice loud enough for the instructors to hear.

“Aww, don’t be sad, Team Three. You gave us a great warm-up. But Malus—gotta say—those mismatched eyes? Kinda hard to tell which one’s supposed to be brave and which one's always about to cry.”

Malus stiffened. The grip on his longsword tightened.

He stepped forward, jaw set—but Natasha moved faster.

She reached out and quietly took his hand.

Her touch was steady. Warm. Unflinching.

Malus stopped. Looked at her.

Then Natasha turned to Team Two, voice calm, clear, and cutting.

“Thank you for the fights,” she said. “We’ll remember them.”

The tone left no room for mockery.

Even the instructors glanced up.

Team Two hesitated. Laria gave a little scoff. Vel rolled his eyes. But none of them answered.

They turned away.

Malus exhaled slowly and let his sword rest against his shoulder.

Natasha’s hand didn’t leave his.

The statue stood still as ever, its cracked form cloaked in dew and shadow, bronze glinting softly beneath weather-worn stone. Rusted weapons sat askew across its form, like tired limbs resting after centuries of vigilance. Vines had begun to claim its legs, curling like fingers around a forgotten relic—but nothing about the statue felt forgotten.

Its head tilted imperceptibly, as if the ancient thing could still see.

As Team Three dispersed and the dust of the sparring faded, it remained rooted—watching.

Its gaze, if it had one, lingered on Malus. Every movement of the boy seemed to spark something deeper beneath the bronze shell, something old and burning. A silent presence in a field of shouting voices.

And as Team Two walked away laughing, heads held high with careless cruelty, something in the statue coiled tight.

It did not move. Not yet.

But if hatred could hum through metal, the statue sang with it.

Because it had seen enough to know this: anyone who would hurt Malus did not deserve peace.

Not here.

Not anywhere. And yet, for those few quiet minutes before night fell completely, something ancient bore witness.

Not to the wins.

Not to the losses.

But to something far more important: potential.

[not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl]

Yearlings | Chapter 19

Pairing: Aragorn x OFC, arranged marriage AU

Summary:

yearling (plural yearlings)

A young horse that is between one and two years old;

Still a wild thing, untamed, knowing only the endless horizon of the plains, the world vast and waiting. It knows neither the weight of the saddle or the pressure of the bridle, untouched by the responsibilities that will one day rest heavy upon its back.

Elira, daughter of Rohan, once knew only the whisper of the breeze and the freedom of the endless fields. Yet now, bound by an arranged marriage to a king, she finds herself standing at the crossroads of duty and desire. Within the shadowed halls of Gondor, where power shifts and secrets linger, she must learn to carry the weight of a future she never chose. Alongside Aragorn, a man whose own burdens weigh heavy, she will face the slow, inevitable taming of her heart—a heart torn between the wild call of freedom and the quiet, steady pull of love between two souls learning, together, to carry the weight of grand destinies.

In a world where future is yet uncertain, Elira will come to understand that love, much like a yearling, must be nurtured, tamed, and made her own, before it can bear the weight of all that is to come

Word count: 6,514

Content warnings: grief, angst, war

AO3

The study was dimly lit, the fire casting flickering shadows against the stone walls as Elira stood, her gaze fixed on Aragorn, who paced before her, his brow furrowed with tension. The silence between them was thick, as though the very air was weighted with the knowledge of the dark times that lay ahead. 

She could still hear the words of the guard echoing in her mind, the warning of the conspiracy unfolding in the very heart of Gondor. Her mind reeled, the implications of it all crashing over her in waves, each more overwhelming than the last. The conspiracy had begun as court intrigue, whispers in darkened hallways, but now it was about to erupt into open confrontation. She could barely grasp the reality of it all. Nobles from Gondor conspiring with the leaders of Harad, an army moving closer by the hour. The tension in the room felt suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in on her. And Aragorn… Aragorn was pacing before her, as though trying to outrun the chaos that loomed on the horizon. His movements were sharp and restless, his usual calm composure lost in the torrent of his thoughts. 

She couldn’t look at him without feeling a pang of fear deep within her, the thought that this might be their last moment of peace. The only thing that seemed certain was the danger they now faced. She had thought she was prepared for the threat to Gondor, but this… this was different. The world they lived in now felt like it was crumbling around them, piece by piece. 

Aragorn had stopped pacing for a moment, turning abruptly to face her. His eyes, usually steady and commanding, were clouded with something she couldn’t quite place—an urgency, a fear. His jaw was set in a grim line, and the hands he clenched at his sides betrayed his inner turmoil. 

“Elira,” he said, his voice low and tight, as though each word took great effort. “You have to leave. Now. Find somewhere safe until it’s over.” 

Her heart lurched, the words cutting through her like a blade. She had known that the situation was dire, but the command to leave—to leave him—felt like the ground had been pulled out from beneath her. 

A surge of emotion flooded her chest, and she stepped forward, refusing to allow him to shield her from the truth. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. He wants me to leave, her mind screamed with disbelief, a visceral rejection of what he was asking. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, its beats loud and insistent in her ears. Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.  

She lifted her chin, her gaze meeting his with a quiet, resolute fire. “I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering, though her chest tightened with the weight of her decision. “I know how to fight, Aragorn. I will fight.” 

A flicker of exasperation crossed his face, but he didn’t hesitate. He stepped toward her, his eyes searching hers, as if he were hoping to find some way to change her mind, to make her see the danger in front of them. But she couldn’t see it, not like he did. She couldn’t understand why he thought she would cower in fear. She wasn’t weak. She wouldn’t be left behind. She couldn’t. 

 “Elira,” he said, the desperation in his voice making her heart ache. “You don’t understand. Gondor alone does not have the strength to win this war. The forces at play are too great. The only chance we have is holding on long enough for Éomer to bring reinforcements from Rohan.” 

Elira shook her head, her frustration rising like a storm inside her. “We’ve just talked about this,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I will not stand by and hope for the best. I cannot.” Her eyes darkened with the intensity of her conviction. “I will not hide while you go off to face this.” 

She paused, her gaze unwavering. This was not her way. This was not who she was. She had been raised to fight, to stand beside those she loved, not to turn away when the world called for action. She could feel the heat of that conviction rise within her, burning away the doubts that tried to settle in. She wasn’t going to let him send her away. Not like this.  

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze flicking to the floor as if he were weighing her words, as though trying to find another way to make her understand. But there was no understanding to be had. Her heart was set, and it had been for some time now. 

“Elira,” Aragorn’s voice was almost a whisper, raw with frustration. “Please. You must go. It is too dangerous here, for you, for everyone.” His eyes lifted, and she saw the strain of something deeper in them, a fear that she had never seen from him before. “If you stay, I cannot protect you.” 

Her heart clenched at his words, her chest tightening with the weight of them. He did want to protect her—she knew that. But she wasn’t a helpless woman to be sheltered away like some fragile thing. She had seen too much, lived too much to be coddled like that. Her father had been a protector, a man who stood strong in the face of danger, and she had been his daughter. She would not dishonor that strength now. 

Her heart twisted, but she stood firm. “You cannot protect me either way,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “and yet you still ask me to go. But I won’t. You cannot make me.” She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, her resolve as solid as the stone walls surrounding them. “I won’t let you go alone. I won’t sit behind while you face this.” 

The room was silent for a long moment, but it was a silence that filled her with a sense of certainty. She could see the internal battle playing out in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking—how dangerous this was, how much he wanted to protect her. But he didn’t understand. He couldn’t see how much she needed to fight beside him, how much she needed to be with him, standing side by side 

Aragorn’s face hardened for a moment, and then his voice broke through the tension. “I’ll return, Elira,” he said, his words heavy with meaning, “but until then, you have to go. You must be safe.” 

The pain in his voice was like a knife twisting in her heart, but she refused to allow it to break her. Her thoughts spun like a whirlwind, memories of her father, of the man she had loved so deeply, and the pain of his loss still fresh in her mind. Her voice caught in her throat, but she forced herself to speak, to speak the truth she had kept buried for so long. 

“My father told me the same thing,” she said, the words coming out raw, more from her soul than from her lips. “He told me to stay behind, to be safe, and I let him go. I won’t let you go. Not without me, Aragorn.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “I won’t lose you.” 

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of the depth of the love she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge before. But in that moment, she could no longer ignore it. Her thoughts were no longer of duty or honor, but of him. Of the man standing before her, whose life had become intertwined with hers, in ways she could no longer untangle. 

“I’ll not forgive you,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion, her words a vow. “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t let me go with you.” She could feel the desperation in her own words, raw and unyielding. 

Aragorn’s eyes darkened, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. She could see him struggling with the decision, torn between his love for her and the undeniable need to protect her. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, finally, Aragorn’s shoulders sagged as if some invisible weight had been lifted. He closed his eyes briefly, a gesture of both exhaustion and resignation. 

“Promise me,” he said, his voice low and full of anguish. “Promise me that you will be careful. If you must come with me, promise me that you will not do anything reckless.” 

The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, she felt a pang of guilt for the desperation in his words. He was not asking for her obedience, not truly. He was asking for her safety, and it tore at her heart. But she knew, deep down, that they were stronger together than apart. 

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “I promise,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “but I will not stay behind. I will fight with you, Aragorn.” 

His face softened for a fleeting moment, and his hand reached out to touch hers, a gesture that spoke volumes of the bond between them. It was a small, simple thing, but it was enough to remind her that in this moment, they were together—no matter what came next. 

“Then we will face this together,” he said quietly, his voice filled with an iron determination that she had always admired in him. 

And in that moment, Elira knew there was nothing in this world or the next that could separate them. Not the armies that marched against Gondor, not the betrayals that lay in wait, not even the weight of their duties. Together, they would stand. 

***

The first snowfall of the season had begun to blanket the Pelennor fields, transforming the landscape into a shimmering sea of white. The air was sharp and crisp, with the scent of snow mingling with the scent of horses and leather. The soft flurry of flakes fell steadily from the gray sky, dusting the tents, the soldiers, and the weapons alike. A hush seemed to fall over the fields, the world muffling beneath the thickening snow, and for a moment, everything felt still—paused, as if awaiting the first blow of battle. 

Elira walked beside Aragorn, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, the hem brushing lightly against the ground as they made their way through the camp. Their boots crunched softly in the snow, but the sounds of the camp were louder—voices raised in conversation, the jingle of armor being adjusted, horses whinnying, soldiers giving orders in low voices. But the noise didn’t seem to reach Aragorn. His gaze was fixed ahead, his face unreadable, as always, but there was a quiet tension about him that Elira could feel in the air between them. 

She glanced at him, watching how his brow furrowed slightly as he observed the men around him, how his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as he spoke briefly to a captain nearby. Elira knew well enough what he was seeing: fewer soldiers than he had hoped for. She could feel the weight of his unease, though he showed no sign of it outwardly. He moved with the calm of a king, but there was something in the way his shoulders were set, in the stiff line of his neck, that told her something else was on his mind. 

“Far fewer than I expected,” Aragorn muttered under his breath as he turned to his captains. His voice was low, edged with frustration. “The dissent is clear. More than I hoped.” He clenched his jaw, his hand brushing against the pommel of his sword. His words were meant for his officers, but Elira caught them too, her own heart sinking. 

“How many are we?” one of the captains asked, his voice steady but laced with concern. 

Aragorn’s eyes scanned the camp once more, the grimness of the situation setting deeper into his expression. “No more than half of what we had hoped,” he replied quietly, his gaze resting on the soldiers as they moved about, preparing for what was to come. “And of those, I know not how many will truly stand when the time comes. Too many have already joined the ranks of our enemies.” 

Elira stood slightly behind him, watching the men. Some were quietly murmuring to one another, others polishing their swords, while still others seemed distant, their eyes unfocused. There was no telling which ones would remain steadfast, which ones would waver when faced with the harsh reality of the coming battle. Her gaze drifted back to Aragorn, and she could see how his eyes followed the soldiers with a deep, pained scrutiny. 

She could feel the hesitation in the air, though Aragorn did his best to mask it. His men did not question him, though. Not a single one looked to him with doubt. They followed him with a loyalty that was palpable, and in that moment, Elira realized something. Aragorn wasn’t just a king to these men. He wasn’t simply the ruler they served. He stood among them, one of them—a warrior, a leader. He had earned their loyalty not through his crown, but through his presence on the battlefield, through the blood he had spilled beside them. 

The thought sent a ripple of pride through her, and she couldn’t help but glance at him again, this time noticing how his expression had softened, just slightly, as he regarded his men. It was in the way he commanded without speaking, in the way they obeyed his silent gestures. Even without a word, Aragorn was a figure who inspired a devotion that no throne could bestow, a devotion born from respect, from battle-tested trust. 

But still, she could sense his unease, as though a heavy cloud hung over him, darkening his thoughts. Even now, as they walked side by side, there was something that made her wish to reach out, to comfort him, but the space between them felt too great, too charged.  

She remembered the words Aedwyn had spoken to her months ago, before she left Rohan, as they stood at their father’s grave: “We are daughters of Rohan, Elira. We face the challenges set before us, whether we understand them or not. Father taught us that. He taught us to endure.” 

Her heart clenched tightly as she thought of her sister, of the lessons their father had imparted to them, how they had shaped her, how they had shaped both of them. The cold winter day seemed to heighten her awareness of the weight of those words. We endure. 

Fear had settled deep within her, a fear she didn’t know how to shake. But it was not a fear that would stop her. In that moment, as they walked through the camp, Elira’s mind sharpened, and she realized with a sudden clarity that her father’s teachings were not merely for times of peace. They had been meant for this. We endure. That was what she would do. She would stand. She would not yield. 

Elira’s steps slowed for a moment, but then she caught herself, pushing away the lingering doubts. She would fight. She would face this, whatever came, just as her father would have. And though fear still gripped her heart, she felt the stirrings of something stronger. She would not stand back and watch. She would stand beside him. 

Aragorn turned his head slightly, his gaze finding hers as she walked beside him. He didn’t ask if she was all right, didn’t need to. They both understood the unspoken weight of the battle ahead, the risks, the dangers. There was nothing to be said, only the shared understanding between them. His eyes were full of quiet strength, but there was also a fleeting trace of something vulnerable, something that hinted at a fear he would never show to his men, but one that he could not entirely hide from her. 

Elira met his gaze as they continued to walk, and though he didn’t speak of it, she knew he was thinking of what they faced. But she also saw the fire in his eyes, the courage that never faltered, even in the darkest of times. She didn’t need to hear him speak to understand that Aragorn, despite everything, was still the man who had once led her people to victory at Helm’s Deep.  

“I’ll stand with you,” Elira said softly, the words coming from a place of certainty. “Whatever comes, I’ll endure.” 

Aragorn turned to her then, his gaze softened for just a moment, and she saw something in his eyes that she had been longing to see—a quiet understanding. He didn’t say anything, but the look was enough. He trusted her. He knew that she was not just his queen, but his equal. 

Together, they walked on through the camp, the snowflakes falling around them, knowing that the dawn would bring a battle neither of them could avoid. Yet, in the midst of it all, they were ready. They would endure. 

***

The night in camp was cold, a chill that slipped beneath the blankets and settled into the bones. Elira lay on her cot, staring up at the dark ceiling of the tent. The faint rustling of the canvas in the wind was the only sound that reached her ears, but beneath it, she could hear Aragorn’s restless shifting. His breath was steady for a moment, and then it would hitch—too shallow, too quick, as though sleep eluded him just as it eluded her. 

Her thoughts were a blur, swirling like the wind outside. She wondered if her inability to sleep was born of fear for herself or for him. It was hard to separate the two. The battle that loomed on the horizon seemed a storm too big to weather, and the thought of it consumed her. But it wasn’t the fear of the battle that kept her awake—it was the thought of losing him. Would it hurt less to die in battle than to lose him? The question burned inside her, unbidden, and she closed her eyes, fighting the rise of panic that surged in her chest. 

She heard Aragorn shift again, the creak of his cot barely audible in the night. He was not asleep either. He’s scared too, her mind grappled with the realization, but she swallowed it back. Aragorn, King of Gondor, the man who had faced countless dangers, was scared. She had seen him in command, strong and steady, but tonight, in the quiet of the tent, she could hear the tremor in his movements. 

Unable to keep still any longer, she exhaled softly, her breath catching in the cold air, and murmured wryly into the darkness. “It’d be really ironic if I fell off my horse tomorrow because I couldn’t get any rest tonight.” 

The words hung in the air, and for a long moment, there was only silence. Then, to her surprise, she felt the bedroll shift beside her, the weight of him moving as he sat up. His presence felt larger in the dark, and she could sense his gaze on her. His brows were knit together in thought, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. 

“The sleep never comes any easier,” he said quietly, as if sharing a truth only understood by those who had known too much of war. 

His words struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated, and for a moment, all she could do was lie there, still. Does it ever come easier for any of us? The question drifted through her mind, but she could not find the answer. She had known pain, loss, fear, but never the weight of a kingdom, never the responsibility he carried. She could not fathom the burden he bore daily, but in that moment, she felt the weight of his words settling between them like a quiet understanding. 

Without a word, Aragorn extended his hand toward her. His fingers, rough from years of battle, seemed fragile in the moonlight that filtered through the tent’s opening. Elira’s breath caught in her throat for a moment as she considered his silent offer. She could feel the weight of his gaze, even though she did not look at him directly. There was something in the way he extended his hand—a quiet need, perhaps, or a desire to connect. In the darkness, it felt like an unspoken promise. 

For a heartbeat, she hesitated, unsure of herself, unsure of what to say, or even if words were needed. Her heart pounded, not from fear of the battle, but from something else entirely—a tension that lay between them, thick and undeniable. It had always been there, between them, lurking in the quiet spaces, in the moments when words failed them. But tonight, it felt stronger than ever before, as if everything was teetering on the edge of something neither of them could control. 

But then, the pull inside her chest—an instinct, a longing—rose up. She couldn’t deny it, and she knew she didn’t want to. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as it met his. The contact sent a warmth through her, a sharp contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones. His touch was firm, steady, but there was something tender about it—something that made her heart flutter in her chest. 

Without another word, Aragorn gently pulled her toward him. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he didn’t want to startle her or push too quickly. And yet, she allowed herself to be guided, feeling his strength surrounding her. 

When she finally settled against him, her head coming to rest on his chest, a soft breath escaped her. His heartbeat, strong and sure, echoed in her ears, a reminder of the life within him. It was a steady, comforting sound, and yet she could feel a tremor beneath it, a subtle tension that betrayed the quiet strength he always displayed. 

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. The warmth of him seeped into her skin, but it wasn’t just the warmth of his body that made her feel safe. It was the steadiness of him, the unspoken promise that whatever came, they would face it together. But even in that moment of quiet comfort, she could feel the faint tremble in his hands—just as she could feel her own body betraying her, her limbs tight with unease, her heart thudding beneath the weight of the night. 

It wasn’t just the battle that had them both on edge—it was each other. The thought of losing him, of waking up to find him gone, was a sharp pain she didn’t know how to bear. And in his arms, she realized he felt the same way. She could sense it in the way his grip tightened ever so slightly around her, in the soft tremor of his breath, in the way his body seemed to ache for the peace that had always eluded them. 

There was no need for words. Their shared fear, their shared vulnerability, was enough. 

Minutes passed in silence, and still neither of them spoke. The night stretched on, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, but in Aragorn’s arms, Elira felt, for the first time that evening, something close to steadiness. The storm of thoughts that had raged within her—of battle, of loss, of all the terrible things that could come—began to settle. She closed her eyes, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her ear. It was unwavering, grounding her in a way nothing else could. For this moment, this fleeting time, she allowed herself to be still, to simply be held. 

Then, softly, almost too softly to hear, Aragorn began to sing. 

The sound was quiet at first, no more than a murmur against the hush of the night. His voice, low and rich, wove through the stillness like a thread of silver, each note measured, solemn, yet laced with something gentle—something meant to soothe rather than stir. The melody was old, she could tell, something ancient, something that had seen the rise and fall of ages. The words, though unfamiliar to her, were unmistakably Elvish, their cadence flowing like a river, smooth and unbroken. 

Elira did not understand their meaning, but she did not need to. The song carried with it a sense of deep sorrow and quiet hope, of long journeys and distant shores, of loss and love and things unspoken. There was a wistfulness in the way he sang, a reverence, as though the very act of shaping these words in the darkness was a prayer, a remembrance of all that had come before and all that was still to come. 

She felt her body relax, her limbs losing the tension she had not even realized she still held. The weight pressing on her chest lessened, the racing of her thoughts slowing to match the measured rhythm of his voice. It was a balm against the raw edges of fear, a reminder that there was something beyond the battle waiting for them come morning. 

Aragorn’s hand, which had been resting lightly against her back, traced slow, absent circles there, as though he, too, sought solace in the song. He sang for her, but Elira sensed that he sang for himself as well. Perhaps he had done this before, on the long, lonely nights in the wilds, with only the stars for company. Or perhaps it was something deeper—something woven into the very fabric of him, an echo of the years he had spent among the Elves, of the home he had once known but could never truly return to. 

The song faded, the last note lingering in the hush between them, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. 

Elira let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. The tightness in her chest had eased, the fear that had coiled so tightly around her heart loosened. She shifted slightly, pressing her cheek more firmly against him, closing her eyes. 

“You should sleep,” he murmured, his voice no more than a whisper. 

She gave the barest nod. “So should you.” 

A faint chuckle, soft and breathless, ghosted against the crown of her head. “Perhaps now, I will.” 

Elira said nothing, but she felt it too—that quiet understanding between them, the knowledge that, for tonight, neither of them was alone. 

As the hours passed and the night deepened, exhaustion pulled at her limbs, slow and inevitable. The tremors in her chest, the quick beat of her heart, faded into stillness. Elira could feel her body relaxing, the tension in her limbs finally ebbing away. Aragorn’s breathing became more even, and she could sense him falling into the same quiet solace. 

And as her own eyes fluttered closed, she realized she wasn’t alone. Not tonight, not ever. 

In the stillness of the night, they both drifted into sleep, together—finally, truly, in each other’s arms. 

***

The camp was alive with the sounds of war. Armor clanked as men fastened their breastplates and greaves, adjusting sword belts and testing the weight of their shields. The sharp scent of oiled leather and steel hung thick in the cold morning air. Horses stamped restlessly, their breath curling in the chill, their riders murmuring soft words of reassurance even as they themselves stood on the edge of unease. Fires smoldered low, their warmth almost forgotten in the face of what was to come. 

There was no jesting among the men now, no idle chatter. The light-hearted boasts that had passed through the ranks in the nights before had faded, replaced by a grim, heavy silence. They all knew what lay ahead. 

Beyond the camp, the Pelennor stretched out, blanketed in frost, the grass brittle and white underfoot. And in the distance, just beyond sight, an army gathered. An enemy that had once been mere whispers in the halls of Minas Tirith was now a reality waiting on the horizon. 

Elira stood by Faelan’s side, tightening the last strap of the saddle with steady hands. She should have felt nervous. Should have felt that same tightness in her chest she had felt thenight before. And yet, she did not. Not yet. 

The weight of her weapons—her bow slung across her back, the quiver of arrows at her hip, the sword at her side—was a comfort, something familiar amid the uncertainty of war. She ran a hand down Faelan’s sleek neck, feeling the strength beneath the mare’s skin. Faelan flicked an ear toward her, snorting softly, and Elira allowed herself the faintest of smiles. 

Leaning in close, she pressed her forehead lightly against Faelan’s and whispered, “Today we shall see what you are made of, my girl. What both of us are made of.” 

The mare huffed in response, as if she understood, and Elira exhaled, her breath misting in the cold air. But the moment of stillness broke as she heard approaching footsteps, measured and firm. She knew who it was before she turned. 

Aragorn. 

Her breath caught, her heart giving a sudden, treacherous leap in her chest. And now, at last, the nerves came—not for the battle, not for herself, but for him. 

She turned to face him as he stopped beside her, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in the bow, the sword, the resolute set of her shoulders. He looked as he always did before a fight—steady, calm, yet with a weight behind his eyes, a knowing of what was to come. His armor was fitted, his cloak stirring slightly in the breeze, Andúril at his hip, his face carved with the solemnity of one who bore the weight of many. Yet it was not the King of Gondor she saw in that moment, nor the battle-hardened ranger who had roamed the wilds. It was simply Aragorn—the man she had come to know in quiet moments, in shared glances, in words unspoken. The man she could not bear to lose. 

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The camp stirred around them, men preparing for war, but the sound of it faded into something distant, unimportant. Here, now, there was only the two of them. 

Elira swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Say something, she told herself. But what words could be spoken on the edge of battle? What words would not tremble beneath the weight of all that was unsaid? 

Aragorn felt his heart lurch in his chest. 

There were moments when the weight of his crown, his duty, the destiny that had been set before him since birth, seemed to press down upon him with crushing force. Moments when he felt the weariness of it settle into his very bones. But then there were moments like this. Moments when he saw her, and the world seemed to narrow into something far simpler, far more dangerous. 

She is afraid to lose you. 

The thought struck him like a blade, swift and cutting, before she even spoke a word. He saw it in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her breath faltered just slightly. And when she did speak, her voice quieter than he had ever heard it, he felt it settle deep in his chest, beneath armor and flesh and bone. 

“I have lost much already,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She looked at him then, truly looked at him—the steady line of his jaw, the shadow of strain beneath his eyes, the way his fingers curled slightly, as if he wished to reach for her but did not dare. A breath shuddered through her. “I cannot bear to lose you, too.” 

It would have been easier if she had not said it. 

Would have been easier if she had simply nodded, offered some jest about watching each other’s backs, something light enough to ignore the truth that loomed between them. But she had spoken plainly, and now he could not look away from it. 

His gaze softened, but there was pain in it, and something else—something deeper, something unguarded. Slowly, he reached out, his hands finding her waist, his grip gentle yet firm, grounding her in place. The moment he touched her, she felt the strength of him, the warmth of his hands even through the fabric of her tunic. And yet, beneath that warmth, there was the faintest tremor in his fingers. 

It was a terrible thing to realize—he was afraid. Aragorn, who stood before armies, who had faced wraiths and warlords and all manner of foes without faltering, was afraid. Not of battle. Not of death. But of something far greater, something unspoken between them. 

She felt her own hands tremble as she lifted them, resting them lightly against his forearms. She had meant to steady herself, but the moment she touched him, it was as if the world narrowed to the space between them, to the press of his fingers against her waist, the heat of his breath as he leaned in. 

He bowed his head until their foreheads touched, and Elira closed her eyes against the wave of feeling that threatened to break over her. She could not bear this. She could not bear him. Not like this. Not when war stood between them, when they did not know if they would have another moment beyond this one. 

Aragorn closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, letting his breath steady against hers. He could not let himself think of what lay ahead. Could not let himself think of the field, of the clash of steel and the cries of dying men. Of what might happen if the tide turned against them. 

Of what might happen if he lost her. 

His fingers tightened at her waist. 

“I will not ask you to stay behind,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained. “I know you would not. But—” His breath hitched, his fingers tensing at her waist. 

He wished he could. He wished he could beg her to stay, to send her somewhere far from the coming battle, to know with certainty that she would be safe. But he had known from the start that such a thing was impossible. 

He had seen it in her from the first time he looked at her—the fire in her, the stubborn, unyielding strength that made her who she was. She was not a woman who would wait behind, who would be content to let others fight in her place. And even if she were, it would not matter.  

She was his. 

Not in name, not yet—not in the way he longed for her to be—but in every way that mattered. 

And he would not lose her. 

She did not need him to finish. She could hear the words in the silence, in the weight of his hands upon her. But I cannot bear the thought of losing you. 

Elira let out a soft, unsteady breath. Her fingers curled around the leather of his bracers, gripping tighter. 

“You had best not do anything reckless,” she whispered, a desperate attempt at lightness, but there was no jest in her voice. Her heart was pounding too fiercely, her throat too tight. “You are not just any soldier. Gondor needs you.” A pause, her breath faltering. “I need you.” 

The words slipped free before she could stop them. Too much, too close to what she could not allow herself to say. 

She felt rather than saw his reaction—the faintest intake of breath, the way his hands flexed at her waist as if he might pull her closer, the way his forehead pressed more firmly against hers. 

Aragorn exhaled sharply. The words were a knife to his ribs, a blow he had not been prepared for. 

She needed him. 

It would have been so easy to close the space between them, to press his lips to hers, to finally—finally—let himself have what he had denied for so long. The battle be damned. The war, the world, all of it. For this moment, there was nothing but her, nothing but the desperate, aching need to tell her— 

But he could not. 

Not here. Not now. 

His fingers brushed the fabric at her side, barely there, almost hesitant. “I promise,” he murmured, the words barely a whisper on his lips, but whatever he meant to say, whatever hovered between them, he did not—could not—give voice to it. 

Because they both knew the truth. 

If they spoke the words—if they let them take shape in the air between them—then there would be no taking them back. And war did not allow for such things. Not now. Not yet. 

So they stood there, breathing each other’s breath, hands curled into fabric and leather, the weight of battle pressing against them but not yet breaking through. 

Aragorn exhaled slowly, the warmth of it ghosting over her skin. Then, with a careful slowness that nearly undid her, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was fleeting, hesitant—far too tender for a morning before war. But it lingered, and so did she. 

Finally, reluctantly, he pulled away. 

She opened her eyes to find him watching her, something unreadable in his gaze, something she was afraid to name. 

“We will see this through,” he said at last, steady and certain. But there was something else beneath it, something softer. “And when we do—” His voice caught, just barely, before he swallowed and finished, “—we will have time to speak of all that is left unsaid.” 

Another promise. One he prayed he would live to keep. 

Elira nodded once, unable to trust herself to speak. 

Then he stepped back, his hands slipping from her waist, leaving behind only the memory of warmth. The world beyond them returned—the sounds of soldiers, of swords being drawn, of battle drawing near. 

Elira turned back to Faelan, gripping the saddle’s pommel with white-knuckled fingers. 

The moment had passed. 

But the weight of it lingered. And whatever had been left unspoken between them— 

She only prayed there would be time to say it. 

As Aragorn turned, stepping away from her, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. 

Whatever happened, whatever the day brought— 

He would fight not for crown or country, not for the weight of his destiny, not even for the men who looked to him as their king. 

He would fight for her. 

[windingpathsfic]

the father, the father, the son

(deanjackcas, 1240 words, e)

ft. spitroasting, creampie, rimming, gaping, sloppy seconds written for @dadfuckerfest fun in the son prompt "prophecy" also posted on ao3

The visions that overtake Castiel's consciousness are dizzying. Though maybe 'vision' is the wrong word, because it's not only foresight he's being granted. It's everything. It's sound, taste, scent, touch, emotion.

With Kelly's small hand in his own, her delicate fingers curled into his palm, he's transported. Lifted grace and mind from this moment to another. Taken, so gently, out of his vessel in the present day and slipped beneath the skin of his future self, an unwitting passenger of his own experience.

He's not sure precisely where he is, or when. Not sure, even, if any time is passing where he's standing with Kelly at the gate to Heaven at a playground in Arkansas, facing off against Dagon as Sam and Dean lie helpless in the dirt.

All he knows is that he's seeing brief glimpses of things as they will be. As they can be, should he let them.

It's Kelly he sees first. She's still pregnant, and she's standing in the surf, ankle deep in seawater and smiling when she glances back to where he stands at the edge of the beach. Behind him, a path leads back toward a cabin called home, at least for now. He doesn't look back.

He has the feeling as he looks at Kelly, as the wet sand shifts under his feet, and sweet scent of pine and stone and cold air surrounds him, that he could linger in this moment if he wanted. But something compels him forward. Beckons him, almost, like something greater is waiting just out of reach. Something that will make him understand that the nephilim's continued existence will be a blessing.

He lifts. Scatters from his body like ocean spray. Settles into himself again in some other time. Some other place.

A field. Waist high grass rustles against his coat and tickles his fingers as he's warmed through by the high sun, and he hears the pounding of feet moments before Sam appears. He's running, but not fearful. Not exercising. He's playing, Castiel realizes. Chasing someone or something, but only for the joy of it.

It's a pleasing sight, but it's not the thing that's truly calling him, so he leaves it behind. Floats up and out on the summery breeze until he's drawn somewhere else, clicking into place like it's precisely where he's supposed to be, and oh...

This is it. This is the future that he's been hurtling towards.

The first thing he knows is a swelling warmth, throbbing tension low in his gut, in the hard length between his thighs, enveloped by wet heat. Sensation slams into him, arousal so strong that he's certain his future self has been in this moment a long time already. He's envious at first. Wants to find some way to extract himself and go back to the beginning so he doesn't miss anything. But then the heat undulates, ripples around him, and he truly takes in his surroundings, and he knows he couldn't pull himself away from this if his life depended on it, even for a moment.

He's in the bunker, or somewhere like it. Heavy concrete walls and dim lighting and a hard, unforgiving floor, and Dean is there, leaning into his space, close but not close enough to be the source of the sensations. He's naked. Flushed and glistening with sweat as he bites his lip and meets Castiel's gaze to deliver a breathless thank you before he looks down between them, and Castiel follows his eyeline, and knows the reason for his gratitue. Because between them is a boy, maybe 20 years old at Castiel's estimation, and he's their son. He knows it implicitly, like he knows the weight of his blade in his hand. Their son. The nephilim. Jack.

His sandy brown hair is clinging to his sweaty forehead, and he's on his hands and knees, and he's gazing up at Castiel with golden-bright eyes as his mouth stretches wide around him, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth and dripping down Castiel's cock. Behind him, Dean's hips are pressed flushed against his ass, and he's rolling deep and steady as his fingers dig bruises into his sides to pull him back into each thrust.

"Fuck, he feels so good, Cas," Dean grunts out as he shoves in a little harder. The motion knocks Jack forward, forcing Castiel's cock further down his throat so he chokes a little, but he doesn't pull off. Just hums and whimpers, the sounds sending vibrations through his body and making his balls ache with the need to release as they grind against Jack's chin. "He's so- so fucking soft inside."

Reaching down, Castiel traces his fingertips over Jack's cheek where he can feel his own cock sliding under the skin. Jack's eyes glitter as a thought drifts up to him. To both of them. A projection or a prayer.

I made myself that way for you, daddy, he prays, and Dean groans, throaty and low. Castiel slides his hand down to feel his throat. Made myself your perfect hole.

"Oh, fuck," Dean pants. "Yeah, baby. You're perfect."

"Fill him for me," Castiel hears himself saying, and Dean nods, frantic as he picks up the pace. Switches from slow, heavy rolls to fast, hard thrusts that have Jack whining his pleasure into Castiel's groin.

When Dean comes it's with a heavy shudder, and he's still spurting when he pulls out, trailing the last thick pulses of cum over Jacks ass before he slumps back onto the floor with his legs spread, wet cock twitching as it slowly softens against his thigh. Jack pulls off of Castiel, then, looking up at him and licking his lips before he turns around to lower his mouth to Dean's spent cock, tilting his ass up in invitation as he swallows Dean whole.

Castiel doesn't hesitate, taking Jack's cheeks in his hands and spreading them. His hole is puffy and pink, glazed white with Dean's cum and gaping open. Waiting for him. He leans down, breathing in the heady, musky scent of his sweat and Dean's arousal, then swipes his tongue through the cum that's already leaked out. Laps it up, sucking on his rim until Jack's thighs start shaking. Fighting the urge to swallow, he savors it, rolling Dean's cum over his tongue before he spits it directly back into Jack's gaping hole, then shuffles in closer, gripping his cock and swiping it back and forth along Jack's taint before sinking inside.

He's perfect, like Dean said. Hot and wet and so, so, soft, and the sounds he's making as Cas fucks into him have him on the edge of orgasm within seconds. He pushes deep when it overcomes him. Pumps cum into him, mixing with Dean's, and he has the wild, twisted, irrational thought that they're breeding him. Making him theirs, wholly, in flesh and blood.

Dean is watching him when he pulls out, Jack slumped, satisfied and pliant in his lap, and the sight of them both makes love surge through his veins.

Being dragged back into the present, into the cold, dark of the playground, feels like losing his grace all over again. With the promise of a perfect future at the forefront of his mind, he draws on the power Jack is extending to him and destroys Dagon where she stands. Kelly was right. Jack needs to be born.

The best possible future depends on it.