#there is nothing heavier to him then the crown. If he can carry that he can carry anything | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year ago

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Heirs to Empty Thrones (ao3)

In the absence of the king, Nesta finds herself carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and there's only one knight in the world that can take her mind off it. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 5. We're playing very fast and loose with the term 'lionhearted'...) (psst, @c-e-d-dreamer)

The gold circlet at her brow was heavy.

Heavier than before— heavier than it had been that morning. It was a burden, a chain around her neck, and it didn’t matter how fine or gilded it was— the hammered band was a mantle she did not wish to bear, and now there was an invisible weight crushing and pressing and bearing down on her as the strain worked its way into her very bones. It curled up around her veins and grew tighter, squeezing until it felt like the cold, thin band was constricting, determined to make her bleed.

It ached.

Everything ached.

Her father was gone— abandoned them a decade ago to wage holy war in lands so distant they seemed like another world, and now every day that dawned brought a horde of dissatisfied noblemen to her door, in their fine clothes and gold rings, horses hooves clattering in the courtyard every morning as the gates to the castle were thrown wide. The same men who had decades ago refused to accept a woman’s rule now crowded in her hall, begging her to write to her father and bring him home, as if her words could do anything, as if they were of any value at all.

Nesta shivered, the nighttime chill seeping through the stone of the central keep, and through the thick-paned and lead-lined glass she saw the torches glowing on the curtain wall, flames stark against the night sky, devouring the dark.

Beyond the light of those torches, in the distant miles outside that high stone wall, the realm crumbled. The roads were filled with bandits and rebels, taxes went unpaid, and as each day gave way to night, the laws of the realm seemed ever more breakable, no stronger than reeds swaying in the wind. Her father had left her uncle as regent, charged him with the protection of the crown and its lands, and yet unrest had never been so widespread. There were rumours of men in the forest stealing from the rich to give to the poor, tales of children starving, and with no king to call on there was no solution to be had, nothing to be done.

Nothing— and Nesta dropped her head into her hands now, wondering when exactly she’d been the one to pick up the weight her father had dropped ten years ago. She had been a child when he left, the eldest daughter he’d gotten in place of a son, and for so many years she had awaited his return, watching for his ship on the horizon, counting the sails of every vessel that came to port. In vain— she had waited in vain, and when her mother and sisters had returned to their estates in France, Nesta had stayed behind, a woman now, all alone and bearing the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders.

Weary, she sighed.

The hour grew late, the darkness deepening, and yet Nesta didn’t move. She remained sitting alone in the small chamber branching off the great hall with only the silence for company. A single candle cut the dim, sweet wax scenting the air as night descended, the flame flickering in the draughts that crept through the stone.

Already, she knew sleep would not find her tonight.

Her head began to throb, the coronet she wore unbearable. Her people suffered, her realm burned, and what was she but a princess in a world that didn’t hear the voice of women, powerless and vulnerable until her father returned? She shook her head, and with a steadiness that surprised her, she lifted her hand and removed that God-forsaken band, casting it onto the thick wooden table before her, leaving it to sit in a pool of candlelight, gold and shining and bright with something she had once thought to be promise. The jewels winked, garnets and emerald and sapphires, cut stones set into the band, and oh, once Nesta had looked at the diadem and thought it pretty.

Once she had thought it beautiful.

She didn’t think so any longer.

And with her head resting in her hand, she sat alone in that chamber, lost, only waiting for somebody to find her.

It didn’t take long.

Soon enough a knock sounded at the door, echoing through the silence, and Nesta almost opened her mouth to ask for peace— but before her lips could part the door was opened, iron hinges creaking as old wood slid across even older stone. Footsteps sounded, muffled by the rushes scattered across the floor to fight the chill, and as Nesta looked up, fingers still resting against her temples, she glimpsed the bulk of a man slipping around the doorframe, a silhouette against the candlelight.

Somebody had found her indeed, and as she straightened in her chair, she realised that perhaps she didn’t mind so much that out of all the souls in this castle, he had been the one to seek her out.

Cassian.

The man who had helped her off her horse so many months ago, when she’d first arrived at this particular castle, so close to the coast. He was her father’s knight, a broad span of hardened muscle with hands no strangers to the hilt of a sword, and yet when he’d lifted her down from her horse at that first meeting, when her hands had slid down the length of his chest, his fingers had curled around her waist and brushed her spine, and she’d felt a jolt go through her that had her suddenly wanting to ride every day, if it meant he would be the one to lead her horse to stable when she returned.

When her feet had hit the ground, his hands had lingered at her waist as hers had tarried at his shoulders. He had dipped his head as he took her horse’s reins, wrapping the leather around his fist, and when he’d glanced up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, he’d murmured welcome home, princess— and Nesta had known then that she was in trouble, swimming in dangerous waters, at risk of drowning.

He’d been knighted by her grandfather before the late king’s death, earning his spurs fighting rebels, and daily he could be seen in the courtyard practising with his blade, so lethal it was a wonder her father hadn’t ordered him to lead the armies fighting in the Holy Land. Silently, secretly, Nesta was glad he hadn’t. Cassian was confident, arrogantly so, but loyal to a fault, and since that very first day he’d worked his way into her good graces, slipping so easily among her thoughts it was though he was always supposed to be there, taking up space inside her head.

And now she prayed for meetings on the turrets stairs, chance encounters in darkened halls, where his hand might brush hers, or his smile might make her heart race.

“You should be in bed,” he said now, looking at her across the candlelit chamber, over the long wooden table surrounded by empty chairs. “It’s late.”

His familiar face eased the ache that had plagued every part of her, and as his eyes dropped to her circlet lying discarded on the table, Nesta tipped her head up to see his face, raising an eyebrow as she rested her hands on the arms of her chair.

“Are you my nursemaid now?”

Cassian let out a small laugh as he stalked closer, prowling through the darkness as his eyes studied every inch of her he could see, as if searching for injury, looking for strain. As her father’s household knight, he was honour-bound to protect and serve her, but as he raked his gaze across her face, Nesta knew with certainty that it wasn’t honour that had him closing the distance between them with even, determined strides. Slowly, he tilted his head, giving her a brazen smile.

“Would you like me to be?”

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he came to a halt, standing on the other side of the long table. His silhouette was stark in the golden light— broad shoulders lined with muscle were covered with a simple linen tunic dyed a watery, washed-out red, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. Golden brown skin shone almost bronze beneath the glow of the candles, and his wrist lay idle atop the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip. Nesta dragged her eyes over him, from his leather boots to the silver bracelets at his wrists— a matching pair, each studded with a single large garnet. They glimmered, deep crimson stones shining like molten rubies, and even though they were far from extravagant, Nesta’s eye caught them anyway. Cassian lifted his wrist from his sword as he crossed his arms over the wide span of that chest, his gently curling hair spilling over one shoulder and brushing his collarbone.

He was…

He was everything she shouldn’t want, and everything she couldn’t have.

And yet still she met his eye, his hazel gaze a delectable blend of gold and green and brown— rich and warm and sweet. Cassian didn’t blink, and just as she always did, she felt stripped by the intensity of his gaze. He looked at her now, expectant.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted at last.

Cassian frowned. “You seem troubled.”

Nesta barked a laugh, one that was bitter and as sharp as shattered glass. She shook her head, and even without the golden circlet around her temples, she felt the pressure still there, pushing in on all sides.

“Do I?”

“You do,” Cassian nodded, taking another step forward until he stood directly behind one of the chairs tucked beneath the empty table. He reached out and braced his hands on it, fingers curling around the wood as he leaned down to her level, canting his head to the side and sending his long hair tumbling over the other shoulder. Something thick and heady stirred in his eyes, something that seemed like concern mixed with something… something else, something she couldn’t recognise. His face softened as he let out a breath, tension seeping from his jaw as his fingers loosened on the chair.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment. “Tell me what burdens you.”

Nesta blinked. “It’s your brother that’s advisor to the crown,” she said, thinking of Cassian’s adopted brother— Rhysand, the one who was, even now, with her father in the Holy Land, kept deep within the king’s confidences. “Not you.”

Cassian shrugged. “I don’t want to be an advisor to the crown.”

“Just advisor to me, then?”

His lips split into a grin, one that made her heart ache.

“If you’ll have me.”

Nesta shook her head again, dipping her gaze to her hands, just to stop herself from dragging her stare over every inch of him, over the forearms where his exposed skin shone in the candlelight.

“I can guess,” Cassian continued, his voice a drawl through the otherwise silent chamber. “What it is that brothers you— I can guess. Your uncle is causing chaos outside these walls, princess. Soon there will be riots.”

A chill gathered at the base of her spine. Nesta knew this already— had spent hours being lectured on it by the very men who her father had trusted to keep his lands safe. And now they looked to her, as if she could fix it— as if she had any sway at all over the man who had left when she was a child. The king had become a stranger to her, hardly a shadow in her memory, and she was naught but the princess of a failing kingdom, the daughter of an absent father. What did she have— what power did she hold at all?

“The law means nothing anymore,” Cassian said with a wave of his hand, lips pulled downwards in distaste. “Your grandfather I respected, but his sons leave him a poor legacy. Your uncle takes what he wants when he wants, and his retainers are worse. The taxes he levies are brutal and—”

Nesta let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I don’t want to think of it anymore,” she said, tired. “I want to forget about it— about all of it, for just one night.”

She looked up, at the warrior on the other side of the table. His words died on his tongue, and the silence stretched for a beat too long as he met her gaze. Her heart seemed loud enough for him to hear, and as the night pressed against the windows and the candle flame flickered, Nesta looked at him with a challenge - a plea - in her eyes. She blinked, but he merely looked at her the way he always did, like he knew her down to her bones.

“I want to forget,” she repeated, a whisper as he pushed away from the chair and took a step towards her, bringing him close enough to touch, now. “Let me forget, Cassian.”

Silent, he nodded. In the gathering dark he reached for her, lifting her hand from the arm of her chair and bringing it, reverently, to his lips. His mouth was warm against her skin, his hand tightening around hers, holding her against him as though he wanted to keep her there forever, and though this ought to have been a knightly gesture, something chivalric and gallant, there was something in the way he held her that made it deeper, made his kiss something far more than a show of loyalty from a knight to his lady.

Something far more meaningful— and something far more dangerous.

“I can help you,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breathless whisper in the darkness. Nesta found her eyes drifting closed, and even though he lifted his lips, he didn’t drop her hand. “I can make you forget all of it, princess. Just for tonight.”

Her eyes fluttered, and oh, it was a kind of treason— to let him touch her, to let him press such a lingering kiss to her skin, to let him speak to her as though he knew her, body and soul. With effort, Nesta forced herself to remember where she was— who she was, because with that raw heat dancing in his eyes… oh, yes. It was treason to touch the king’s daughter the way he did.

“My father…” she began.

“Is absent, princess.” Cassian let her hand slip from his, and the absence of his warmth was jarring. “Your sisters are in France. There’s nobody here but you and I, and no king on these shores to object to anything.”

“Treason,” Nesta breathed, her voice soft. To speak against the king, to speak of him with such disdain… that was treason too, or as close as one could get without lifting a sword. But Cassian only let a grin curve his lips, crooked and charming as he pulled away just enough to draw his sword an inch from its sheath.

“Will you end my life here, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brave, Nesta thought wryly, looking at the hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his blade. They called her father coeur de lion, but it was Cassian who had a lion’s heart. A foolish heart— but brave nonetheless. He smirked a little still, even as he unsheathed his sword all the way and set it on the table. The steel was bright, polished, and the hilt was simple— wrapped in leather with a silver pommel. Her father’s was decorated with gold, vines engraved down the blade, a groove down the middle to wick away the blood he shed. Cassian’s was far simpler, but no less sharp— no less deadly. It lay between them as he nodded.

“Go on, princess.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes dark and daring. “Attaint me. Have me stripped of everything I own, take my name and ruin it.” His voiced dropped lower, his gaze turning heated. “Because even if your father were here, my loyalty would be to you. I wouldn’t go to the edge of the courtyard for a man that abandons his realm for ten years. But for you— for you I’d go to the ends of the earth, and you’re right princess, that’s all kinds of treason, so you should do everything that I’ve just said. Have me attainted, confiscate my lands, and then have someone slit my throat, because death is the only thing that could stop me from doing this.”

With an unwavering gaze, Cassian lifted a hand.

Slowly, purposefully he cupped her cheek, his touch far too bold and far too brazen as his fingers strayed across her jaw, sliding into her hair— braided and bound and up. His rings snagged on her braids, the plain silver bands he wore with swirling engravings reminding her of the woad tattoos she’d once heard about the ancient Scots decorating their skin with, and as his lips neared hers, her heart began an off-kilter beat inside her chest. His touch was one of devotion— unyielding and unshakeable and so very, very treacherous.

She didn’t move— couldn’t. His eyes roamed her face, searching, as her lips parted he looked at her like he’d just found whatever it was he’d been looking for. He risked his life, his neck, and yet something thrummed through her as she felt his callouses against her skin, rough from all those years with a sword in hand. The cool metal of his rings pressed against her cheek, and it felt all kinds of forbidden and yet— she didn’t pull away.

The gold circlet on the table was all the reason in the world that this was a bad idea, but outside the world was already going to Hell, and Nesta just wanted one moment of peace— one breath of it, no matter how brief. Cassian looked at her like she was the closest he would ever come to Heaven, like he’d already resigned himself to his damnation, and she knew without needing him to speak that she was the only thing he’d kneel for, the only altar he would worship at.

“You can’t,” she whispered as he tilted his head. Those eyes - those damned eyes - were afire, blazing with a kind of heat Nesta had only ever heard about in songs and chansons de geste— epic, lyrical poems. They were certain to be her undoing, those eyes. Her unravelling. But as the candlelight glowed, reflected in that unwavering, steadily burning hazel… Nesta longed to fall, to let herself come undone.

“And why not?” Cassian asked with a rueful smile, daring to drag his thumb across her cheekbone.

“Because I—“ she began, but her breath faltered as he moved his thumb to her lips, tracing the bow in the centre before dropping to her chin and circling beneath her jaw. Nobody had ever touched her before— nobody had ever dared. “My father is the king,” she forced out.

“Your father hasn’t been here for ten years, sweetheart.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” she said, forcing her eyes open even as they threatened to drift closed.

Cassian let out a breath, and when he spoke next his voice was firm. “Princess, your great-grandmother sank this country into a civil war to get the crown. You could too, if you wanted.” He didn’t waver, and his touch didn’t slow, exploring the planes of her face with a gentleness that contradicted the sword on the table, the scar through his eyebrow. Treason danced on his tongue, but he spoke of war and bloodshed as if it were nothing, as if he’d serve up this realm to her singlehanded if only she’d ask. “And I will cut down every single person who stands in your way, if I have to.”

“That really is treason,” she whispered.

“I care not,” he murmured, dipping his head until his lips were barely an inch from hers. She felt his breath on her cheeks, felt her heartbeat grow wild.

“Fool,” she said softly, but there was no ire there, none at all. He only hummed, nodding in agreement.

“Only for you,” he answered, and it seemed, somehow, like a promise. Like a vow. “Only for you would I draw that blade— only for you do I kneel.”

The candle flame flickered in the corner, and with the moonlight drifting through the windows, she let herself, for just a moment, lean into his touch. She turned her face into his palm, and he hummed again, daring to let his other hand curl around her hip.

She felt herself slipping, falling. With the golden light dancing on his skin and setting his hazel eyes aglow, she felt herself forgetting all of the turmoil outside of these walls. Tomorrow— she’d deal with it tomorrow. For tonight she only wanted this— the man who looked at her like she was the sun and the moon and the sky itself, who offered her the sharp end of his blade, hers to command as she wished.

“No one can know,” she breathed. “About this— whatever this is.”

He smiled softly. “I always have been exceptionally good at keeping secrets.”

Nesta smiled too, and with every beat of her heart catching, stumbling, she reached for the hand he had rested at her hip. She tangled their fingers together, his rough against her smooth, and Lord have mercy on her— she melted at that touch, felt herself sinking into it and letting it enfold her, engulf her. His thumb moved across the back of her fingers, his lips parting on an exhale, and with all of the weight and authority that she could muster - every ounce of regality that circlet gave her, that her royal blood gave her - she lifted her chin and sought out those eyes of burning, burning hazel.

“Kiss me,” she said.

Cassian smiled, his fingers squeezing hers, tightening his hold. Nesta longed to feel the curve of those lips against hers, yearned for it, and just before Cassian pressed his lips to hers - just before he gave her everything she had ever wanted - he let out a soft breath, one hand moving behind her back, resting between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, to hold her pressed to his chest. As Cassian’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth, he smirked.

“As you wish, princess.”

#nessian #cassianweek2023 #early post because im back in work this afternoon after my holiday boo #but as always there's an authors note on ao3 with all sorts of various historical detail and facts i drew inspiration from #oh and spot the princess bride reference 👀

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cabezadeperro · 1 year ago

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🤎 for Kix/Jesse (if you are still playing)

hi!!!!

established situationship, T, alcohol mention. canon compliant (sorry)

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

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“You have him?”

“I have him.”

Kix crouches in front of Jesse, trying his best to not touch the disgusting floor of the alley. He didn’t have as much to drink as Jesse, but he’s had more than enough, and keeping his balance is harder than it should.

He looks over his shoulder: Rex’s attempting to duck from under Jesse’s arm, but Jesse won’t let him go, his hand wrapped like a vice around Rex’s bicep. Rex is flushed and sweaty, his eyes bright, and when Jesse tugs him closer he rolls his eyes and allows it. Jesse smacks a kiss on his cheek, loud and wet and kind of gross, and Rex snorts. He smiles, big and wide and bright, and Kix feels something clench within his chest—it’s been a while since the last time he saw Rex smile like that.

He looks away, and when Jesse stumbles, Kix’s there to stop him from falling. He wraps his hands around his thighs, his fingers slipping slightly in the sleek fabric of Jesse’s dress greys, and then he stands up. Jesse’s arms wrap around his neck, and he rubs his unshaved jaw against Kix’s smooth one like a tooka.

Kix starts the long, slow walk towards the barracks; Rex stays behind, cigarette already between his lips, his hands cupping the flame of his lighter. He paid for everyone’s drinks—Kix’s pretty sure the general gave him the money: Skywalker has known Jesse for a long, long time, almost as long as Kix and Jesse have known each other. Jesse’s chest is warm against Kix’s back, and Jesse’s lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, not quite kissing the skin.

“Are y’gonna stay tonight?” Jesse asks suddenly. Kix pauses in front of the turbolift, steps inside when the doors slide open. Jesse is heavy, but Kix’s carried heavier for longer, and—it’s fine.

“D’you want me to?”

Jesse sighs. They are alone in the lift—it’s so late it’s early, and anyway, lately most civvies avoid the area. Too many clones on leave, and too many shock troopers on duty.

“I always want you to stay,” Jesse says under his breath, his lips moving against Kix’s skin. He blinks away from his reflection, breaking his own gaze.

Jesse’s very drunk. Kix knows he means it: that’s irrelevant. If Jesse were sober, he wouldn’t say it out loud. Kix clears his throat.

“You have a very early morning tomorrow,” Kix replies. And you’re very drunk. “Sure you want me to keep you up?”

Jesse says nothing, and after a while. The lift stops: Kix tugs Jesse higher over his hips and starts making his way towards the barracks. He can see them at the end of the street, huge and dark against Coruscant’s night sky.

He’s beginning to think that Jesse’s fallen asleep when he shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. “And you know it.”

Kix presses his lips together. He nods at the boring troopers standing guard and steps inside. He blinks and makes a face when the lights come on, the sensors ticking as he walks towards the place where the 501st is billeted.

Jesse exhales. He starts shifting, trying to get off Kix’s back: Kix ignores him, ignores it, and doesn’t stop until they’re at Jesse’s cot. The long, dark room is quiet, mostly empty: most of the battalion is out in the city, making the best out of their leave. Kix unceremoniously dumps Jesse on top of his mattress, and then he kneels on the ground and starts unlacing Jesse’s boots. Jesse allows it, but Kix can feel the heat of his glare on the crown of his head.

After a beat, Kix sighs. He finishes tugging off Jesse’s boots and glances up at him: Jesse’s scowling, but he’s not actually angry.

“I’m sorry,” Kix says. He looks away, down at his own feet. He moves to sit down on the edge of Jesse’s cot, his thigh against Jesse’s hip. “I just—”

He trails off: he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.

“I know,” Jesse says. Kix blinks and glances up at him: Jesse’s shrugging out of his jacket, turning and shifting on the bed so that his head lies on the pillow. He’s looking at Kix with sad, liquid eyes: he’s already half-asleep.

Kix makes him drink some water, and then watches him until Jesse makes his sulking way through a stale civilian protein bar Kix finds in his locker.

And then it’s time to leave, to find his own bed, to sneak into someone else’s, and it wouldn’t be the first time but Kix finds he’s just not in the mood. It didn’t quite sink until that moment: Jesse really is leaving. Not forever, he’ll just be away for a few months, and then he’ll return, but he’s the only one left. Fives dead, Hardcase dead. Echo dead as well. Rex—well. Rex is Rex.

“It’s only ARC training,” Jesse grumbles. He’s closed his eyes, and he’s lying on his side, his hands under his cheek like a child. There are chalky crumbs on his lips and on the pillow. “Don’t look so tragic.”

Kix huffs.

“Move over,” he says. Jesse blinks his eyes open.

Kix can feel Jesse’s gaze on him while he undresses, leaving his rumpled greys where they fall. He slides under the thin sheets, and then Jesse’s wrapping arms and legs around him, tucking his head under his chin. Kix sighs, tries and fails to breathe through the pressure on his breastbone, through the tightness in his throat, and falls asleep to Jesse’s lips on his throat.

#kixjesse #jessekix #jessix #clone trooper jesse #clone trooper kix #maría writes #cloneshipping #ship snippets

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author-morgan · 1 year ago

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Title: Pleasures of Politicking Rating: M Pairing: King Ecbert x fem!Reader Summary: Sometimes, you’re the only one King Ecbert desires to see. Can be read as a sequel to The Best Laid Plans. Part one of the planned birthday fics for wifey: @mrsragnarlodbrok. 🎁❤️🍻 Happy Birthday!!!

THE PROBLEM OF the Northern invaders weighs heavily on his mind —and the crown upon his brow is a heavier weight still. Ecbert may only be the King of Wessex, but he shoulders the weight of all England. None of the other petty kings have his strength and will, not even Ælla of Northumbria, for all his pride and bloodlust.

Lesser lords, nobles, and smallfolk alike fill the great hall of Wincestre —all come to voice their concerns and woes. Most are piddling requests to appeal to and stroke Ecbert’s ego. Others have come with calls for justice against supposedly broken oaths, unfaithful spouses, and stolen sheep. It’s dull and tiresome and wears on the king’s patience. He loves his subjects, as all good kings should, but one can only endure so much yapping over insignificant squabbles in the face of the pagans who have come to murder, rape, and plunder riches from Wessex and the entire English countryside.

Ecbert lifts one of his hands from the throne’s armrest and shakes his head, cutting off Ealdorman Wulfstan’s declared grievance against his neighbor and known political rival, Leofric. “I will hear no more today,” he announces —the morning court has worn on his nerves enough as it is.

Whispers of indignation rustle through the hall, even amongst the nobility and gathered clergymen. It is not like the king to end court so soon and after hearing so few of those who have traveled far to reach Wincestre. “All of you” —Ecbert looks over those gathered, anger stirring in his gut— “leave.”

The doors of the great hall open wide, letting people shuffle out and to the courtyard. Æthelwulf stays, lingering after most have cleared —he does not understand the cause for his father’s short temper this morning. He steps to the dais, and Ecbert’s gaze falls upon his son —his only son. “This includes you, Æthelwulf.” There are protests on his son’s tongue and lips, but Æthelwulf quells the extempore thoughts and bows low before leaving too.

You step from the shadows near one of the great stone pillars —gaze lowered in piety. “What of me, my king?”

King Ecbert almost laughs —it’s an absurd question for the one he considers his closest confidant to ask. No, right now, you are the only person he wishes to speak with. The only one who truly understands the inner workings of his mind and heart. “Never you, my dear,” he answers, extending his hand toward you. “Come,” he beckons, motioning to the space beside him on Wessex’s throne. “Sit with me.”

You go to him and take the space at his side. Ecbert swore never to marry another after the death of his wife, but there are times when he wonders if such an oath is worth breaking or if you should both carry on as you do now —as king and fidus Achates. If nothing else, marriage would finally make the bishop and priests’ woeful complaints of his sinful ways out of wedlock null. But even without ceremony, you are the Queen of Wessex in all but name —everyone knows it, and nobody with half a mind would dare say otherwise.

He draws you into his side, arm draped over your shoulders as you both look ahead at the empty hall. “Did you hear?” Ecbert inquires —his hand slipping from your bicep to the nape of your neck. “Ragnar Lothbrok and his band of pagans have left our shores.” The news reached him in the early hours of the morn, and he had not wished to wake you so early for such affairs. Where once there were ten longships anchored on the river, now there are only two and a handful of lingering tents. The scouts watched from the forest for hours, but Ragnar Lothbrok was gone with his dark raven banners and shields.

“So suddenly?” You were there when Ecbert made his offer to Ragnar Lothbrok, not but five days past —an exchange of land for the help of the Northmen in strengthening Wessex. It seems a strange thing that such a fearsome and capable man as Ragnar would tuck tail and run after coming to treat with King Ecbert. You cannot imagine what drove him and his kin back across the sea with so little to show for their travels.

“A smaller party remains,” he tells you —twisting a lock of hair around his ring finger and tugging on it every so lightly, just enough for you solely focus on him. “Though, it does raise the question of what is to be done.” He’s thought of summoning the most senior of those left to treat with, but that will only serve to anger the lords and residents of Wessex even more.

“We cannot trust these Northmen.” It’s obvious, of course. In truth, it is likely foolish to put any trust in Ragnar —or any pagan. An oath not sworn to the Father or on the Holy Book is hardly an oath at all. Ecbert smiles and nods his agreement. “Nor should we entertain their presence and whims.” Their supplies are not endless. Soon they will turn their gaze to villages and towns to plunder. Such behaviors cannot be tolerated.

“No,” Ecbert concurs. “That is why I am sending Cuthberht and a score of men to remedy this.” To either drive them back across the sea or slaughter them. He hopes it will be the latter. A slaughter will be cleaner —no loose ends. You nod. It is a sound choice, an easy one too.

Still, even with one encampment eliminated, more will return —of this, you are certain, and so is Ecbert. There has been no peace since the first raid on the monastery at Lindisfarne, and now their gaze has turned southward. But England will not be able to fend off the Northern invaders if every petty king is at each other’s throats as they are now. With Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex divided, England will have no choice but to fall into ruin. “England must be better prepared for the future when Ragnar and other Northmen return,” you advise.

“Yet we cannot unite amongst ourselves,” he sighs, reaching for your hand, thumb running over your knuckles —and the bare spot on your finger where he’s considered putting a ring too many times to count. Perhaps that should be his ambition —to become the King of all England and finally crown you as his queen. Ecbert lifts your hand and presses a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

You twist your hand in his grasp, threading your fingers with his, and fall silent as you ponder what can be done, what should be done. “If you could bring Mercia under heel and yoke.” It is not the first time you have considered such measures, but it is the first time you have spake of them to Ecbert.

He shifts on the throne. His curiosity piqued by the proposition, and his hand slips from yours and to your thigh, fingertips pressing into your flesh through the linen and silk of your dress. Ecbert always enjoys listening to your ploys. Often, they are taken to heart and implemented too. If you’ve a plan to unite England, he will hear it. “How would I do that, my dear?” He asks, brow raised. “Since Offa’s death, there are no less than a dozen claims to the Mercian throne.” Mercia would sooner tear itself apart than cooperate —a large host of Northmen may even be able to take the kingdom for themselves and instill Dane Law.

“Ælla.” Ecbert smiles at the mention of the boisterous King of Northumbria. Mercia lies between Wessex and Northumbria. The two kingdoms could serve as pincers and bring the unruly lords of Mercia to heel. “Ally with King Ælla,” you tell him, reaching for the golden pendant set with a polished black onyx resting on his chest, “and quash this petty rivalry among kinsmen.”

The King of Wessex goes quiet, a hand stroking over his beard while he thinks over everything you’ve said and what he’s long been considering. “Split the kingdom?” He proposes. A fair bid to share the land of Mercia, so long as it's divvied equally.

“Or install a puppet ruler,” you supplement, tugging on the pendant to draw him nearer.

Ecbert shifts again, and this time he gathers you in his arms, pulling you across his lap. The smile beneath his golden and silver-speckled whiskers twinkles in his steel-grey eyes —as do the golden flames of the candles burning in their wrought iron candelabras. “Sometimes I believe you are crueler than even I am,” he muses, one hand squeezing your waist, the other cradling your cheek. It is not the first time your advice has led to bloodshed. “And then I thank God you whisper in mine own ear and not another lord or king’s.”

You smile for him, reaching to comb your fingers through his beard, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours before either of you can think further about the consequences should someone decide to barge into the great hall and see such sinful deeds. You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer.

Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Surely you have already considered such things, though.” You refuse to believe this is the first time he’s considered such actions.

“Perhaps,” he professes —one of his hands slides over your long skirt and then under it, his fingers running over your ankles and calves —masked from his touch by wool stocking— and finally to your knees and thighs, bare and warm. His palm is hot, resting against your inner thigh, his thumb rubbing distracting circles. “I do so love to hear you speak of politics,” he admits, his voice suddenly rough with want.

You shiver under his touch and burning gaze. “Ecbert,” you chide, doing your best to keep a stern tone and countenance —you cannot deny your desire for him, but here of all places to commit such sacrilege? You’ll not be able to look upon the throne of Wessex the same afterward. Ecbert cares little, though. He is king, and he would gladly take you at the foot of a church altar were you willing.

He knows how to play you like the court bard does his lute, and he kisses you again, but this time he catches your bottom lips between his teeth and gives a light tug, pulling a muffled cry from your throat. A final detrimental crack in your resolve, and then the tips of his fingertips stray farther, brushing against the damp folds of your cunt, and you shatter completely, caving into him. Ecbert makes a strangled noise of approval upon finding you so ready and willing for him.

Resignation passes over your expression, alas, and Ecbert’s lips twitch upward —another victory, even if it is small compared to winning a battle or kingdom. A gasp and weak moan escape your lips as the pad of his thumb circles around your clit, his other fingers slipping through your slick folds —teasing. “Shh, my dear.” He hushes you with his mouth as he strokes his fingers through your heat, feeling your muscles tense and flutter and his cock twitch —already straining against the ties of his britches. Ecbert nuzzles his face into your neck —lips dragging over your pulse, the beard on his jaw scraping against your skin. He’ll see you come undone by his own hand before taking his fill.

Nimble fingers fill you without warning, first one, then two. He bites his lower lip, twisting and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm, then repeats the same motion —this time slower, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his knuckles. You can’t help but softly moan as Ecbert curls his fingers inside you, sweeping repeatedly over just the right spot for your vision to blur and your limbs to tremble. Ecbert watches your face twist and the warmth rise to your cheeks, his name a hushed whisper on your lips.

He curls his fingers again —moving faster— his thumb pressed tight against your clit as you rock your hips, trying to increase the friction. “Ecbert!” You plead, a little louder and breathier than before. The coil in your stomach tightens, and when you gasp aloud, he presses his mouth to yours, swallowing the noise as a man starved does a warm meal.

But his impatience wins over —he needs to be sheathed within your warmth— and Ecbert withdraws his fingers, letting you up. He fumbles with the laces of britches once your rise, just enough to free his cock, and you quickly ruck up the skirts of your dress and straddle him fully. He’s so hard and warm beneath you, cock twitching —aching— all for you. Ecbert’s cheeks are flushed in the summer air, fighting to keep his regal and temperate composure. But you hold an obscene amount of power over him —even without sitting astride his lap with a hand lazily stroking his cock, guiding him into your cunt.

Ecbert helps lower you onto him, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and bottom, and as you sink onto his cock, you clutch at his back, nails digging into the rich-blue fabric covering his shoulder blades. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, groaning as he slowly slips into you, inch-by-inch, letting you reacquaint yourself with every vein and ridge of his cock dragging along the walls of your cunt. When your hips meet, you both still —a moment to adjust. But then he rocks his hips against yours, urging you to move too. His thrusts soon meet yours, hips rising from the throne. You squirm atop him, the head of his cock striking that place deep inside you with every roll of his hips.

The coil in your stomach tightens again, and this time you’ll have your end —you can feel it build inside you like a million sparks racing through your veins. “Ecbert,” you whimper, the fire in your core burning brighter, stomach fluttering with each husky grunt rumbling through his chest. He lays his lips on your neck, and you know he’ll leave more than just a small mark there —you’ll have to conceal it at mass so as to not draw more scrutiny from the bishop. Sighing into him, you direct one of his hands to your clothed breast, silently begging him to touch you there. He obliges a merciful king, indeed.

You balance yourself better with a hand on his shoulder, sliding your other hand between your bodies, but Ecbert pushes your hand aside, replacing it with his own. He tussles around, moving your skirts out of the way, and presses the pads of his fingertips against your clit, rubbing tight circles. The friction draws a long, drawn-out moan from your parted lips that you do your best to muffle against his neck as you cling to him.

The falter of your pace causes you both to fall out of rhythm, but it doesn’t matter. Not with how your cunt is clenching around his cock with each thrust. Ecbert makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and moan when your fingers twine into his gold-silver hair, tugging lightly at the roots, then your name spills like a prayer over his lips, and you can’t help it —between the smooth grind of your hips and the little whimpers and groans betraying both your lips— you press your mouth to Ecbert’s, feel the warmth of his tongue against yours. He relinquishes beneath you, giving himself over wholly in a surge of heat.

Ecbert ruts up into you thrice over, fingers still rubbing at your clit until it's too much. The warmth of his release, the friction, the tightness in your gut. Your head lolls back, eyes closed, and lips parted, and only when you are descending does he pull his hand from between your bodies. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you flush against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, labored breathing slowing in unison with your beloved king’s.

He presses his cheek against the crown of your head —all the annoyance and ire he felt earlier during court is gone. Perhaps he will be more amicable now should he invite the leeches and lepers back into the great hall to continue the morning’s affairs. He’ll have to reconvene at some point anyways.

But his thoughts stray from duty to desire again —though there is no reason why those cannot be one and the same given some circumstances. Ecbert runs his hand up your back, under a veil of hair, and comes to rest on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the edge of your jaw and cheek affectionately. You lift your gaze to meet his, smiling lazily, but his expression is one of curious intent. “How would like to become Queen of Wessex?” Ecbert queries.

All you can do is kiss him —and it is both an answer and a promise.

[Vikings taglist: @ahotmesswithprivilege / @alicedopey / @angeliod / @charming-merlin / @darkravenqueen98 / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gearhead66 / @gossamarnie / @gxorg / @hc-geralt-23 / @katie007123 / @ksziggy / @midnightmuze / @mikariell95 / @moonlightsspirit / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @n0sferatus / @naaladareia / @queenyalo / @savagemickey03 / @xiakahazou / @xinyourdreamsx / @xxdearlybeloved / @yalos-writing ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Vikings taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#King Ecbert #Ecbert #Ecbert x Reader #King Ecbert x Reader #Linus Roache #Vikings #Vikings Fanfiction #Vikings Fanfic #my writing #rewatching Vikings again and we've got it bad for Ecbert (before my short King Harald shows up in S4 at least lol)

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redactedgoose · 1 year ago

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Here's my piece for the first day of Phantasy Phest- Fantasy Eldritch AU @phantasycentral

Danny stares up at the building. It's nondescript, just some random office building in Chicago.

Or, so one would think.

He takes the last few steps to the door, raises his hand, and knocks.

Truth be told, some random, nondescript office building in uptown Chicago wasn't exactly what he was imagining when he agreed to go to the Conclave.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and stares up at the door, waiting to be let in.

Becoming the King of Ghosts wasn't something that he had planned on. Finish middle school, go to high school, go to college for something STEM related and get his master's degree or go to one of the NASA pilot schools, and be an astronaut. That had been the plan.

And then... zap, and ghosts were real and also his problem.

Danny sighs and knocks again.

"You know, if you don't let me in I'll just phase through the door," he calls.

He's in his human form right now, which is probably why they're ignoring him. Though, it is his first time at the Conclave, and the first time a ghost has been to one in a very long time.

The door opens soundlessly; no one stands there. Alright, he can appreciate the creepy aesthetic.

He strides in through the door, head held high. As he crosses the boundary, he lets his transformation wash over him. His steps lighten as his hair does, gravity and color both bleeding from him. The faint chill and weight of his crown settles over his head and his shoulders become just a tad bit heavier as his cloak manifests out of the aether, the fabric-but-not flaring out behind him as he walks.

The inside of the building is nothing like the outside. The plain, ordinary facade outside is carried over for about seven or eight steps before he comes upon a shimmering barrier. Stepping through it feels like walking through a cool mist, faint popping spreading over his skin from the magic in it.

Past that point, the interior design matches up better to his imagination of the locale of the Conclave. It looks like the inside of an old castle, the dingy grey linoleum switching to a warm, wooden floor covered in a blood red carpet. The walls are stone instead of the off-white painted drywall, stretching high up to thick, wooden beams that bracket the tall, arched ceiling. Torches are positioned at regular intervals on the walls, burning with a pale purple flame; heavy and dark metal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, that same pale purple flame burning there instead of any candles.

He continues to walk down the red carpet—ha—to the massive, sweeping staircase at the end of the hall. The thing is made out of what looks like the same stone as the walls and the carpet continues up the stairs to the large, arched double doors.

Honestly, if it wasn't for his innate sense of space, he'd think that the magic barrier was a teleportation spell. As it was, it was only thanks to just that that he knew this was a sort of pocket dimension. He was in the same general area relative to where the building was, but slightly... to the left? Tilted. A little liminal, which he liked. He wasn't too familiar with the living's magic, but even he could tell that this was an impressive feat.

Danny finishes his ascent, finally standing in front of the double doors. They're similar to the chandeliers in that they're made out of that same dark metal. It couldn't be iron, though.

He opens the doors with a push of his telekinesis and strides through. A massive, circular table seating eleven greets him, the marble covered by a black runner and topped with more of those silver light candles in an intricate candle holder.

"Hello," he greets the assorted eleven mildly. "You have me at a disadvantage. My name is Danny Phantom. You all are...?"

Oh, some of them bristle at that. He can taste their irritation and incredulity. If he came back to another Conclave, they'd get to know very fast that he wasn't one to be respectful unless it was earned. Yes, these people were the rulers of their respective species. No, Danny didn't give a shit.

Surprisingly, one's threshold for respect and the like tended to shift after getting into fistfights with gods at the tender age of fourteen.

The woman at the head of the table speaks up first, raising her chin. "I am Queen Adelaide of the Witches. We tend to the this hall that hosts the Conclave, and bid you welcome to our table."

Her purple eyes flick over to look to the man next to her. He's thin-boned and almost waifish, reminding Danny of a hummingbird. His ears are also long and come to a point, but the feathers that sprout from his brows and wrap around his temples to mix into his hair strike out elf.

"I am King Ashok of the Avians."

Danny inclines his head to him. Just as before, though, the next person starts to talk almost immediately afterwards. He's tall, even sitting, with broad shoulders. His face is long, and his thick, bushy sideburns stretch down to his chin.

"King Bedwyr of the Werecreatures. I represent all the Were tribes."

It makes sense, since his eyes are also an inhuman amber gold. A werewolf, perhaps? Or a werebear? Danny dips his head once more. He's not too well-versed in were politics, since the Dead tribes are fiercely independent and territorial. Wulf was a bit of an outlier in that regard.

"Welcome, Phantom," the next woman says with a smile. It's sharp, though, and the lack of a title before his name is quite telling. "I am Myrto, Queen of the Sirens."

Ahh, alright.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he returns, just as mildly as his greeting. "I've always enjoyed talking with Queen Peisinoe when visiting her domain in the Realms. She's told me many stories about her time amongst the living. She and Lady Pandora are some of my dearest friends."

It becomes a little difficult to hold onto his mild smile as her eyes widen slightly and her face twists like she's bitten into a lemon, though.

He might be young, but he's been dealing with ghost politics for a while now. He can recognize the snub and return fire just as well as any of these people.

Peisinoe had told him how bratty the current Siren Queen was, though, so he's not too surprised.

"'ello!" The next woman, a chubby and red-cheeked lady with long, brown hair and a fur coat smiles at him. "I'm the Queen of the Selkies. Just call me Boann, though, King Phantom."

"Call me Danny, then," he returns, smile growing and morphing into something a little more genuine.

"I am King Celal of the mer. I represent all from under the water. It is a pleasure to meet the keeper of the Below Deeps."

Right. In the mers' religion, that's their afterlife. It's a pretty cool area, even if Danny doesn't often go. He makes the water too cold for some of the people living there.

"Well met, King Phantom." The next man looks similar to King [Avian], but without the feathers and with longer ears. His hair's long and thin and his skin is almost unhealthily pale. "I am the Erlkönig, the Elf King. You may call me Eadric."

"Well met."

"I'm Enitan, King Under the Mountains. Nice to meet ya!" The dwarf king is taller than Danny would've imagined, but the impressive, braided strawberry blond beard he's sporting fits right in.

The next person starts to talk even as Danny's still nodding at the Dwarf King.

"I am Verner, King of the Dragons." The man's eyes are like liquid gold and slitted like a cat's. Faint golden scales trail across his pronounced cheekbones up to and across his forehead, though it's harder to see them there thanks to the King's blond bangs.

"I am Doroteia, Queen of the Nymphs," the final woman says. She wouldn't look out of place in the Realms with her green skin and plant matter hair, vines and leaves cascading down her back.

"And finally, I am Ciprian, King of the Vampires." The last man says. He sits next to the Witch Queen, on the side opposite to the Avian King. They almost look like siblings, with the same pale skin—though Adelaide's was paler—and long dark hair. The only other distinguishing mark between them was the Vampire King's blood red eyes and more angular features.

"Thank you all for the welcome," Danny says, nodding to everyone in general.

He floats forward from the doors to the table, not putting on the pretense of walking. There's one open space there, but no chair.

Danny stops a short distance from the table. The others' chairs look standard and not like they'd brought or made them, so it wasn't a test of any kind.

Hm. Well...

"Queen Adelaide, you bid me welcome to your table. Was that merely a platitude?" He asks, perfectly and unnaturally still.

Tsk, tsk. Offering hospitality and then not being hospitable was quite the dangerous business—she of all people would know, keeping an elf in her council.

"Phantom," Adelaide starts, a pretty smile gracing her face despite the snub she just dealt, "You are the first of your kind in centuries to grace our halls. Please forgive us, of course, for being..." she trails off slightly, a tilting head cascading dark hair off her shoulder. "Hesitant."

"Oh?" Danny fishes.

"You wear an oversized crown, child," Verner butts in, chin high and draconic pride very clearly showing through. "More to that, you look human. What proof is there that you are whom you say you are?"

Ah. Ah.

Danny takes a breath. Then, he... relaxes. The boundaries between living and dead, thin that they already are in him, dissolve down to the merest atom, a whisper of a breath on knife's edge. Power whips about him with enough force to tousle his hair and toss the ends of his cloak about even as it shifts, lengthens, the night sky growing from his shoulders. His form unspools from his remnants of mortality, growing and bathing the space in him. Nebulae dance around the edges of the room, a starlight glow emanating from his form. The chill of deep space is contained easily enough, massing with the inexorable pull of gravity that makes up the dark of his chest and limbs. His crown floats over his head, burning the cold blue of ice planets, spikes of the stuff climbing in delicate spires. Small satellites orbit his crown—four of them, all different colors.

For all that Danny was starstuff, his eyes always were of the Realms. Green, green like the air and the earth and the everything that made up the Realms. Pure ectoplasmic green burns in his eyes, bright enough to be supernovae in their own right.

"Is this what you imagined? Am I properly monstrous now?" Danny asks, voice echoing throughout the room. He watches the Were King's fur raise, the Avian King's feathers ruffle. "I maintain a visage of humanity by my own liking, but I am so much more than just that."

He lets his form drift just a little more, his chest and arms whisping out like his legs until he's more or less a star-studded amorphous mass with a head on top. Even that, though, is... Other. His mouth is too large, he knows, and his eyes too deep and too many, all contained within his sockets, irises many and varied as stars in the sky.

His crown burns cold over his head, hanging in the air.

"I am the Shield of the After, Protector of the Beyond. I am the One Between, the Balance, the Shepard, and the Guiding Star. The Tyrant-Killer. Deathless and Lifeless. I am the High King of the Infinite Realms."

As much as he had raged against taking the crown—all he was trying to do was protect his town, after all—he couldn't help but admit to himself that he... kinda liked it. Not the power, of course. That he could do without. All that paperwork? The bowing and scraping? Nah.

But the fact that he was able to do these things, to be these things... to help the dead as much as the living... it soothed something in him, fulfilled him in a way that being the protector of Amity did.

"I accepted the invitation to this Conclave with the hope of improving relations between the Living and the Dead. I did not come to be ridiculed and doubted, especially by mere mortals such as yourselves."

He can see the various Rulers' breaths misting in the air, the temperature dropping father by the second. Space was cold, after all. Danny very graciously doesn't allow the oxygen and atmosphere to vacate as it would in actual space.

Mostly.

He doesn't want to kill them, after all, just... give them a little scare.

The edges of the room waver, the witches' spellwork trembling under his presence. He extends what may have once been a hand but now resembled more of a tendril, or perhaps a bit of a galactic swirl, towards the nearest surface.

It happens to be the table.

It takes laughably little energy to shore up the witches' spellwork, the space growing more defined in an instant.

Pettily, he also adds a chair to the weave. It's just barely bigger than the others' chairs, made from ice and upholstered in neon green fabric.

He positions his form above the chair and beings the annoying process of reeling himself back into something manageable and humanoid, gravity increasing and compounding until the black of his body folds onto itself, defined edges forming once more. He reels the stars back into himself, tucking plenty inside his cloak. The chill, however, doesn't completely disappear.

Danny's head is the last thing to come back to normal, growing smaller and less mindbendingly awful and settling in its proper position on his neck. His eyes don't quite go back to normal either, though. He keeps the depth and the multiplicity, since he's been complimented on their fear-inducing properties many a time.

"Now, may we begin?" Danny asks politely, voice merely ethereal instead of booming and all-encompassing.

Pale, the Witch Queen just nods.

---

"So, how was it?" Sam asks him later, fastballing a chocolate chip muffin directly at his forehead as he walks in through the door.

"Did the vampires sparkle?" Tucker yells his question from further into their shared home.

Danny snorts, snatching the muffin from where he'd instinctively made it bob in the air, held inches away from his skin. "The vampire didn't sparkle, Tuck. And it was pretty fun! I got to go full abomination!"

"Hell yeah." Sam holds her hand up and he returns the high five. "Whatever they did, they deserved it."

Danny laughs as he drops onto their couch. "Yeah, they're not going to make that mistake again any time soon."

#danny phantom #phantasy phest 2023 #fantasy eldritch au #dp

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hiddcnhorizcns · 3 months ago

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tristan felt her words like a blade slipping between his ribs—slow, deliberate, piercing deeper with every soft admission. he had always known eira better than she knew herself, reading the truth in her eyes even when her lips spoke the polished words of a future queen. and yet, hearing her resignation aloud now, hearing her accept a fate that bound her so tightly, it stirred something fierce inside him, something that defied the duty he was sworn to uphold. when she said his words were false, he wanted to argue, to tell her that nothing had to be written in stone. but he knew better. this was the kingdom’s reality, a reality she was born into and one she could not escape. as much as he hated it, as much as it twisted his heart to see her resign herself to a life of obligation, there was a helplessness in his chest that he couldn’t shake. he could protect her from any enemy on the battlefield, but how was he supposed to protect her from this? from a future she had accepted even when he could see the yearning for more in her eyes? the way her voice softened when she said she could always count on him, that he was the one person who accepted her for simply being eira, nearly undid him. his resolve wavered as her fingers brushed his skin—just the lightest touch, but it ignited something buried deep within him. a long-forgotten memory of what could have been, had the crown not already claimed her. he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced those thoughts back where they belonged. fantasies. that’s all they were. and they had no place here, not now.

"i’ll always be here for you," tristan said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. he knew how dangerous they were, how loaded with the things left unsaid. his chest felt tight, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, knowing full well that if he let himself fall, there would be no going back. "you’ll never have to face any of this alone." it was a promise he had made long ago, one that seemed to grow heavier with each passing year. and yet, here he was, making it again, knowing full well that the cost would be his own heart. she was to be queen, and he—well, he was only tristan. but if being the one person in her life who didn’t ask for anything, who simply stayed, was all he could offer, then he would. even if it meant standing by while she was swept away by duty and a future with another man. her laugh, so genuine and full of life, broke through the weight of the moment, pulling him back. for a brief second, the tension eased, and they were just eira and tristan again, walking under the stars, away from the eyes of the court. he couldn’t help but smile at the sound, the corners of his lips tugging upward as he glanced at her.

"i can be terrifying if i need to be," he teased, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. "i’ll have you know there’s a very short list of people who’d dare cross me." but as her words sobered, as she spoke of endurance and the reality of her future, tristan’s smile faded. the quiet strength in her voice, the acceptance that she had no choice but to endure the hollow propositions of nobles and the gilded cage of the crown, twisted something inside him again. he hated it. hated that she had to bear this burden, hated that the future felt so inevitable. still, when she looked at him like that, with her guard down just a little more, letting him see the part of her that still longed for something real, he knew he couldn’t abandon her. not now. not ever. "i won’t let anything change," he said firmly, his voice low but steady. "i don’t care what the future brings or what anyone else expects of you. i’ll always be at your side, eira. i don’t need anything from you—except maybe a smile now and then." he tried for a lighter tone, but his words carried a deeper truth.

speaking to tristan so earnestly was both cathartic, yet unsettling. he had never been the type of man to just take her words at face value because he knew her. sometimes, when they were children, it felt like the man had the ability to peer directly into her soul. it had a way of making her vulnerable just standing before him, like she felt now. “you and i both know your words are false, tristan.” how many times had she tried to convince herself of the same? that maybe, somehow, she could shape her own path within the confines of the role she had inherited? yet every time she tried, the walls only seemed to close in tighter as the weight of her duty pressed her down harder. at this point in her life, she simply wanted to live her days as peacefully as possible, which included this time with her childhood friend. “settling is merely a fact of life that i have grown to accept. i will be queen of this kingdom; i will rule over its people with my husband and i will do so graciously. i have to.” the sooner he accepted her fate, the better. yet he continued and she ducked her head as a solemn smile graced her features. “i know i can always count on one person to accept me simply as eira.” when her gaze lifted and her eyes met his, her smile grew. “and that person is you.” her hand reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin. once upon a time, she could see herself being happy with him, but those fantasies had died when her marriage had been announced. now he’d always just be her friend, kept at bay.

luckily, the conversation returned to the court and its extracurriculars and she laughed, a genuine and loud sound in the quiet of the night. “you, tristan? terrifying the nobility?” she shook her head. “i’d pay to see that.” sobering up, she continued. “but no, i suppose i have to endure their offers … at least for now.” she hesitated, her voice lowering. “though, knowing you’re here, that you’re still … you, it helps.” she let her eyes meet his again, letting her guard down just a little more. “i don’t expect you to change the course of my future, but having you at my side — someone who doesn’t ask for a single thing in return — that is more than enough.” for all the pressure and expectation that she faced every day in her life, for all the hollow propositions she would face in the days to come, at least here, with tristan, she could still find a sliver of herself. that part of her wasn’t yet lost to the crown or to duty.

“you’re always been there for me,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years spent together. “and i don’t know what i would do if that ever changed.”

#moondustlings

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greatgodempresspan · 3 years ago

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Only place I know I feel safe (I’m gonna call this home) [fic]

Fandom: Critical role (C3, references to EXU)

Summary: In which Fearne is Orym’s emotional support Druid, Orym is (unknowingly) Fearne’s emotional support Halfling and they discuss how best to give Dorian emotional support. Depending on your shipping goggles, hints of Dorym, Fearym, Dorne and/or airship ot3.

Warnings: Discussion of Dorian’s self esteem issues, caring for your friend and letting your friends care for you. Unbeta’d because I have no impulse control.

“Fearne, can I have a word with you? It’s important.”

“Important” from Orym means a serious, Poe-faced discussion is forthcoming. It would be a drag if he wasn’t so earnest.

Luckily, Fearne knows that if you’re a friend of Orym’s and you use the word please, he’s incapable of saying “no”.

“Okay. Can you please sit in my lap while we do?”

“Er…okay?” Orym sets his glass of tea on the table and ponders her thighs for a moment. Fearne brings them together and gathers her skirts to drape across her lap, trying to make it a bit more comfortable. He smiles at her in thanks and carefully sits so his legs dangle off the side with less fabric.

“What brought this on?”

“You sit in Opal’s lap all the time.”

“Opal’s my pretend Mom,” Orym points out. “And also most of the time she’d just lift me there herself. So thank you for asking.”

“You’re welcome.” Fearne likes it, she decides. It feels nice, like when Lil Mister’s sitting with her, except Orym’s heavier and more careful of her dress.

Orym’s always the first to remind them of how small he is, but he very rarely actually lets himself be small in front of them.

She remembers cupping his cheek, him closing his eyes with the effort not to lean into it. She’d been charmed by it then, seen nothing there but the affect of her own charms.

Travelling with him for year she now knows it wasn’t (just) that.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Orym frowns. “I’m a little worried about Dorian.”

Fearne nods, ignoring the small twinge of jealousy. This is how Orym is; he worried about Opal, Dariax and Dorian when they were carrying the crown. He worried about her when they were approaching the portal to the details. You never know when Orym’s worrying about you, unless he feels the need to confront you about something.

“Because he got pickpocketed the last time he was here and it’s clearly really easy to do around here?” Fearne asks. It’s probably not that, but Fearne has some concerns. Especially compared to Orym and Fearne, Dorian looks like an easy mark.

“No. I mean - not just that - if you could make sure no one steals from us, that would be great.”

“Always do,” Fearne tells him, tapping the side of her nose. It earns her a small smile behind Orym gets serious again.

“Going by some of the things that Dorian’s told us, I think we might be close to Dorian’s home.”

Fearne frowns. That is a problem. Dorian’s never outright said anything, but what he has let slip about growing up sounds terrible.

“You know how he gets when he feels like he’s failed.” Orym adds. “He’s going to be doubting himself, talking himself down-“

“His confidence is where he gets his power!” Fearne says. “In battle and as a performer.”

“Exactly. I just - I think we need to be a little more vocal in our support and appreciation right now, y’know? Talk him up a little, remind him how great he is.”

“He’s so great!” Fearne says, starting to feel a little distressed that Dorian could forget this about himself.

“Right! We just - y’know, we don’t over-do it, because then he’s going to feel patronised.”

Fearne nods slowly. That doesn’t sound quite right to her, but Orym clearly needs the reassurance.

Suddenly, Fearne’s ears prick up. “Hey! What if, when we need a room, we tell Dorian that we need to save money, so we have to all share a bed? Then we can cuddle up to him and he’ll know how much we care!”

Orym’s face goes carefully blank. In Fearne’s experience the best way to get her own way is to keep going.

“He’ll feel cared and supported, and there’s no chance of him feeling patronised!” Of course, she and Orym are both hot. People don’t mind being patronised if you’re hot.

“Maybe,” Orym says, cheeks flushing. Probably embarrassed because he’s realised it’s actually a brilliant idea. Or because he wants to say “no” but can’t think of a “good” reason. Even when he’s making a decision based on his feelings he needs to justify them somehow. Fearne’s tired just thinking about it.

“Just make sure you let him support you too,” Fearne adds, dipping her head to better hold his gaze. It doesn’t have quite the affect as when the lady cloaked in leaves did it at Orym’s home, but then Orym’s expression isn’t closed off the way it was with his archdruid.

“We came because we didn’t want you to do this alone. So we could support you, help you - heal you. Don’t let Dorian feel like he’s failed at that.”

Orym ducks in his head, ashamed. Fearne purses her lips to keep anything else from coming out; anything about how guilty and worried Opal and Dariax had been to not come with them, about her and Dorian working together to make sure that they both have healing spells.

Fearne wraps her arms around him and presses her cheek to the top of his head, resisting with every fibre of her being the urge to just squish him in a tight hug. Orym wouldn’t like that.

“We all look after each other. Right?”

A small rough hand rests against her arm. “Right.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Fearne looks up to see Dorian, lute slung across his back. There’s a defeated slump to his shoulders and while his tone is teasing there’s an edge of anxiety there.

Orym hooks his chin over her arm. “Fearne ‘a missing Mister,” he says, giving Dorian a Significant Look not unlike the one that started this conversation. “I’ve promised her group hugs to make up for it.”

Fearne nods. “Orym just isn’t the right size,” she says holding out an arm for Dorian.

He frowns, looking more confused than anything. “Do I…have to sit in your lap too?”

“Yes!” Fearne says, tail twitching in delight. Two birds, one stone!

“C’mon, Dorian, it’s comfy here!” Orym says, reaching for him.

Dorian looks about to object, but after a moment breaks into a wide, helpless smile. He carefully puts his beloved lute on the table, perched on Fearne’s unoccupied knee and pulls them both into a bone-crushing hug.

It’s a little uncomfortable, what with people’s armour and concealed weapons, but Dorian’s much lighter than Fearne was expecting and she gets to have two of her boys in her lap.

Fearne could get used to this.

Notes: Title is from Jimmy eat world’s “The world we loved”.

#fearne calloway #orym of the air ashari #dorian storm #the airship three #critical role #fic #cr fic

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strongestavengerthor · 2 years ago

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"Brother, if you do not think that Mother could sense you the second you landed, you are sorely mistaken," Thor said, flashing his brother a knowing smile. Heimdall had probably sent word ahead per her explicit request. This was a day she had been waiting for, and Thor had born witness to the pain in her gaze each time he stepped into the throne room alone for the past year. And before that... When Loki was still believed lost to them. The grief that had sat on their shoulders a heavier burden than any kingdom or crown. Perhaps it was the chill in the air that took him back to such dark times. Thor did not mention it, didn't wish to draw attention to his brother's newfound abilities. Nor did he reply to the comment about Odin. He tightened his grip as Loki pressed their foreheads together, as if he could press warmth into his brother's body through sheer willpower. "I know," he replied. "If I could carry this for you, Loki, you know I would," he insisted. His own powerlessness here sent an edge of desperation into his words. They were princes, the sons of the Allfather. And yet so much was out of their control. But that wasn't what sent a pang through Thor's heart right now. His baby brother was in turmoil -- and he could do nothing but stand beside him. He hoped that would be enough.

Contrary to what his brother might think, Thor did know when to be quiet sometimes. So he said nothing for a long, long moment. Not until Loki spoke again. "We could always run away," he offered lightly. "Remember, we planned to once as children? I forget what made us so unhappy... But we were to meet at midnight and disappear forever, just you and me. What an adventure it would've been," he said, laughing lightly. But the sound died out even before Loki spoke again, his words so fraught with uncharacteristic vulnerability. Thor couldn't remember ever seeing his brother so frightened, so overwhelmed -- and he had seen him aboard Thanos' vessel. Thor took a deep breath, and moved his hands, so that both gripped Loki's shoulders tightly. "Brother. Nothing could pry me from your side. All the monsters in all the realms could try and fail." It was strange now, to count his father amongst those monsters. "You can do this," Thor assured him, instead of lingering on that particular thought.

He slung his arm over his brother's shoulders and guided him out. Nodded to the guards standing by the throne room. The doors were opened, the great hall stretching out before them. "Father," Thor bellowed. His voice echoed all around them, and his practiced smile slid into place. There was no crowd, only his father on the throne, mother by his side. Thor took a step forward, arm still across his brother's shoulders. "Your valiant sons have returned to Asgard to answer your summons."

asgcrdianprince

Loki just looked at his brother when he hesitated. Realizing he’d taken him off guard, he opened his mouth to take over, but Thor beat him to it. “Shit,” Loki breathed when Thor called out to the guards. “Thor, what the hell – “ he started when his brother led him to the side chamber. “Good way to alert Mother of our arrival.” Frigga was either going to come find them or know something was wrong. Which, to be fair, she probably already knew something was wrong, so that wasn’t Thor’s fault. “I don’t care what irritation it causes him.” He turned when his brother came over to him, closing his eyes when Thor attempted to meet his gaze. But he did relax against Thor’s touch. Which was good, because Loki felt the temperature in the room take a nosedive. He took another deep breath, willing himself calm, and let his forehead drop forward to rest against his brother’s. “I don’t want to do this,” Loki said, after a moment, voice lacking the sharp malice it had just moments ago. He let out another breath and lifted his head, this time meeting Thor’s gaze. “I know the longer I put it off, the worse it’ll be. I just don’t want to.” But he’d left. Let their Mother think he was dead. He’d make himself for her. And he knew he’d have to do it eventually, so it was better to do it with Thor at his side rather than alone. He had to come back sooner or later, because he knew whenever Thor became king, whatever he would say or do against it in the meantime, he’d be back in Asgard by his brother’s side.

“Okay,” Loki said after a moment, completely lifting his head and standing up straight to look his brother in the eye. “Let’s just get it over with.” He’d have Thor. He’d have Frigga. He didn’t have to be alone with him. Loki felt the temperature around them regulate again and he hated the relief he felt when it did. Because it was like that part of him didn’t want to draw their father’s attention to the side of him he hated. But before he could let his mind go there again, he looked over to Thor. He’d have him. He’d have Frigga. He didn’t have to be alone with him. “Just – “ Loki started. “Don’t leave me alone and do the talking. I’ll be able to do it then.”

#loki #loki: asgard #loki 3

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katsukikitten · 4 years ago

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Warnings: 18+ NSFW, mentions of animal harm, sexual themes, god/fantasy au for BNHAREM this badboi is 8k so enjoy~

The sound of a wind chime echoes across the small field just outside your home. The breeze carries the smell of summer bloomed blossoms and with it the threat of rain as it comes from down the mountain.

A soft brown creature catches your eye as your mother picks flowers and berries for the festival.

“Bunbun!” You exclaim, pointing as you tug on your mother’s tattered kimono, she responds with a soft hmm. Her eyes still focused on the wide range of flowers although her vision blurs.

But at least you weren’t picked for this festival, no it would be many years before you would be in the running. Your mother’s only wish was for you to be unfavorable. Mother is so engrossed that she does not see you slip away, slowly following the bunny into the forest.

Soon the soft brown creature begins to hop, faster and faster as you giggle running full speed ahead. Not noticing how the trees thicken or how dark eyes seem to peer through the trees, their mawls salivating with unsated hunger. With gnashing teeth they stalk ever closer all the while you rush to catch the creature just for it to jump high into the air. Nose diving straight for the ground, you copy its actions but the bunny is faster than you. Slipping into the burrow with ease as you fall face first into dirt and rocks.

“O..ow. Momma!” You sniffle, turning around for some much needed motherly love, but instead of your mother hunched over collecting boring things in her basket you are met with a dense forest. The setting sun washes over the trees giving the thick pines and maples a ghoulish red hue. Suddenly you are hyper aware of the sounds around you, a stick snaps in the brush. Your head turns as if you were a startled deer, eyes wide, heart racing as you strain to hear over the rushing blood in your ears. Dark figures move in the long shadows and haunting laughs echo around you. Beady eyes shine in the darkness causing a small whimper to leave your lips. Acting on instinct you rush to your feet, running through the woods. Briers snatch at your small ankles, leaving angry red lines in their wake, wanting nothing more than to make you a child of the forest.

“MOOOM!” You shout, panting as they force you further into the mountain, you take a quick left when one jumps from the right causing you to trip over a branch falling into a small clearing, faintly you hear the rush of a spring.

Scuffling rouses a sleepy garnet haired man who lounges in a steaming hot spring, that’s sprinkled with fallen petals of mountain flowers. He thinks to dismiss it until a scream cuts through the serenity of the pines. Whatever animal it is, it sounds small and this stirs something in the mountainous man. Sadly this was the circle of life, he reminds himself as he sinks deeper into the burning hot spring.

“MOMMA HELP PWEESE!!” You scream, trying to get up but this time you are entangled in a briar patch, thorn and vine twisting around your tender skin. It seems the wicked green plant will have its wish.

All the while the shadows stalk closer, their bright beady eyes blown wide as their jaws unhinge for their meal. They get on their haunches to launch themselves at you until something causes them to freeze. The trees shake around you while the Earth rumbles as if there were a thunder storm beneath the rich dirt.

“Hello little flower. Are you lost?” You whip your head towards the sound. Lip quivering as you stare up at a tall, built man. But it was his eyes that stood out the most.

His glistening rubies glow as fading sunlight catches his hair, emphasizing that the strands are a red so deep one could mistake it as black. Your eyes play tricks on you as the air seems charged and yet calm, giving him a surreal aura. He stands tall, half relaxed as one arm is lazily hanging from his dark rose kimono while the rest of his sculpted body is exposed to the slowly cooling air. You weigh your options as best you can before you scramble to your savior. Clinging to his leg as your tears begin to stain his kimono.

He breathes in deeply and before he can speak the dark figures vanish, melting into the shadows that stretch in the last winking light of the Sun. He crouches down to you, pushing hair past your face.

“Don’t cry little flower. Here.” A beautiful flower crown appears in his hands. The white petals with contrasting amethyst stripes down the center seem to have their own shimmering bio-luminescence making it feel other worldly as he places it atop your head. He chooses the dietes flower for its symbolism and rarity, unknowingly sealing your fate.

“Is that better, little one?” You nod in response, sniffling softly as he scoops you up walking you until he can just see what must be your home through the thick trees. He watches what he assumes your mother to panic, as the village shouts what must be your name.

“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way okay little flower?” He sets you down gently before you give a big nod. Cold bare feet crunching the leaves against the forest floor.

You come into the clearing of your home, the sea of yellows, pinks and reds winking in the stark light of the moon.

“Momma…” You call softly, the world stops turning on its axis before she rushes to you, pulling you into her arms before her eyes are filled with overflowing fear. Fat droplets leave her long lashes as she snatches the crown away, but it is too late. It has been seen by all.

“Oh she is favored by the Gods.” Someone comments.

“If she grows into anything like her mother she will be the best choice to appease the Mountain God!"

"Let us mark this day and the family name so we may remember 16 years from now."

They continue to gossip as your mother squeezes you tight enough that it hurts. Her mind racing as she carries you inside, she tucks you in without a word of a scolding. Coaxing you to drink some lavender tea that pulls you into a deep sleep beneath the symphony of crickets and the like.

You do not hear your mother return and if you do, you guess she is doing her nightly routine. Fluffing your blankets and making sure your futon is warm enough but what you weren’t expecting was the cold bite of a blade pressing into the flesh above your left eyebrow.

"Mom…Momma’s sorry baby.” She chokes on her sobs as she pulls the cool metal hard and deep, crying so loud she can barely hear your scream.

But that was how long ago? Almost two decades? You toss a rock into your reflection, distorting your marred face as your childhood flashes before your eyes.

You remember there was shouting, lots of shouting of how you are now “unfavorable” “dishonorable” “an abomination” the next day and from then it’s a blur of insults and isolation. Nothing but the wind in your hair, the creaking of the trees and a dream of glistening rubies kept you alive, desperate to return to the last time you were happy. Although you were unsure of who you saw in the mountain that fated night, a part of you could guess. It had to be the Spirit of the Mountain, Kirishima. Because who else actually looked like the painted scrolls that littered the village and shrines? In your opinion they had his image all wrong.

He does not scowl or wear a grimace, no his smile is sharp toothed and bright. You sigh, wondering if you will ever bump into him again.

An inhuman scream tears through the serenity of the babbling brook causing a chill to run through your spine. If you had to guess it was most likely a fox or wolf finally catching up to its meal.

“They must eat too…” You murmur to yourself, drawing your knees to your chest. The wind rustles the leaves overhead giving you sharp visions of beady black eyes from the past.

“Don’t let it get away!” A shout from your left before the animal comes scurrying through the brush, running smack into your lap. It is a small fox, its tail missing and in its wake a crude weeping cut. Your vision blurs red as you take off your top layer of kimono, wrapping the poor thing in the brown fabric.

The culprits come into view, the village elder’s son holds the tail while his favorite goon holds the knife. Red falls to the Earth in nauseating droplets.

“Well well well, looks like we found something else we can carve up huh?” The goon asks with a smile, “Just keep quiet freak."

The elder’s son is hesitant, something odd grows in his eyes and chest. Suddenly the tail feels a lot heavier than what it was moments ago, especially so under the weight of your single gaze. Your left eye although clouded over seems to stare straight into his soul. Can you see the desperation he has? Worst yet can you see how tainted he is?

"Oi Kenji” The goon nudges him, clearly only hanging around the future heir for his influence and with it a hope of immunity to terrorize as he pleases.

The motion brings him back to the present while a plan begins to form in his head. Would anyone believe the dishonorable, disowned freak over him? Could he do things to you that no matter how loud you screamed the truth it would fall on deaf ears?

His cruel smile is an answer in of itself as he takes a step towards you, it wouldn’t be hard to make you his. You take a step back, mindful of the sun’s position and your surroundings. They both creep nearer as you hold the shaking animal to you, you turn on your heel rushing through the woods. They were fast and well trained however no one knew these woods like you did.

It was as if you knew of every fallen leaf or broken branch as you rushed through the deep green leaves. Dodging low branches that they hit face first, holes they tripped in and even a dead deer carcass that you bound in a single leap. You hear a crash and one of them gag as your feet urge you forward, looking over your shoulder.

That is until your run into something so solid you fall right onto your ass, the small animal gives a whimper on your lap.

“I could have sworn…” The sound of rushing water swallows up the rest of your thought as you look up to what you’ve run into. Wholly expecting a tree stood a man, with deep garnet hair and a sharp toothed smile. Immediately your blood turns cold, the air about him seeming other worldly as the forest quiets and slows in his presence.

“Ah, are you alright?” He asks, extending his hand to you, gingerly you take it. His calloused hand is warm and strong as he lifts you to your feet, ruby eyes staring at the bundle in your hand.

“May I?” Hesitantly you pass the bundle, he frowns at its contents before setting the small fox on the ground, waving his fingers to heal its wound. The fox looks at the healer, seemingly giving him a small bow before rushing back into the safety of the brush.

“The fox told me what you did. Thank you.” His smile is blinding and dazzling. He offers you a single white flower, the amethyst stripe up the middle causes your stomach to tighten.

“Do you always give out good fortune?” You ask quietly, turning the wild iris over in your hand. He laughs, if he recognizes you he does not show it but you are sure this is the man who gave you an abundance of “good fortune” years ago. Your scar burns from the thought. Your mother did tell you stories of the Gods playing cruel jokes.

But was Kirishima truly a maleficent God?

You bit your lower lip. A warm hand cups your chin, a soft smile on his face as he turns your left side to you.

“Do I know you dear heart?” His voice is soft, eyes half mast almost lazily gazing upon your features. You tuck the iris in your ear and it seems to jog his memory.

“Little flower!” His voice becomes larger, sharper, as his thumb swipes over the deep fissure on your cheek “What happened?!"

His touch is comforting but not enough you wish to relive the trauma again.

"I wish not to speak about it.” Your eyes catch the position of the sun. Gently you step from his soft grip.

“I must return home for dinner before I cause my mother to worry.” You bow formally, presenting the flower “Thank you Kamisama but I cannot accept your blessing."

You stand like that long enough your back begins to hurt causing a deep fear to flow through your veins.

Was he angry that you dared to reject him?

Your feet burn with the urge to run but you dismiss it, finally his large fingers grasps at the small stem holding the rarity in his hands. Eyes roving over you, you peek up to check his gaze and while he looks level headed to you, you decide to leave before you find out if he isn’t.

He stares after you, eyes curious and yet not surprised as to how he could have forgotten about someone as remarkable as you.

But how could he remember?

You are nothing more than a mere mortal and you were a child at that. A blip, a hazy day dream even, in his infinite lifetime.

So what interest would he have in a life so fleeting that should he rouse from a nap he would be meeting your great grandchildren who could remember nothing more about you than your name?

And yet when he looked at you now, as a full grown woman, something bloomed in his chest. Your scar adding to your mystic beauty, especially after what the fox had told him.

His ruby eyes return to the flower as he ponders over your question in his head.

A week or so passes, as you’re sure to avoid the Mountain God. Still fearing he may be angered by your rejection.

But you cannot stay from the depths of the forest long. Staring down at your reflection in the water you sigh, running your hand through the cool water debating if you will bathe in one of the many hot springs tonight. A scurrying in the bush pulls your attention to the here and now. Muscles rigid as you worry it will be an encounter with the heir and his goon, shimmering orange rushes from the brush easing your mind.

"Ah hello friend!” You call and the fox stops in its tracks, task or hunt at hand long forgotten, “Did His healing power work?"

You cannot help the glee in your voice as you see your friendly fox sit near your feet, it swishes its tail and just like that another seems to appear. Wagging like an opposing pendulum beside the other.

"You have two tails now, oh” You give a sly smile, “Are you here to steal my liver?"

The kitsune chuckles at your joke, his little laugh echoing in the clearing. The haunting sound brings an odd comfort to you as he tilts his head as if someone is whispering to him. He gives a small nod before approaching, setting something in your lap that his black lips were not holding before.

A note of sorts and the flower he attempted to offer you earlier. The note reads in glowing golden red hue,

"Let’s start over again. Tea by the blue moon wild flowers at midnight.”

You sigh deeply, placing the card and flower deep in your tattered kimono with the thought of not showing up. Why would a God want tea with you? You who wears a scarred face and milky white eye. You give the kitsune a soft pat before standing, brushing the dirt from your deep brown kimono.

You spend the rest of the day as you told your mother you would, picking flowers to both practice arranging and drying for the upcoming festival. There were only a few weeks left and you had done zero practicing as you has promised. Your mother claimed this would help earn your keep with the village but you were sure that was more for her peace of mind than the truth.

With your basket heavy with the finest of flowers you head towards home, careful to avoid the path you last saw the God on.

And anytime you had thought you caught wind of his intoxicating smell of soft musk, pine and the biting threat of snow you turned on your heel as quickly and quietly as humanly possible, ignoring the gemstone gaze that bore into your back.

After a small dinner with your mother and hours of twisting flower streams to make crowns of, you finally get the chance to lie down to sleep.

But sleep doesn’t come, instead you’re wide awake as the moon leaks in the through the small cracks in the walls. Dust dancing on the low light as you sigh as if you were in love.

Deep, unsatisfied and often.

The invitation burns in the folds of your kimono and suddenly you are filled with action. Gently you rise, fumbling with your hair as best you can before you mumble curses to yourself. Placing a practice crown on your head and rouging your lips with the remnants of berries before you set out into the darkness.

Your feet seem to guide you on your own as you weave through the trees. Fireflies lazily floating in the air as crickets scream their symphonies at your feet. Finally you come across the mostly hidden spot.

Hesitantly you step into the clearing, blue moon flowers glitter in the light of the quarter moon as if sprinkled with stardust. Their silver sheen invites you in further as a wind sweeps through the patch. Your eyes rove over as you look for the Mountain God. When your search comes up empty you feel your heart free fall into your stomach. Heated foolishness creeps into your throat and cheeks.

Why would a God invite a mortal?

Blinking away hurt tears you turn briskly, stopping yourself from running from the clearing incase he is watching for the sake of his cruel joke.

That is until a deep voice rings out, vibrating the very bones in your body with a comforting hum.

“Little flower, Are we not having tea?” His tone is innocent and when you turn around with half a mind to fuss you see it. A beautiful hand woven rug that holds a low tea table, atop the dark wood sits finary. Foods, desserts and tea ware that would make the emperor jade green with envy.

“This is…” You whisper but he reaches his hand towards you, gently guiding you to a plush cushion, his strong hand wrapped steadfast around yours. He waits until you are seated comfortably before he sits close to you.

Almost too close, his shoulder could easily brush against yours in movement and it does as it takes you an eon to realize what exactly he is doing.

Preparing the tea. Immediately your stomach flips as shaking hands fumble to stop him, grabbing onto his large hands with a fervor unmatched. A quizzical look before a sly smirk paints his handsome features.

“A..a..a God should not be serving a m..mortal tea.” You trip over your words feeling self conscious as your palms feel is if they are sweating. Shame radiates through your chest as if a hot rod were shoved through your heart.

“Then let us not be a God and a mortal.” He smiles, lips curving upward gently as his shining teeth glint in the low light. You should be scared, frightened that you may have insulted him or worse yet earned the infamous Wrath of the Mountain God.

But you aren’t, if anything you’re on the complete opposite of the spectrum as the breeze shifts his scent closer to you. The forest alive at night, the sharp smell of snow mingling with the gentle fragrance of bloomed flowers.

Suddenly you feel dizzy and his next words do not help.

“Let us be more.” Again you feel the comforting hum in your chest, you decide now is a good time to let go of his hands.

He sets the tea before you, again you are faced with a pitiful reflection. You blow on the green liquid disrupting the steam and with it your image. It is quiet save the sounds of late night summer although it is not uncomfortable silence that passes over the hours between the two of you. It is easy as the two of you sip your tea and for a moment you think you’ve forgotten the sin you’re committing by forgetting who he really is. Occasionally the two of you would share a laugh, his shoulder brushing against yours before he comes closer, close enough your forearms touch as they rest against the table. His skin feels warm and smooth like a rock baking in the sun, his smile dazzling as his face seems to get closer. His finger hooks into your palm, lazily tracing the lines as if they were an old and familiar map.

“Why do you love the mountain forest so much?” His voice is so close you feel breath fan your cheek. Butterflies take rapid flight in your stomach.

Was it that obvious? I guess it would be with how much of your life you spent within these thick trees.

“There is so much to love in this place of solace. Every new clearing brings something of wonder. A waterfall, a field of flowers, a hot spring to soak your aching bones. Even just a small fawn grazing on the seeds the trees and flowers offer is more beauty than I can imagine."

His fingers stop, leaving an odd tingling sensation causing your nerves to stand on edge. Attempting to reach towards the soft touch once more. Kirishima looks to the moon and how it begins to set.

"Another day little flower.” He whispers, voice honeyed yet sharp as you find yourself standing on the edge of the woods, staring at your small home. You turn in a full circle and see no sign of the God causing your heart to grow heavy. Gripping at your chest as you make your way back towards your home, you thought maybe he didn’t like your answer. Maybe he read your honesty as a poor attempt of flattery.

What you don’t know is that he liked your answer a little too much.

It isn’t long before you find yourself in the same patch of flowers at a questionable hour sitting beside Kamisama himself. You swallow thickly, nails biting into your palm as again he pours your tea.

Is this right? Would your mother approve?

You were sure she wouldn’t, and not from your lack of manners but seeing the very man she so feared and having tea with him nonetheless.

“Something troubling you my blossom?” Flustered over his familiarity you stammer out a response.

“Just…just thinking.” You offer a shy smile as he returns a wolfish grin, you do not know that he can hear just how fast your heart is beating.

“Hmmm.” The hum rumbles in your own chest and large bottle flies take flight in your stomach. He brushes some hair out of your face so he can better see it. He smiles softly.

“I’ve been curious about why you are collecting so many flowers lately.” Rigid beneath his touch you fear you have angered him but it won’t be long before you realize just how infatuated he is with you.

“A festival for you Kirishima, Kamisama of the Mountain.” He lets his fingers play and twist in your hair. You try not to look away.

“You’ll be the guest of honor then?” His fingers brush down your heated cheeks.

Despite the intimacy of both his touch and proximity you give a loud laugh. Eyes looking at a blurred green version of yourself in your cup.

“No, I’m sure I could never be favored.” At least not by the villagers.

But you seemed to be favored by the Gods. You swallow thickly, of all the talk and importance of the festivals your mother never let you attend, so you are unsure what happens.

While you’re left home alone you could hear the loud beats of the drum, their feet hitting against the stone of the square and their joyous singing.

Sometimes you think you hear a scream.

But you cannot reflect on it long as a pair of soft lips press against your cheek. Then when you do not move they graze along your jawline before finding their way to your pulse. You give a small gasp and when he gives a small suck you a raspy moan. He growls against your throat, a sudden heat grows between your legs and you swallow desire whole.

He feels how tense you have become and eases up from your throat. Guiding you by your chin so you may face him before he steals away your first kiss.

Not that you would have given it to anyone else.

The next month is a game of cat and mouse. Both of you eagerly seeking the other out, yet making it seem as if it were a mere accidently. All the while a now three tailed fox smiles knowingly. It’s a blur of tea, mountain top views over valleys, and deep passionate kissing.

But this last encounter truly was by pure chance for both parties.

The pungent smell of sulfur tickles your nose, although this is the least offending spring. Its water a lovely milky blue that you’ve decorated with a few left over flowers heads. You sigh as you sink deeper into the borderline scalding water being sure to soak your aching hands and feet.

You’re thankful that the rushing water settles here in this cluster of rocks despite the small current that carries it away just a few feet down. A sigh leaves your body, eyes lingering to the light of the full moon before they flutter close. Your guard completely down as you know no one is going to be wandering around these woods.

It is the night of the festival after all.

And no one was sure as hell gonna be out looking for you.

Not even Kamisama as you were sure he would oversee the festival, it was held in his name was it not?

Sleep threatens to pull you beneath its veil so much so you do not hear the footsteps that approach.

He steps closer to the spot of his favorite spring and when he sees your head titling back onto the rocks, a fine blush blooms on his cheeks.

“My little hana?” His voice is soft yet concerned, startling you. The water splashes around as you turn to face him.

If you were flustered before you’re beyond that now. He has his back to you as he gives your privacy, face slightly turned but his eyes are not overlooking his shoulder. Your eyes widen as they take in His beauty. His hair tied up in a messy bun, winking blacks and deep reds beneath the moonlight. His broad shoulders exposed, eyes trailing down his sculpted back to see his bare buttocks. Strong, thick legs holding up this God of a man.

Well he was a God wasn’t he?

“Are you alright, lovely blossom? I didn’t know you’d be here I can come ba…"

"No. No no!” You interrupt, “I…"

It’s silent for a moment, lust moves your lips.

"I wouldn’t mind the company.” Your voice is barely heard over the swirling, rushing water.

But the smirk on his soft lips tells you that he had heard you. And he will never forget the invitation.

He turns to join you, your eyes following down the trail of his abs to his pointed V, you do not allow your eyes to travel further south and force them to his face. His glowing eyes bright, two shining rubies lighting up the night. He sinks into the water across from you, letting his arms spread and rest on the rocks.

You release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Sinking into the water as you realize just how exposed you are. The weight of his gaze is doing something to you.

He keeps his eyes locked on yours, the heat of the spring makes you a bit dizzy and you’re beginning to wonder if it is his merlot eyes that have you on cloud nine.

That have you so bold. Bold enough you float yourself beside him, right into the crook of his arm. He gently slides it around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest.

“How was your day my sweet?” His voice is soothing but you’d rather not recount your day or the number of flowers you set just right.

“Boring. Yours Kirishima?” He smiles as you use his name.

“Same.” He places a chaste kiss to your damp hair line. It leaves you wanting more.

“A..again please?” He goes to kiss your forehead again but you tilt your face upward. He smiles, putting his hand at the nape of your neck. Leaning in impossibly slow holding your gaze. His look makes you impossibly higher and then his kisses your lips.

It is soft, it is slow, but each movement of his lips become more feverish, more bold. Like a cracked dam after a rain far too heavy, it is going to burst.

And it does.

Your mouth openes to him and he slides his tongue between your teeth, swirling and tasting your earthly, mortal form. You moan into the kiss, giving him more entrance, your hands clawing at his hair, his back while his hands follow your curves. Running up and down your sides, pinching at your nipples turning you into putty in his hands. You do not resist, you would never deny him and you’re sure he would never take.

He does nothing more than light exploring, commiting your skin to memory. You let out another moan, this one louder than before enticing his primal needs. As his tongue slides over yours his hand snakes to your lower back, pulling you into his lap.

You feel his harden asset resting close to your throbbing sex.

Would…would it be okay to bed a God? For a mortal to be touched by hands that can create and destroy in a matter of nanoseconds?

Suddenly you feel too hot, too flustered, too high as the world spins rapidly on its axis. You push back, gasping for air and immediately his lust is replaced with concern. He sees tears forming in your eyes, signs of some internal battle.

It reminds him of when he pours you a cup of tea but tenfold. He looks up at you, one hand traces down your spine before his other wipes away your tears.

“Blossom for me when you’re ready not when I want you, my little flower.” His voice is soft, reassuring, causing you to cry more. His fingers gently trace your scar, follow your spine, and continue to wipe away your tears when needed.

You nod helplessly, removing yourself from his irresistible lap, he pulls you to cuddle. A soft kiss to your hairline. The moon begins to climb higher in the sky and although your mother will not be home for some time, you still need to beat her home. Maybe he can read minds as he says.

“Let’s meet later tonight? Our usual time after your mother has returned home?” You nod against his chest, slowly stand. He supports your weight as he holds onto your hand as you ease out of the comforting water.

You look for your brown kimono but with every second you cannot find it panic seizes your bones.

“M…my kimono. I…I can’t find it!” You realize you may have misplaced it or worse yet placed it too close to the water.

Oh Kami did it get washed away?

“Flower, love. It is fine. I can help.” He snaps his fingers and you’re adorning the most stunning kimono you’ve ever seen. More so than what any painting of any God and Goddess meeting you’ve ever seen. You twirl in the ombre kimono. It starts out black, like a moonless night at the top before lightening until it is put glowing starlight at your ankles.

“Its gorgeous. But it is too much."

"Nothing is too much for you.” He stands, a kimono appears on his body as well, ombre again, black at his shoulders until it is blood red at his ankles. The bottom reminds you of the first time you had seen him when you were little. When he saved your life, a halo of setting sun emphasizing his status.

“We will meet again?" You nod and he cannot bring himself to say he is going to the annual meeting of the Gods because if he did, with you wearing this star woven kimono, he would whisk you away with him.

"Until we meet again."

With the sound of the window fluttering through the trees you find yourself on the fringes of the woods, just outside your home.

Gingerly you step into the field of flowers, slowly walking towards your house as you relive the time you most felt alive.

His lips, his hands, his body pressed against yours.

So caught up in your daydream, in your promise of later tonight, you do not see the eyes lying in wait.

Those prying eyes take note of your kimono and how it shimmers and shines with an otherworldly glow as you slip into your home.

It isn’t long before you hear a string of screaming and see a set of lights coming your way, close enough you can make out silhouettes and what the woman is screaming.

"SHE IS UNFAVORED! LOOK AT HER SCAR SHE IS TAINTED BEAUTY!” You realize quickly that is the wails of your mother.

Frantically you try to strip yourself of your kimono but a large hand strips away the door. Your faces are illuminated from the soft glow by your ankles making it clear to see a set of hard steely eyes with hurt but never regret as they should.

“Just like I said. A blessed kimono.” Kenji’s voice is as hard as his eyes as his father peers in, he smiles with delight.

“We are surely saved from the drought now. Kenji bring her to the festival."

"No.” Your voice is small, a foreboding dread feeds your panic as your mother cries, restrained by Kenji’s goons. You step back but he lunges for you, squeezing you so tightly you cannot breath.

The walk to the center seems like ages as you kick and scream, crying out for Kirishima.

“Yes call for our God. He will be happy to receive his gift, time is running out.” The elder speaks. You elbow Kenji square in the face, everyone panics as you begin to run. Kenji catches you again. The moon hands high over head, perfectly in the middle of the sky.

“There is no time left. Let’s do it now!” Kenji’s goon from before shouts, sending the crowd into a boisterous agreement.

Kenji withdraws his knife, both of your struggling for power. He leans in close, nose touching yours as the smell of copper and ash cling to his skin.

“You should have just stayed in your place ugly. Should’ve let me have my way.” He slices at you and for a second time a blade marrs your skin.

He is supposed to make this quick for you, one quick motion against your throat. Instead he lets the blade sink deeper, carve harder until his is splatter in your life’s nectar. Only you and your mother cry out. The rest of them pray and sing.

Kenji picks you up and tosses you into the brush of the woods.

“Have her now Kamisama and bless us with rain!” He speaks as if he is the current elder. Grey eyes cold as they look down at you. They retreat to their usual planned activities, dragging your lost mother with them to drink to their heart’s content. To make her watch what an honor it was for her child to have been chosen.

It hurts, Kami it hurts as you drag yourself through the woods. Briars tangle around your quickly growing limp limbs as you pull yourself deeper.

“Kiri…Kirishima!” Your once loud screams turn into hardly more than whispers. But that shouldn’t matter. He should still hear you shouldn’t he?

Was this not his domain? He can hear every rustling leaf, every snap of a twig, surely he could hear the pained cries of his lover.

No, no you shouldn’t call yourself that, you were not his lover, you were just favored by him.

And isn’t that always what you wanted? To be desired? Loved?

This was a festival for Kirishima himself so why did you think any different?

And why do you still call out his name?

Your vision blurs in purplish blues and blacks as you fade in and out, a soft sweet scent is tainted with stinging copper. You cough and more dark liquid sputters from your lips.

It reminds you of his eyes.

Kitsune comes into the clearing helping frantically. But you smile as you notice his fourth tail.

“At least I will not die alone…” You breathe as the fox attempts to lick at your wounds, “Why, why is he so cruel?"

Fat tears fall down your cheeks and the fox panics further. He opens his mouth, his voice comes out gravely and close to a growl without the animosity.

"Master does not know of this, master would never allow this!” He laps at your blood in a desperate attempt to heal you with what little grace he has been bestowed.

But it doesn’t matter as your world fades to black.

Kirishima steps through the portal near the top of the mountain to be met with a horrid sight, not realizing it could be worse than that. Kitsune’s normal Auburn fur is tainted a sticky black substance, Kirishima gets a closer look causing his blood to run cold.

He appears in the field of flowers, following the trail you left as a wispy form of you stands through your drained body.

“No.” Quiet before deafening loud, birds and animals flee away from him, “NO!"

The shades circle the clearing, too afraid to enter but too hungry to leave.

Kirishima shakily grabs onto your glowing hands, tears fall down your cheeks.

"I…I…” Tears prick his eyes, rage washes over his features, “Who?"

Your spirit cannot speak as you are still tethered to your fast cooling body. He follows the direction of your eyes, music and laughing become louder further angering him. A thought occurs to him, he reaches for the small golden chain that is at your spiritual ankle connecting you to your real body, he could keep you here, he could….but before he can break your life’s chain a mist of black appears.

"You know you cannot do that.” From within the mist comes a man with the head of a raven or a tengu, Kirishima is not sure. All he knows is that he loathes to see Death come too close to the things he loves.

“But.."

"Look around you Kirishima-kun. You’ve tried countless times to keep mortals before and what becomes of them? Shades, unwavering, thoughtless hungry shades as I’ve told you. Their spirits are so far corrupted they could never return to the cycle.” Death speaks the truth but it does not stop the anguish that sweeps through his body.

He cannot allow it just yet. He watches as your golden chain is unhooked, you walk backwards, keeping your eyes on your God as Death guides you.

“Until we meet again.” It is a whisper on the wind, a rustle in the leaves, a huff of a nearby fawn and babbling of the hot spring. He nods, eyes glued to you as you fade away into the black mist.

He breathes deeply as he picks you up, cradling your cold body to his hard chest. He walks gingerly with you as if he feared he would wake you, he only had on destination in mind. It does not take long before he is walking towards the center of the small town, houses darkened as the square is full of life. The smell of wine and food waft the cool air.

This only fuels his intentions.

He stands on the fringe of the crowd and it only takes a blink or two before the roaring party dies to deafening silence. People falling to their knees, their foreheads pressed into the bloodied bricks.

“K..Kamisama Kirishima, had we known you would grace…"

"SILENCE!” His voice shakes the very foundations of the homes, the shingles clinking in the wind. The trees quiver in his presence as the Earth seems to roar beneath his feet. His eyes are hard and dark like raw diamonds as he looks over their merriment shredding them with his gaze alone. The moon above suddenly glows red as if washed over with your blood, illuminating him in an ominous tone. The hue paints the village in eerie light as it fully bares witness to the wrath of the mountain God.

“Is this how you honor me?” A rhetorical question as he wonders how long this had been going on, the shades most likely and happily, eating the remains before Kirishima could have ever found out. He shakes, unable to reign in his rage.

“Look at her.” Three words, three words has well over fifty people shivering. Eyes barely coming up to look at the limp woman in his hands, skin already graying. Both eyes now clouded over and lips stained a peculiar red. Their eyes shift to the God they worship, the one they had been giving their most beautiful women too.

He holds eye contact with each and every one of them for a moment, staring into their black souls with a malice that could maim. He spies your mother, his lip snarls as he thinks of your scar.

He begins to wonder if this is why she had done it. He finds the elder, the one who wears the fine kimono. One of the few garments that is not tattered, dirtied or sullied red. He grinds his teeth.

“May you never forget this moment in all of your reincarnations. May you never forget her face and may you always feel an inkling of what I’ve felt.” The people weep, not for their own lives but from the feeling of the God’s heart overflowing in them despite him never shedding a tear. They do not ask forgiveness.

They cannot ask for forgiveness. Just as he sealed your fate all those years ago, he is sealing theirs now. With a stomp of his foot the Earth rumbles, slowly opening up into a jagged mawl. People scream as they reach for one another, grasping onto nothing. Only your mother waits for death silently. Her own tears streaming down her face as she etches into her last moments the sight of her failure. Of you taken from the world too soon.

The village is swallowed whole and now that it is over, he is still unhappy. The void in his cheat is far deeper than the Earthy chasm before him. He cries out in anguish pulling you impossibly closer. A fissure runs through the ground, deep and fast through the next village and the one after that.

In a loud puff of smoke a man appears beside the mountain God, he pulls down his black hood and his hair shines gold in the moonlight. His eyes like molten lava gleam with destructive glee. The Earth threatens to crumble beneath the new God’s feet, the dark chasm glows a bright hot red in his presence.

“No one ever strikes your ire.” His voice is dark yet excited, “And never enough to summon me. Need some pointers from the God of Destruction himself shitty hair?”

“Bakugou, I…” The mountainous man’s voice cracks, causing his friend’s brow to furrow. Bakugou takes in the sight of you withered in hands through ghastly means. Of the decimation and the level of it. Reaching over to another village and possibly the next two. This level of destruction would get the Mountain God into a lot of trouble but it was evident he did not care. Bakugou gives his back to the sight and finally speaks, lying a warm hand on his friend’s broad shoulder.

“If anyone asks, I destroyed the villages.” Molten eyes watch tears fall onto you and the ground beneath his friend’s feet. The golden haired man sighs, gently taking you from the arms of his friend who tries to desperately hold on to what is left of you.

“It’s alright, it’s okay.” A rare comfort from his companion, he takes your small frame and turns. He is going to gently lie you in the cooling Earth. A destruction God destroys in order for something new to be created. He plans to give his only friend a blessed grave for you so he can visit until, what Bakugou hopes but heavily doubts, Kirishima forgets.

“W..wait. wait. She needs…” His voice shatters as with shaking fingers he creates the very thing he had intended for you to have. Good fortune in the shape of deities or wild irises, circling one another to be a stunning crown. Instead of white they glow gold as he sets it atop your crown. Kirishima squeezes your limp hand a final time before letting you go. Bakugou breathes deeply as he works, pulling the ground back together with sheer force as the lava recedes. He does so until the two shelves barely meet, a rich bed of soil lies before his feet. Gently he lies you in the bed of dirt.

“Ashes to ashes.” Your body ignites from within, glowing in a golden flame until there is nothing left but dust on the wind and the golden flower crown. Bakugou pulls the dirt over your remains.

Kirishima falls to his knees, pressing his hand into the Earth, fearful he will forget a mortal like you, a mere blip in his infinite lifetime. The ground beneath him bursts and blooms in great color. All deep reds, golden yellows and blinding whites for miles.

“I will always love you my little flower."

The summer breeze feels warm as it rouses the scent of rain and the sound of chimes. You close your eyes and day dream of something long forgotten, of stories retold from an old book of legend you never read. Nervousness thrums through your veins as you stand beside your ash blonde friend, patiently waiting for the third party to arrive. The impatient man growls beside you as he spots someone he recognizes behind you.

"Oi shitty hair hurry up! Iris and I have been waiting here all damn morning!” Bakugou shouts, using your hero name. You turn to see your new patrol partner for future missions. The sun illuminates behind him, almost giving him a heavenly glow and you realize that there is something odd about the man who approaches you. His long flowing garnet hair is unruly in the wind, shining a red so deep in hue you first mistake it for black. His smile is sharp toothed and easy, causing a swarm of butterflies to take flight in your stomach. With your heart hammering out of your chest you cannot shake the feeling that something seems off about him. It is both other worldly and familiar, you feel as if his name sits on the tip of your tongue. A shiver runs down your spine as his glowing ruby eyes drink you in. He sees a faint mark traveling through your left eye as if it were a fading scar, maybe it was something you could not shake from a past long forgotten. His heart hammers in his chest as he speaks, your reaction to his next words will tell him what he needs to know.

“Hello my little flower, it seems we meet again.”

#kirishima x reader #eijirou kirishima x reader #bnha god au #bnha fantasy au #kirishima eijirou x reader #bnha 18+#bnha kirishima x reader #kirishima god x reader #bnha eijirou #bnha eijiro kirishima

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bohica160 · 3 years ago

Text

Firefighter Chris (pt.2)

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗMinors gtfo, this isn't for youᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

(I am so sorry this took forever. Dumb stuff popped up at work, which didn't give me much time there to write, and then I kept passing out when I got home.😅

I was going to do this in 1 part but I feel like it would have been too long with both fem reader and gn reader versions.)

Thank you @awanami08 for the idea <3

A few months have passed, and your house was fixed up, looking like a fire never happened. You still spent a lot of time over at Chris’s place, still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship. It was date night, and Chris wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal. He also had a little surprise for later that had to do with a conversation he overheard you had with one of your close friends on the phone. After you got home from work you quickly changed into something more comfortable, before heading next door.

As you made your way into the kitchen, you saw your large burly boyfriend wearing a cream-colored apron. “Look at you. You’ll make a fine house husband someday”, you snickered walking up to him, getting on your tippy-toes to kiss his scruffy cheek. He gave you a very unimpressed look which only made you laugh more. “What are you cooking chef?”, you asked, peeking into the pots and pans. “Just one of your favorite dishes”, he replied with a small smile as he continued to stir the contents in the pan. “Do you need some help?” you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your chest into his side as your hand of his firm abs rubbed up and down. He placed the wooden spoon down before turning in your grasp and placed his hands on your hips. “Want to set the table?” You nodded with a smile, tilting your head up to him. He dipped his head down to yours, capturing your lips in a soft languid kiss. You pulled back only for one of his large hands to move to the back of your head to pull you back in. You smiled into the kiss with a hum. Your hands trailed up to his pecs as he pulled you impossibly close into him. You pulled away for much needed air, biting your lip “Easy there big boy. We still need to eat”, you teased with a wink before slipping out of his hold to grab the silverware and plates.

You crack open your favorite bottle of wine as Chris brings the remaining dishes to the table. You both unwind, venting about work, talk about places your coworker told you about that would be nice for a little weekend get-away. As usual, the topic will somehow end up about music. After dinner, the two of you clean up the kitchen before heading over to the couch for tonight's movie. Lounging on the couch, you start looking through your phone to find the movie you wanted to stream. Chris comes up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders, rubbing his thumbs into the muscles. "I'm going to take a shower real quick before we start." You nod your head as you let out a small moan as he works out a knot. "Since you made a mess" You commented with a smile. You look up at him, head against the headrest, face tilted up towards him. "Thank you again for cooking handsome." He leaned over you giving you a kiss, lips lingering on yours for a moment before placing one on your forehead.

As Chris left the steamy bathroom, towel hanging on his hips, he peered down the hall to see your feet dangling off the armrest, while you patiently waited for him. He haphazardly whipped himself off as he made his way into the bedroom. He rummaged through his work gear in the closet. Finding what he was looking for, he quickly pulled them on before calling your name. “Y/n. Can you help me with something?” You pushed yourself off the couch, slowly making your way to the bedroom as you continued to look at your phone. “What do you need help with?” There was a pregnant pause before you finally pulled your eyes away from your phone to see a half-naked Chris sporting his firefighter pants with red suspenders. Hair still damp from the shower, droplets of water roll down his sculpted pecs and over the ridges of his abs.

You take in a deep breath almost forgetting how to breathe. Your eyes trail over every inch of him, bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyebrow arched. You saunter over to him, hips swaying. “Now what can i-” you stopped short in front of him, fingertips trailing their way up the suspenders. Hooking your fingers under the fabric running up and down over his pebbled flesh, he flinched at the contact, “-help you with sir?” you purred as you looked up at him through your lashes. He looked down at you with lidded eyes. Your fingers slid down against the suspenders, going aching slow as you got closer to his pelvis.

Your eyes glance down at the very prominent tent in his pants. Dragging your hooked fingers into the waist of the pants, grazing against his skin, watching the muscles contract at the light teasing. Looking up at him with such an innocent look on your face, “Is this what you need help with sir?” you asked tilting your head to the side. Stretching up onto your toes, pushing your chest up against his. Feeling the warmth of his skin seep into you. Your reach down just a bit lower into his pants just barely missing the hilt. Chris dips his head towards you, his large hands cupping your cheeks. Taunting him with your plump lips, pulling back just before his lips ghost over yours. All while playing cat and mouse, your hands slither further down giving light touches around the base of his shaft, thumbs sweeping the underside, brushing against his heavy balls. Chris's breath became heavier and heavier, sharp inhales caught in his throat.

Your lip caught between your teeth as the corners of your mouth turn up. Eyes switching between his parted lips and his hungry eyes. Taking one of his calloused thumbs and running it slowly over the bottom of your lip, while the other roamed to the back of your head. Feeling his fingers comb through your hair before grabbing a handful, pulling at it causing you to crane your head up at him further. The gasp that left your mouth, caused him to twitch in your hands, feeling his hot breath hit your lips before he fixed his mouth over yours. He gave your hair another tug, using it as an advantage to slip in his warm muscle mapping out your mouth.

Hungrily swallowing all your moans, he nudges your feet apart with his. You obey giving his thick cock a squeeze before moving your hands from the confinement of his pants, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands slowly run down your body, giving each curve a squeeze before resting them on your ass. Getting a nice firm grip on your cheeks, he lifts you up like you weighed nothing. You squeaked against his lips, before wrapping your legs around him. He carried you over to the bed, placing you on the edge. You grabbed him by the front of his pants, pulling him closer placing light kisses at his pelvis as you unbuckled the suspenders, then undid the front. His hard member springing out from his pants, slapping against his abs. Letting the piece of clothing pool around his ankles, you placed both hands on his outer thighs holding him still. Peering up at him through your lashes, you ran your tongue over your bottom lip before tracing up the underside of his cock. Following the ridge all the way up to the crown of his cock.

His mouth hangs slightly open, trying to watch every second of you lather up his cock, but as you firmly press your tongue against the sensitive ridge, he couldn’t help but close his eyes as his head tilts back on the sensation. He let out a deep groan as you licked at the small slit at the head with the tip of your tongue, lapping up the salty precum. You wrapped your warm wet muscle around smooth reddening skin before closing your lips around it giving it a nice suck before sinking further down his length. You stilled as your nose brushed against his trail. He looked down at you, feeling your throat constrict around him. He was doing everything he could from not thrusting further into your throat. You pulled away slowly, watching as a string of saliva connected from him to your lips. Eliciting a soft fuck from him before he quickly moved to help you out of your clothes before climbing on top of you.

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(ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ°˖✧.*:･ Tag list: @thatgoblin

#chris redfield #chris redfield x reader #chris redfield smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil #fem reader #nb reader

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hobidreams · 4 years ago

Text

january 1867.

the crown is far heavier than the weight of its gold.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: angst words: 900 contains: historical au, minor character death, a lot of feelings, ... it’s complicated (but isn’t it always?)

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 16. start from the beginning?

“He died.”

The mortar in your hands plummets to the floor. Fine, sand-colored powder spills uselessly over the wood but you barely flinch, limbs numb with shock. Before you, Yoongi’s expression is unfathomably blank, the hands by his side unmoving.

“He died,” he repeats, his tone as dull as the blunt end of a used-up blade and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

It takes a few moments before you can peel your stuck tongue from the bottom of your dry mouth. “J-Jeonha?” You ask, even though you are afraid of the confirmation.

“Yes.”

You inhale. Try to steady yourself even as shock gives way to sorrow.

It’s true. You seldom saw each other, save for the past few weeks as you tried to ease the pains he felt in his chest as best you could while he insisted on attending court briefings anyway, but you owe the king everything you have today. He extended kindness towards your mother, and gave her a home. Sheltered her for so many years. And he even bestowed upon you her precious title, the prefix that you cling to because it lets you feel as if she’s still with you in yet another, precious way.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, but Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just pads further into the otherwise-empty apothecary as you stoop to the floor to pick up what you dropped.

He falls into a nearby chair with a hard thump, robes fluttering all around him. The silence between you draws longer and longer, barely interrupted by the quiet plinks of your placing things back on the table. He sucks in slow, unhurried breaths.

“It’s strange,” he mumbles, eventually. “So fucking strange.”

“What is?”

He rakes through his unraveling hair, nails scratching harshly at his scalp. “I don’t… I don’t know.” Wrinkles between his brow, he glares down at himself with an unprecedented disgust. “Everything. All of it. This. Strange. I… I don’t feel anything. Why the fuck don’t I feel anything?”

“It just happened. It was sudden.” The king’s heart had been overtaxed for a long time, his age only contributing to the stress brought by the recent invasion. It must have finally given out. “It’s natural to not be able to process it right away.”

“No. No, I’ve known this was coming. I could see it in his face. His growing weaker every day, even as he commanded me to attend my lessons. Still I felt no pain, no sadness as I talked to him. And none now, even when it’s over. When it’s all over.” He shuts his eyes, crushing his hands into fists atop his knees.

You don’t know what you should say to him. How to comfort him like he did you.

He slowly shakes his head. “Hah. Well… I suppose it is a fitting end for an empty relationship like ours.”

Your instinctual reaction is incredulity. “But how could it be empty? Surely jeonha loved you. You are his son, his—”

“His only child!” Yoongi spits back. “And not for lack of trying. What choice did he have? Who else would he have to take his spot?” He smacks his fist against his leg. “No. I’m little more than a tool. A means to carry on his name and legacy. That is what he has spent so long training me for. Love? Love has nothing to do with it. In fact, I’m doubtful that he’s even capable of such a thing.”

Now that, that you cannot agree with. “He loved your mother. I know he did.” He always had eyes for her whenever you saw them together, particularly at the royal banquets. He made sure she was swathed in luxury and given whatever treats she desired. You were endlessly fond of watching them together, admiring the ease of their tandem lives while you hoped in vain for a similar blessing.

“Right, and is that why she’s back there with the rest of his sobbing consorts, crowded around his corpse?” Yoongi huffs a short, humorless laugh. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. Neither he nor I have to keep up the exhausting pretenses of affection any longer.”

The words themselves brim with toxins, but you can feel it: the simmer, the running current of hurt that rushes in beneath even as he insists he feels nothing. But how do you reconcile the man you thought you knew with the stranger in Yoongi’s memories? Had Yoongi hidden this truth all along, taken that burden himself to let you and everyone else live in blissful ignorance? Or was the king all of these facets? Was he forced to encompass this murky greyness to sit on the throne?

Was it simply a matter of being human?

Yoongi shakes himself. Shoves harshly back in the wooden chair. He stares at the bareness of his hands as if they are not his. He turns them over, the veins raised against pale skin.

“I’m going to be king,” he whispers, like he can’t believe it.

An anxiety for the weeks to come works itself quietly through your veins. “You are.”

“I can’t be like this, if I’m to be king.”

You wish you could tell him otherwise, that he is more than enough, but the thoughts in your mind are no less tangled then his. So instead, you heed the beckon of his solemn eyes. With the shut door protecting you from society’s restrictions, you are brave, and slide your arms around his shoulders to let him lean into the softness of your stomach.

You hold him. You hold him until the tremors beneath your palms melt into tired breaths, the reluctant rise and fall of one who does not wish to leave this warmth just yet.

#ficswithluv #bts angst #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #bts imagines #historical au #min yoongi #moonlit throne #rain writes #i feel compelled to mention that the header depicts a more modern form of hanbok #yoongi's robes would have been much longer #anyway... we knew it was coming... right?#but even knowing .. can never make it hurt less

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janetbrown711 · 4 years ago

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I don't know how much i can endure this - Yakko

“Yakko I don’t wanna go,” Dot complained, pulling on her itchy and puffy black dress that was just a little too tight.

“We all have to go, Dot, it’s not up to us,” Yakko sighed, adjusting the bow tying her ears together.

“But this dress itchessss,” she whined, tugging on the sleeves.

“You’re going to stretch it out if you keep that up,” Yakko warned.

“Why do we have to go?” Dot continued with her complaining.

“Because Grandma said so, and what grandma tells us to do now... we have to,” Yakko glanced at his younger brother who was leaning against the wall and not facing them.

“Why?” Dot asked.

“Because mom and dad can’t help us anymore,” Yakko sighed, taking her hand and walking towards Wakko. Wakko muttered something under his breath.

Thankfully, Dot didn’t ask “why” again.

“You ready?” Yakko asked Wakko.

“Yeah,” Wakko said. Yakko rolled his eyes, noticing his brother’s shirt was buttoned all wrong.

“Grandma would kill you if she saw you like this,” Yakko sighed, fixing it. Wakko muttered yet again.

“What on earth are you muttering about?” Yakko shot him a look.

“Nothing... nothing,” Wakko looked away. The older prince sighed. He really didn’t have the energy for this.

Then again, he could hardly say he had the energy for anything anymore. The most sleep he had gotten the past four days was when he got knocked out by the assassins. Other than that, he was unable to sleep, the words of his mom ringing in his head.

“Let him go! It’s me you want, not him!”

He shivered.

“Let’s just get going... the sooner it’s over, the better,” Yakko said, offering a hand to Dot and Wakko. Dot took it, but Wakko crossed his arms.

They carried on.

“Ready, you three?” Their grandmother asked, making that the fourth thing she had said to them since the day after the attack.

She still hadn’t taken off that stupid thick black veil.

“As we’ll ever be,” Yakko said, giving Dot’s hand a squeeze.

Slowly, the grand doors to the overcast courtyard opened, and Yakko’s eyes quickly went to the two caskets.

“Who’s in there?” Dot pointed as they went to their spot, which Yakko quickly made her put down.

“Not mum and dad,” Wakko mumbled, and Yakko gave him a look as their grandmother went to the podium.

“My people, we are gathered here today to do something no mother should ever have to go through. Today, we honor and mourn the memory of my only child, Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca the Second, and her husband, Sir William the Good,” She said, her voice cold and numb to the ears.

Yakko felt a wave of anger wash over him. She had no right to speak in that way.

She hired the assassins. She wanted them dead and gone. It was all her fault.

“It is with a heavy heart that I am forced to retain my throne until my grandson, Prince Yakko, is of age,” she gestured to him. He didn’t know what to do, so he just nodded, trying not to let his rage consume him, allowing the numbness to take over once more.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure this.

His grandmother continued on with her speech, but Yakko paid it no mind, his eyes stuck on the empty caskets.

Wakko was right, his parents weren’t in them. Nobody told them why, but Yakko was smart enough to realize that just meant the assassins either burned them, threw them in a river somewhere, or buried them in the middle of the woods somewhere far, far away.

In some sense, Yakko was glad the caskets were empty. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to look upon the dead faces of his mother and father, and he was much more sure that seeing that wouldn’t be good for Wakko or Dot.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and heavier is the heart of one who has lost a child,” he heard her say.

Yakko growled, but controlled himself, burying the anger deep within himself.

Eventually, she was done, and other, more boring people spoke. There was a song and Yakko really wanted nothing more in the world than for this to end so he could go back into his room and be alone for just a moment, not standing in front of thousands feeling empty and hollow and numb.

The queen chose to stand on the opposite side of the podium than the trio of children. She had been distant ever since the attack. Yakko suspected that was likely to change very soon, but for now he was grateful. The last thing he wanted to deal with was her complaining that Dot was crying too loud.

Poor Dot... she was still too young to really understand what death was, no matter how Yakko tried to explain. All she knew was that they were gone, and they weren’t coming back. At first she thought it was because they abandoned them, but Yakko was quick to explain they’d never do that to them. After that though, she started looking around corners for them, expecting them to be there any minute...

Every night, Dot would wake up and start crying for them, but they never came. Instead, Yakko could come in and take Dot to his and Wakko’s room, and he’d cuddle with her until she fell back asleep.

It helped him with his nightmares too.

“Yakko, we’re going, it’s over,” Wakko said, snapping his older brother back into reality.

“Right, yes,” Yakko shook his head, taking Dot’s hand again, and they all went to the great hall for refreshments, though Yakko hardly had the appetite.

However, Wakko did have the appetite, so he stayed anyway, though he was unfortunately placed right next to his grandmother, looking evermore cold and blank behind that veil. He could hardly make out where her eyes were, until she looked at him, then he looked away.

“It’s rude to stare at a woman in mourning,” She said.

“Mourning my ass,” Yakko thought. He was so done pretending to care about her.

“Sorry,” he said instead. Knowing the new lengths she was willing to go to to get rid of people and things she didn’t like reminded him to keep his mouth shut.

“That brother of yours is causing a racket. Fix it,” She waved her hand at him, and Yakko looked for Wakko and whatever racket he was supposedly causing, but all he was him and a few other random boys lauhging and playing a game in the corner. Yakko frowned.

“I don’t see what the matter is?” He scratched his head.

“This is a funeral, boy, you aren’t supposed to be playing games,” She seethed, and Yakko left without a word, sensing her anger.

“Wakko, c’mon,” Yakko went to his brother.

“What? I’m in the middle of a-”

“Now.” Yakko snapped, stepping out into the hall. Wakko quickly followed.

“What did I do this time?” Wakko asked as the door closed behind him.

“This is a funeral, Wakko, you can’t be playing games with strangers,” Yakko pointed out. “Or did you forget why we’re wearing these black uncomfortable outfits?”

“I didn’t forget,” Wakko rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah? Because it really seems like you have,” Yakko stepped forward angrily. Wakko blinked, not understanding where this anger was coming from.

“W-well... it’s not my fault it doesn’t actually feel like a funeral. I-i mean seriously Yakko, they didn’t even find their bodies,” Wakko crossed his arms.

“Wakko... they’re dead whether you like it or not,” Yakko said, feeling a lump in his throat.

“No,” Wakko shook his head. “I don’t believe it. If they were dead, they’d’ve been in those boxes.”

“Wakko, i know i-it hurts, but-”

“but no! They aren’t dead! Th-they can’t be dead b-because if they were-” Wakko paused from his shouting.

“I-if they were...”

“It’d be my fault...”

Yakko blinked. “Wh-what?”

“I-it was my idea to run i-in the garden a-and I ran through the flower b-bed and I tracked in the mud, a-and she took me to the tower a-and Dad broke me out a-and grandma g-got mad at mum a-and th-then everything was b-bad a-and n-now they’re gone,” Wakko shouted, a waterfall of tears streaming down his face.

“Wakko, that isn’t true,” Yakko was mortified.

“If they’re dead it’s my fault, it’s true,” Wakko didn’t listen, shaking his head and closing his eyes tightly, putting his hands on his head. Yakko quickly hugged him.

“It’s not your fault Wakko,” He stroked his head.

“It’s my fault- I’m such a screw up,” he continued to cry.

“Wakko, you are not a screw up and you are not an idiot,” Yakko adamantly denied.

“Th-then why are they gone?” Wakko looked up at him, tears still pouring. Yakko bit his lip.

He could tell them. He knew why, he had seen the letter.

But that would make them angry, and anger would cause them to lash out at the queen, which could get them hurt or far, far worse.

“Because evil people decided to hurt them,” Yakko sighed. “I’m sorry, there’s nothign more to it than that.”

“I’ll kill them,” Wakko sniffled and buried his head in Yakko’s shirt.

“I know Wakko, I know,” Yakko patted his head. For a long moment, the warner brothers remained in their embrace.

“S-so... they’re really... dead?” Wakko glanced up.

“Y-yeah... they’re really dead, Wakko.” He paused, before adding, “I’m so sorry.”

Wakko sniffled. “You don’t need to be sorry, it’s not your fault either.”

Yakko hesitated at that. It made sense, of course, but.. he sighed.

“Worrying yourself to death isn’t going to do any of us any good.” His mother’s voice reminded.

“Yeah... you’re right,” He sighed. “There’s no point in guilt anyway. We’ll just... have to move on.”

“...I miss them,” Wakko whispered.

“I miss them too Wak, but they’re gone, and there’s nothing we can do expect move on, okay?”

Wakko slowly nodded.

“Okay...”

.o0o.

“We’re almost there, I promise.”

THey had traveled for goodness knew how long, ignoring the stings, the rips, the sprains that burned throughout their bodies as they trudged through the snow.

Of all of the years for it to snow early, did it have to be this one?

Well, then again, the snow had been their savior, the ice caused their carriage to overturn.

That didn’t mean they weren’t injured in their escape, one was barely holding on as it was.

“We’re almost there.” the stronger of the two repeated.

“I-i can’t. It hurts too much,” they nearly collapsed into the snow, had it not been for the other catching them.

“Just a little bit further, please,” The stronger pleaded. The weaker shook their head.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“They need you.”

“You don’t think they need you too?”

A pause.

“I’ll carry you.”

“Y-you can’t-”

“I can and I will-”

“Your arm-”

“I don’t care,” The stronger made their decision. They braced themselves, and with tremendous effort, picked up their dying partner, and continued trudging through the snow.

Slowly but surely a small town swelled on the horizon.

They had made it.

They carried on as fast as they could manage, ignoring the flairing pain shooting through their entire body when finally, they arrived.

With their free hand they pounded on the door. Shuffling noises came from behind, and eventually, a familiar curvy blonde woman answered the door.

“Dr Scratchnsniff’s Office, how can I- William?! Princess? What on earth are you two doing in Acme Falls? What happened?”

“We’ve had one hell of a week.” William responded, before collasping onto his knees, and passing out.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

#my fics #animaniacs #angelina 1 lives au #yakko wakko and dot #wakko warner #yakko warner #dot warner #tw injuries #queen angelina i #queen angelina ii #william warner #tw funeral #angst

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

Text

Brave - CHAN

I honestly still can’t believe I’ve finished this? There was a time I didn’t think I’d get to writing this fully until 2021 lmao?? And now it’s the longest fic in the whispers of nature series I need to go lie down

Dedicated to @wingkkun because screaming to Kai was like 95% of the reason I wrote this so fast <3 I also appreciate your fanart SO MUCH you are the entire reason tbz has such a presence in this fic!!

(reposted for... the second time without gifs AND links if it doesn’t work I'll cry)

Pairing: Chan x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, nature spirit!au

Triggers: mild descriptions of violence (nothing graphic)

Word Count: 12.9k

Through tears, heartbreak, and a bit of love, Chan teaches you how to be brave once again.

SKZ Masterlist | Whispers of Nature

Red is simultaneously a color of love and a color of death. It is the color of passion, the color of a bride’s dress and the roses she carries down the aisle, but also the color of blood seeping slowly out of an open wound.

Right now, watching the wedding, surrounded by pale red flowers and silks and draperies, you feel as though you’re sitting at a funeral.

Your dress isn’t red, of course. No matter how much you wish you could leave the elegant hall and run away forever, you wouldn’t disrespect the bride in such a fashion. Not only is she the crown princess of your kingdom, she is also kind, a gentle, intelligent, bright woman who will be a brilliant queen when she is crowned tomorrow.

No wonder she is the love of your best friend’s life.

Something in you itches to just start screaming, to draw your sword and ruin the festivities. But you have no sword, only a sparkling ivory gown chosen by the kind princess herself. Today, as Jacob said, you are here as a friend. Not as a knight, not as a guard, not as a protector. A friend.

Somehow, that word feels so much worse than a cold “protector” would.

The dress is shimmering white, pale and beautiful, dotted with small crystals that shimmer like clouds and stars. It should make you feel lighter than air, light with happiness for your best friend and the woman he is marrying.

But the soft fabric feels cloying on your skin, heavy and strange and choking. It’s not that you can’t wear a dress – no, you’ve gone undercover many times at balls and galas as an unseen eye to protect Jacob, after he took his place as his father’s heir. It’s the situation.

This gown was made with good intentions. The heaviness in your heart has dragged those good intentions away, replacing them with dread, anger, guilt, and sadness.

At the altar, somewhere simultaneously very close and very far away, Jacob smiles at his bride-to-be, holding her soft hands between his rougher ones, reciting the vows that will bind them for the rest of their lives. You stifle the urge to place your hands over your ears.

Oh, spirits.

He says the word “love,” and you have to fight the visceral flinch that threatens to tear through your body.

His bride’s words are not quite as painful as his. You didn’t know her as well as you knew him (does she know his favorite color is burgundy, a red between scarlet and purple, the color of roses on the darkest night?), so her vows don’t sting as much. But there’s pain just the same – throbbing, subtle, never harsh but ever present.

The neckline of your dress feels too hot against your skin.

With sick dread, you listen to her voice taper away, see the trembling smile on her face as she stares into the face of the nobleman’s son. Jacob stares back with all the stars of the sky in his eyes.

(Did he never notice that you looked at him the same way?)

The priest takes their hands, guides them through the “I dos.” They are a radiant couple, pure red covering pale skin and silky hair.

Your heart, smothered in innocent white cloth, cries.

The priest’s next words ring through your head, rattling around your mind with a force to rival the club that gave you last year’s concussion. “You may kiss the bride,” you hear, muffled as though he is speaking through water.

The red-covered couple leans in close. One of Jacob’s hands cups her cheek almost reverently, while the other gently grasps her fingers. He looks at her like she hung the moon that illuminates the red roses of his night.

You’re a knight. You’re one of the Guard. You’re brave, courageous, able to face down any foe without hesitation, ready to fight to the death for your country and the people that you love.

As their lips touch, you close your eyes.

(You’re a coward.)

. . . . .

Your boots echo loudly on the hard marble floor. As you approach the throne, the large, wooden doors swing shut behind you with a soft thud. You sink to your knees, head bowed.

“Rise,” your queen says, her voice lilting and sweet and perfect in the shining chamber. Her king consort, your best friend (is he still your best friend? You aren’t quite sure), sits by her side.

Respectfully, you stand, careful to hide any vestiges of pain on your face. It’s been several months since the wedding, and you’ve gone back to the Crown’s Guard, assigned to protect the king and queen and train the guards for their duties.

The metal of your armor, though heavier than the ivory dress that still hangs in your closet, feels lighter on your body. It is protection, from swords and words and emotions.

“We received the request for your leave of absence,” the queen says. Her eyes convey the perfect amount of sadness and wisdom. “We would be sorry to see you go.”

Jacob looks at you beseechingly. He wants you to change your mind, to stay as his friend and protector. Your mind tells you that you should stay – after all, you know little of the other kingdoms, of the lands you have decided to travel and explore. Staying in the country you know best is the safest option, for you and for the royal family.

But your heart tells you to go, and on this matter, you will listen. You wouldn’t be able to live here long, watching Jacob and his queen rule happily together for the rest of your days. You wouldn’t be able to stomach seeing their children romp around, watching them dance together at balls, hearing the cries of the common folk singing praises of the royal couple.

“However, though it pains us to see such a trusted member of the Guard gone, it is your life, and we wish for you to live it to the fullest.” The queen smiles gently, holding out a folded letter. “This contains a copy of your signed request, as well as a letter of recommendation to any future employer you may seek.”

She’s kind. So kind. Your throat closes up as you take the letter, and you can barely choke out a “thank you, Your Majesty.”

“And do remember,” Jacob adds, “that you will always have a place in our guard, should you choose to return.”

“I thank you for your kindness, Your Majesties.” You bow low, touching your hand to your head in a gesture of utmost respect. “I, too, am sad to go. However, I do not doubt that I leave you in very capable hands.” A ghost of your usual smirk appears on your lips. “And I am sure, Your Majesty, that the King Consort has enough skill to keep the two of you safe.”

The queen, being the wonderful lovely woman she is, chuckles slightly. “If he was taught by you, I am sure he will.” She smiles. “We wish you the best, Protector of the Crown.”

. . .

Jacob catches up to you later, just as training has finished for the day. As you bid goodbye to the last recruits, he enters through the back door. You recognize his footsteps and put on a smile as you turn around.

“I could’ve been an attacker, you know,” he says, slipping into the easy banter you’ve established over a decade of friendship.

“You think I don’t recognize your footsteps by now?” The smile stays on your face more easily now, not because the pain is any less, but because you’ve had more practice.

A short silence hangs in the air. Sweat from your hair drips onto your leather tunic, while not a speck of dust lies on the rich silk that clothes your best friend. It reminds you of how far apart you are now.

“Is there really no way I can persuade you not to leave?” Jacob finally asks. His mouth is downturned in the slight pout you’ve grown to love, while his eyes hold the hope that made you fall.

Your mind screams yes. Your heart shouts no.

“Not this time, Cobi.” The nickname slips out before you can even think. “I’ve made my decision. It’s time for me to go.”

Jacob sighs. “Could you at least tell me why?”

You could. Speaking words isn’t as hard as other people think it is. It’s just that once you say them, you can never take them back.

Should you tell him?

His eyes are earnest. They’re honest. They want the brutal truth that you’ve grown accustomed to giving him over the years.

But the easiest lies are those that carry a hint of truth.

“I’ve never traveled.” The untruth falls easily from your lips. “Sure, I’ve gone to the countries where we were called to battle, and I was around when you had to go places for business, but I never got to really see anything. I want to explore, see the world before I’m too old.”

He doesn’t completely believe you. You know that for sure. You can see it in the downturned quirk of his lips, the suspicion as he blinks, but he knows better than to question it. He knows you would tell him everything if you could.

(This time, you can’t.)

“And here I was, thinking I could find you someone in court to repay you for all you’ve done for me.” Jacob smiles, completely unaware of how his words are stabbing holes into your heart. “Visit, all right? You’ll always be welcome here.”

You can almost hear your heart shattering, the pieces breaking off bit by bit as they fall to the floor. But you smile. “I’ll try,” you say, because here you won’t lie and say that you will. You won’t give your best friend, the love of your short life, a promise you may not be able to keep. “I’ll try.”

He hugs you, staining his silken shirt with the sweat of your tunic. You hesitate a moment, then fall into the embrace, taking a final comfort in the strength of his arms. It hurts, but it’s a memory. And even though you want to escape, you don’t want to forget Jacob. Ever.

“I’ll see you off when you go,” Jacob says when you break apart. “Tell me when, all right?”

Should you tell him? you wonder. Will him seeing you off do anything but hurt you more?

It won’t. But your pain means little in the face of Jacob’s, not when you’ve already hurt him so much with your desire to leave. You’ve injured him enough. “I will,” you promise.

Later that night, you wonder if you should have told him the true reason you were leaving. You wonder if you should have confessed everything, laid your heart bare and told him how much he truly means to you.

No, you eventually decide. You’re glad you didn’t. Better to not ruin his happiness with his wife or his remaining memories of you.

(Or maybe you were just too scared to tell him.)

. . .

You set out early in the morning, just as the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon. A part of you hoped that Jacob would be too tired to send you off, but you knew he could never do that. He cares for you.

Just not in the way you care for him.

He meets you at the stables, where you’re outfitting your favorite horse for the journey. In his loose tunic and trousers, it almost feels like the two of you are in your teens again, waking early to train for your positions in the Guard.

Those were the good days, you think. There wasn’t a worry in the world besides making it past the next test. Jacob’s father wasn’t dead, and he didn’t have to leave the Guard to take over his household’s duties. Meanwhile, you had no idea of your feelings. There was no heartbreak.

Better times.

Words aren’t necessary, not this morning. Jacob helps you saddle your horse and store your belongings in silence. If he notices you stiffening – just barely, mind you, you’re much better at hiding it now – when his fingers brush against yours, he doesn’t say anything.

When everything is finished, you linger for a moment more. It hits you that you’re really leaving the place and the people you’ve called home for so long with no intention of coming back.

Jacob’s eyes are sad but tinged with hope when he finally speaks. “You’ll always be welcome here, you know that, right?”

Your chest tightens. You know he’s asking, one more time, for you to stay.

Last chance to tell him, you think. Last chance to clear the air.

But you’re still a coward.

“I know,” you reply. “But I have to go, Jacob.”

He doesn’t ask you why, not this time.

You wrap him in a hug, one last hug before you set off forever. A piece of your heart shatters when he puts his arms around you, squeezing your body to his in that secure, soft hold that’s just so him. So caring, so sweet, so Jacob.

It takes all of your effort not to cry.

“Safe travels, Y/N,” he says as you swing yourself onto the horse. His eyes sparkle. You know he’s holding back tears, too.

You give him one last smile, imprinting the memory of his voice saying your name in your mind. “Thank you, Jacob.”

When you ride away, you only look back once. Jacob smiles in the distance, hand raised in farewell. A small tear on his cheek barely glints in the morning sunlight.

You wave back.

. . . . .

Travel is liberating, truly – though you loved being a knight, there’s something so free about not wearing armor all the time, not having everyone recognize you as one of the Crown’s Guard. You don’t have to listen to anyone, you don’t have to watch out for constant danger. You don’t have to worry about anyone, now, but yourself.

There’s a little guilt in this pleasure, as well as some unease. It’s strange not to follow the strict routine you’ve held yourself to for over a decade, and it’s even weirder not to have someone you are charged to protect.

Well, you have to protect yourself, you guess. But that just… doesn’t come as naturally.

You eventually force yourself stop thinking about it. Thoughts like these weigh down your mind and take away from the joys of exploration, you firmly remind yourself. So you content yourself with roaming small towns and villages, meeting the people, picking up new skills with which to make a living.

(You never knew you were so bad at cooking, but at least you get better.)

The spirits treat you kindly for the first few years. The money from your work as a knight keeps you afloat as you learn to make a new living (you avoid using the queen’s letter – that would draw attention, and you don’t want any of that now), and when that runs out, you put your newfound abilities to use wherever people care to pay you for them.

It’s not a rich existence. Nothing is certain in this life, not the way it was when you lived in the palace barracks and your basic needs were always met. Here, you can rely only on yourself for food and water and shelter.

But it’s enough. Everywhere you go, you meet new people – rich and poor, rude and kind – and it only enhances your wonder at the world around you. Truly, you think, you lived in a bubble before. Now, even though you’re poorer, you can see everything your eyes glanced over as a knight.

(And if you sometimes miss Jacob’s warm smile, even if it never spoke of love as deep as yours, it doesn’t matter. You’ve made your decision. You won’t go back.)

It isn’t like you’re losing your fighting skills, either. You still have your sword, something you refuse to part with no matter how little money you have. There’s plenty of danger – bandits, thieves, rich boys who think they own the streets – and as such, plenty of opportunities for you to keep your senses sharp.

It’s after one of these fights that you meet the moon child, Changbin. He appears in the dark alley after you’ve knocked the last man out and takes concern with the bleeding wound on your upper arm.

“I’m fine,” you try to tell him as he firmly guides you away from the alley and towards a dark patch of trees. “I’m fine – hey, please let go of me.”

Hearing the urgency in your voice, he drops your arm. Your hand immediately goes to the sword at your hip. “Where are you taking me?” you snap, eyes flickering toward the trees.

He reddens. “I’m so stupid,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead. “I stay in the woods,” he explains. “If you’ll let me take you there, I can help you clean your wound.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “You stay in the woods?” you repeat, incredulous. “Why –”

A breeze shifts his hair away from his ear, revealing a pure white flower dangling from a slim chain, glowing in the moonlight.

A moon child.

Oh.

In all of your years of traveling, you never thought you would truly meet a spirit.

“My Lord,” you say, dropping hastily to your knees. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

“Please, none of that.” The moon child tugs you back up, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m just a moon child, none of the ‘my Lord’ stuff. My name is Changbin.”

Changbin doesn’t turn out to be a bandit masquerading as a moon child, thankfully, so you allow him to clean your wound in his makeshift hut in the middle of the trees. He introduces himself fully as a wanderer. Not a traveler, he clarifies, because travelers roam the world for pleasure. He does it out of necessity.

(The look of desolation in his eyes convinces you not to ask.)

He becomes your companion for months, nearly a year, walking with you from city to city until he decides to part ways in a small village near a forest. By that time, you’re sad to see him go – he’s been a wonderful friend – but like Jacob never asked the reason for your departure, you honor Changbin’s desire for silence.

He does leave you with one piece of advice, “traveler’s wisdom,” he calls it (you punch him in the arm when he says that in this high, haughty voice). “Villagers will tell you that these woods are dangerous,” he says once the two of you have calmed down. “They’ll say it’s haunted by spirits. And there is danger, it’s true, but there is also safety.”

You listen carefully.

“In the heart of the woods, there is a shrine. If ever you find yourself lost or in trouble, go into the forest at the break of dawn and find the shrine. The priestesses will take you in. If you can’t find the shrine by dark, though, leave as fast as you can.” The seriousness in Changbin’s eyes tells you he isn’t joking this time. “The forest isn’t nearly as dangerous during the day as it is during the night.”

So you travel for another year, keeping Changbin’s words in the back of your mind. As you continue, though, money begins to get scarce. These villagers are more suspicious than others you’ve met and aren’t as quick to hire a newcomer, especially one so poor but who bears such a sword (you’ll never sell it, not ever). Their suspicion is understandable, but it doesn’t make anything better for you.

You’re lost, now. You sold your horse and fine clothes a long time ago, leaving you with nothing from your old life but your memories and your sword. You’ve become a wanderer, not a traveler – forced to roam for no reason other than you must.

Several times, you mull over returning to the Guard. Jacob said he would welcome you back, and the thought of a full stomach and a place to sleep almost make up your mind on the worst nights.

But even though you want to see Jacob again, want to remember his warmth and kindness, a green snake twists its way around your heart, sliding up your throat every time you think of going back to him. He’ll never accept you, not truly, the snake hisses. He’ll never love you the way you love him.

And try as you might, you can’t stomach the thought of facing him again, not when you made the choice to leave.

So you remain a coward, a blind, stupid, stubborn coward. Instead of going to a place you know, a place where you would find care and acceptance, you throw your lot into Changbin’s advice.

You decide to find the shrine.

. . .

You’re on your last coins when you finally make it back to the village where you and Changbin parted ways. As dawn breaks, you take a breath, summoning your last strength, and head between the trees.

It’s eerie, a bit, but so beautiful. As the sun rises, the sky turns a beautiful shade of blue that melds with the trees’ greenery. It almost distracts you from the fact that you legitimately have zero idea where you’re going – Changbin only told you the shrine was at the heart of the forest, nothing else. You’ve been marking your path with stones you picked up along the way, but something tells you that won’t help much if you’re being chased by… an evil spirit. Or something.

(It’s embarrassing and slightly scary to say it, but you don’t think you have the strength anymore to outrun such a spirit, much less fight one.)

Luck seems to finally be on your side, though, because after exhaustedly pushing through a crowd of bushes, you come face to face with a beautiful shrine, surrounded by wild gardens and small stone buildings.

Several young men and women – a few barely older than children – look up at the rustling of leaves. For a few moments, they stare at your undoubtedly grimy, gross face. You only stare back.

It feels like an eternity has passed before one of the young women stands and walks up, a gentle smile on her face. “Hello, traveler.”

“Hello,” you manage, voice croaking with disuse. You clear your throat, face hot. “I’m sorry for intruding. I just… I met… I don’t know if you know him, but I met a moon – a man named Changbin –”

“You met Changbin?” Her eyes take on a new intensity and a sliver of joy.

“Um, yes.” You try to smile. “He told me if I was lost and needed a place to stay, I could try to find the shrine.” Looking down at your dirty hands, you bite your lip in shame. “I’m sorry. I can leave if you want, I’ve just… I don’t have a place to stay. I can cook, clean, anything you need help with. And, um…” You hold out the remaining coins in your pocket. “I have these?”

A rough hand closes your fingers over the money. “Keep your coins, traveler.” The woman smiles widely. “Changbin would only tell a true friend about the shrine, and a friend of Changbin’s is always a friend of ours.”

As she leads you into the shrine, the only thing you feel is guilty, overwhelming, crushing relief. Relief that you won’t have to face Jacob once more. Relief that you won’t have to face your heart once more.

The mere thought of your cowardice makes you cringe.

. . .

The shrine, you learn, is a very busy place. You wake up pretty early the next day, unused to the fact that you have an actual futon now and not just the ground, but already the other two girls in the room are getting dressed. Feeling distinctly out of place, you start to follow suit.

“Oh, you don’t need to get up just yet!” One of them smiles. “You’re a guest, traveler. Take some time to rest.”

“No, it’s all right.” You smile back, hoping it isn’t as awkward as it feels. “I’ve never been able to sleep too late, and I don’t feel right intruding on your hospitality without giving something back in return. Is there anything I can help with?”

So you find yourself in the garden after breakfast, sweating under the sun with a boy around your age named Kevin. He’s cheerful. Very fun company. Somehow, he makes the monotonous task of pulling weeds enjoyable, even takes your mind off of how out of place you feel in this quaint shrine.

Walking back into the shrine after spending the day in the garden, you wave off Kevin’s offer to bring you dinner, telling him you’re going to take a shower instead. But because you’re an idiot, you forget the fact that you have no idea where the showers are.

Kevin’s already walking away, and you honestly feel too embarrassed to call after him and ask. So, ignoring the curious stares you’re garnering from the other girls and boys, you start walking in an arbitrary direction.

It’s a mistake. As the sun sets, you feel like you’ve wandered the grounds at least four times, but you can’t even find a semblance of a shower room in the whole shrine. You’re about to give up when the priestess who welcomed you walks out of a nearby building, followed by a young man with curly blond hair.

You really don’t mean to catch his eye. In fact, you’re drawing away, about to walk in the other direction, when he looks up and fixes your gaze with his. His eyes narrow.

You suddenly feel very uncomfortable.

The priestess – what was her name? Priestess Yang? You think that’s it – turns around and sees you there, immediately breaking into a gentle smile. “Oh, hello, Y/N!”

Sheepishly, you wave. “Hello, Priestess.”

“You welcomed the sword-bearer?” the man interrupts.

What?

You’re not even carrying your sword. You left it back in the room, thinking it might be viewed as a threat if you brought it around. And you’ve never seen this man in your life. So how does he know that about you?

The priestess gives him a scolding look. “Chan, the shrine welcomes those who are lost.”

“But a sword-bearer?” he – Chan – argues. “You do remember what kinds of damage they cause?”

Indignation rises in your chest. He doesn’t even know you, and he’s already making assumptions? “Hey –”

“Changbin told her to find us if she was lost,” Priestess Yang cuts in smoothly. “If Changbin can trust this sword-bearer, I’m sure you can find it in yourself to do so too, Chan.”

Chan just looks at you with undisguised suspicion in his eyes. You glare back. How dare he assume such things about your character?

“Were you looking for someone, Y/N?” Priestess Yang asks, pulling you out of your annoyance.

“Well, no.” The sheepish smile finds its way back to your face. “I was, um, looking for the showers.”

“Oh, they’re just over there! I’ll show you the way.” She pats Chan’s shoulder. “I’ll see you, Chan.”

Chan smiles briefly, then disappears into the air, leaving behind the faintest scent of grass and springtime.

The priestess laughs at the shocked look on your face. “Chan is our forest guardian,” she explains, leading you onto a dirt path. “He helps keep us safe.”

Uneasiness crawls up your spine. “Is that how he knew I had a sword?”

“Yes.” She nods. “He sees everything, knows of all those who travel the forest. It’s part of his Sight.”

A ripple of annoyance passes through your mind.

All that sight, and he couldn’t help me once? you grumble internally. Thanks a lot, guardian.

Suffice to say, even though Priestess Yang encourages you to have an open mind, your opinion of Chan isn’t the highest.

. . .

The discomfort of being the “new traveler” at the shrine stays for a week or so. By then, most of the residents are more or less used to your presence (you just ignore Chan whenever he gives you one of his suspicious looks), and you’ve carved out a small niche for yourself, taking care of the shrine children.

There are more than you expected, surprisingly. You would’ve thought the shrine was primarily made up of older teens, if anything, who could find their way here. When you mention this to Kevin, he gets a faraway look in his eye. “The shrine opens its arms to the lost,” he says in reply. “It makes itself easier to find for children, because they often can’t journey here themselves.”

“Abusive families?”

Kevin bites his lip. “Yes.”

This knowledge only makes you want to protect them more.

As much as you enjoy talking with Kevin in the garden, it’s so much easier to work with the shrine children, you find. They’re sweet and kind, if rambunctious, and you make it your duty to keep them occupied and safe while the older kids and priestesses work.

“Y/N, Y/N!” One of the older children, Yuna, comes running up one afternoon. “Priestess Jeon said you could take us into the forest for a walk!”

“Who else?” you ask. “Not just you, right?”

“Chaeryeong, Sunwoo, and Eric want to come too.” She looks at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Please?”

Your eyebrows furrow as you weigh the merits and dangers of a walk. It’s going to get dark in a few hours, so you can’t stay out long, but if one of the head priestesses agreed, it couldn’t be too bad of an idea. The kids aren’t too young, either. They’ll listen if something goes wrong.

“If you get one of the messenger boys to come, we can go,” you eventually decide. If something happens, at least you’ll be able to send someone off to get help quickly. Just in case, though, you strap your sword to your side.

Juyeon meets you with the four kids at the shrine’s entrance. Your heart sinks a little – you hoped Yuna would find Kevin – but Juyeon is pleasant enough. He returns the smile you flash at him, anyway.

The walk is uneventful, for the most part. Eric and Yuna pepper you with questions about your work as a knight while Sunwoo and Chaeryeong listen in rapture. Really, it hurts a little to talk about your life in years past, but for the kids, you’ll do it. The smiles on their faces are worth it.

When you start walking back to the shrine, though, the air changes. It doesn’t ripple right – the wind feels strange, somehow evil. Juyeon clearly feels it too, from the way his eyes are darting around the trees. With an unspoken agreement, you begin herding the kids along faster.

There’s barely a change in the wind when the thing – whatever it is – swoops down. Only the blur of a wing in the side of your vision alerts you and you shout, pushing Eric out of the owl’s range and drawing your sword.

“What the fuck is that?” you snap, brandishing your blade.

Juyeon’s face is white as he gathers the children. “Screech owl!”

“Screech owl?”

Then the thing – screech owl, you guess – dives down again, and there’s no time to talk.

“Juyeon!” you yell. “Get them out of here!”

He doesn’t argue, just herds the children together and races away. Smart boy.

You’ve never fought an opponent in the air before. It isn’t fun. The owl is fast, too fast, almost like a damn mosquito racing through the air as you try to squash it, only a million times bigger and fiercer.

Your sword slashes through the air as you duck and twist and hide behind trees, feathers fluttering to the grass all around you. Awful shrieks ring through the air and you honestly can’t tell if it’s you or the bird – all of your senses are jumbled up.

Adrenaline courses through your veins even as the sun sets further, washing the forest in pale evening light. The bird seems to take delight in the onset of night – it swoops faster, hoots louder, and is in general just a much bigger asshole than before (if that was possible).

“ARGH!” A claw slices the top of your shoulder. If I had my armor…

But you don’t, so you duck behind another tree. Think, Y/N, think, you tell yourself as you heave deep breaths. Wait, no, don’t think. Thinking gets you killed.

Just listen.

The air is still. You don’t move a muscle.

Then –

The faintest brush of wind on your left.

Your sword cuts through meat and bone, and the owl falls, dead, at your feet.

For a moment, you just stand there, gasping, staring at the blood dripping off your blade and pooling from the owl’s body.

Gross.

“Thank you.”

For not the first time that afternoon, you let out a deathly screech and leap away. Clapping a hand over your heart, you glare at the newcomer.

“… Chan?”

“That’s my name.” The forest guardian raises an eyebrow, looking faintly amused. “Thank you for killing the owl.”

You just look at him, eyebrows fully wrinkled in annoyance and confusion. “If you wanted the owl dead, why didn’t you kill it yourself? You’re the forest guardian, surely you have the power to do that much.”

“I can’t kill things just because I want to,” Chan replies. It should sound antagonistic, you think, but the look in his eyes is softer than he’s ever looked at you. Appreciative, maybe? “It would upset the forest’s balance if its guardian killed one of those who live in its domain. I can only defend the forest against those that mean it deadly harm, not those that are merely dangerous.”

Wiping your sword on the edge of your tunic, you mull that over. “But if the screech owl was too dangerous, wouldn’t that upset the balance of the forest in the end anyway?”

“We weren’t at that point yet.” Chan raises a shoulder in a half shrug. “But you killed it, so we’ll never know if that would’ve happened.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”

He laughs. It’s a surprisingly cheerful sound – you thought it might sound like, you don’t know, someone croaking (look, you never had the greatest opinion of Chan until this point, and that’s still in the air). “I don’t think it is,” he finally says. “And I’m sorry. I was wrong about you being like all of the other sword-bearers who came to this forest. You clearly care for the shrine children.”

An apology. That’s something. Grudgingly, you force yourself to see Chan in a better light. “Apology accepted.”

For a few seconds, you just stand there, feeling the air turn more awkward by the second. “Um –”

“Do you need the way back?” Chan interrupts, a knowing glint in his eye.

By all the spirits, why did you have to meet him when you were lost at the shrine? Now he thinks you’re bad with directions, which you swear you’re really not, you just hadn’t been at the shrine long enough to figure it out.

Embarrassment creeps up your skin as Chan’s smirk grows. “… Yes.”

(And, okay, the forest guardian is a little infuriating and you find yourself wanting to hit him several times on the way back. But really, he isn’t that bad. Though you’d rather die than let him know you think that of him.)

. . .

Chan comes back the next day. You don’t expect him there, especially because he never visits the shrine more than one day in a row, but he surprises you with a smile and the offer of a walk.

“This isn’t your plan for killing a sword-bearer without anyone finding out, is it?” you ask, raising a nonplussed eyebrow as you follow the guardian out of the shrine. You’re not sure why, but it’s so easy to fall into banter with Chan the way you used to joke around with the other knights in the Guard.

Chan snorts. “As a centuries-old guardian of the forest, wouldn’t you think I’d have a little more wisdom than to kill you after several people at the shrine witnessed you leaving with me?”

You very visibly keep a hand on your sword just in case.

“So why did you invite me on a walk?” you ask after several moments. Chan’s bare feet are silent against the grass, but your boots make slightly louder thumps as you step over stones and fallen branches. “I know it wasn’t because of my scintillating personality.”

He stops walking. “I’ve heard you used to be a knight,” he says bluntly. “I wanted to know what kind of sword-bearer you were to leave such a prestigious position and even befriend Changbin, of all people.”

“What’s wrong with befriending Changbin?” you ask, desperately dodging the first part of Chan’s implied questions. “You make it sound like he hates… sword-bearers. He literally dragged me away after I beat up a bunch of men in an alley with my sword so he could clean the one wound I got on my shoulder.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Chan nods. “He saw you do good things with your blade.”

“… Yes?”

“Sword-bearers killed the girl he loved,” Chan explains. “Well, archers, really, but swords were involved.”

You swallow. That explains his wandering tendencies. “Oh. Who sent them?”

“The king of Adment.”

The title brings a scowl to your face. “Oh, him.” You spit. “That would explain it.”

Chan looks at you curiously. “You hold a grudge towards him as well?”

“He was never the friendliest to my kingdom,” is your brief reply before diverting the topic again. “So, is that also the reason you hate sword-bearers in your forest?”

“Whenever sword-bearers trespass, they almost always bring destruction.” Chan’s face turns hard. “I’ve learned not to take chances.”

The ages-old anger in his eyes speaks of a wisdom far older than the youthful form Chan takes. You narrow your eyes. “How old are you, exactly? You said centuries, but how many?”

He smirks, though there’s something weary in his gaze. “I’ve been alive for over a millennium.”

“What?”

“I can tell you more about that another day,” he says, teasing. You want to complain that he can’t leave you on a cliffhanger like that, but the sun is beginning to set, and you have things to do at the shrine. “Do you need an escort?”

You resist the urge to punch him, forest guardian or no. “I’m not that bad with directions,” you grouse. “You just caught me on a bad day. I can find my way back.”

He walks you back to the shrine anyway. And day by day, after every conversation you have, he walks you back as well.

Kevin, when you meet him in the garden, remarks that you seem more cheerful after a few weeks. “You look like you’re anticipating something exciting,” he clarifies when you only dignify him with a confused glance. His lips curl into a smirk. “Something about Chan?”

Kevin probably expects you to hit him or roll your eyes, maybe say something snappy in response. Instead, your face only drops as the meaning of his words hits you.

Do you feel something for Chan?

Well, you love to hear about his life. There are some really exciting stories he’s had after living so long. He’s also pleasant to hang around, and you enjoy talking to him.

It’s just curiosity, nothing romantic, you tell yourself. There’s no attraction. Just a slight friendship, maybe. Nothing more.

Nothing like what you felt for Jacob.

“Y/N – hey, Y/N!”

You blink to see Kevin staring at you in concern. “Are you all right? You zoned out for a minute.”

No, definitely nothing like Jacob. You try to smile at Kevin, pushing thoughts of blond hair and kind eyes out of your mind. That’s stupid – you would never let yourself be swayed so badly again. “I’m fine,” you say, hoping you’re telling the truth. “Let’s go get dinner, yeah?”

. . .

As the weeks pass, you begin to wonder just how much was truthful in what Kevin said.

Walks with Chan have become a regular occurrence, now. When he shows up at the shrine entrance every other afternoon, someone immediately calls for you.

And the worst thing is, you feel excited when you hear your name being called, when you’re with the children or scrubbing dishes or working in the garden. Everyone around gives you a knowing glance and maybe a teasing smile as you rush to see the forest guardian.

One part of you wants it. You want to be able to freely enjoy these walks, feeling the soft earth beneath your boots as you listen to Chan speak. The forest itself is interesting – he shows you the overgrown faerie ring, the water nymph’s pond and the accompanying willow tree – but you think his stories are even more intriguing. You like hearing Chan’s voice. You think you’d like to keep hearing it.

The other part of you doesn’t want this, though, doesn’t want the budding warmth that you feel with the forest guardian, even as the months begin to grow colder. It’s not that it doesn’t feel nice – in fact, this is precisely because it does feel nice. Too nice. You’re starting to feel a stirring in your heart that reminds you of how you felt for Jacob. Though it’s small, very small, it’s there – you can recognize it from the years of heartache you spent watching Jacob fall in love with someone else.

You don’t want that again with Chan.

It shames you to want to run away again, to run away from a place that has provided you with so much comfort in the months past. You love the children, truly, and the friends you’ve made are wonderful. You’ve even started giving Juyeon lessons with your sword. But what other course of action is there? There’s no reason a forest guardian with so many centuries of wisdom would fall for a young, naïve human like you. Here, a love story is even more impossible than one with Jacob.

The decision curdles in your stomach, fills your throat with bitter, hot shame, but it’s necessary, you tell yourself. Better to cut everything off right now, before your emotions grow out of control.

You’re not that important to the shrine, really. You’ve only been there a few months. They’ll survive without you.

You just can’t go through the pain you felt with Jacob ever again.

. . .

You debate avoiding Chan. If he were human, you might actually have chosen that path. But just like you couldn’t avoid Jacob when you fell in love – you were too close, he definitely would’ve noticed – you can’t avoid Chan. He’s the forest’s guardian – he’ll know you’re purposely trying not to be found.

So you decide to cut things off on one of your walks. It feels so simple in your mind – get away from the shrine, then tell him you’re leaving. He won’t care, you tell yourself. It won’t matter to him. And as much as the thought hurts, it’s the better option.

It should be easy, really. Chan gives you the perfect opening – “Why do you look so sad today?” he asks, stopping you by Hyunjin’s pond. The nymph himself doesn’t appear, which you’re very thankful for.

Well, no time like the present. You steel yourself. “I’m going to leave the shrine.”

Chan’s face switches expressions several times within seconds. You watch, feeling a sick sense of dread and relief pooling in your stomach. It’s out there. You’ve said it.

But spirits, why does he look so upset? So angry?

Like you mean something to him?

“Why?” he finally asks.

“Well,” you stammer, his unprecedented reaction sending all of the rehearsed words flying out of your mind, “I – I’ve overstayed my welcome, haven’t I? I’ve been here for months already, and I’ve used the shrine’s hospitality long enough.” His incredulous expression sparks indignation in your chest. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you realize how much you do for the shrine?” he snaps. His footsteps, usually so silent, pound on the earth as he steps up to you. “You think you’ve overstayed your welcome – do you know how much I – how much the shrine needs you now?”

How much I?

How much I need you?

How much Chan needs me?

Slip of the tongue. You shake your head, trying your best to ignore it. “All I do is help with the children, work with Kevin in the garden! Chan, I’m easily replaceable – I’m just a poor traveler who was fortunate enough to find the shrine! I’m lucky that you’ve all been so welcoming, but really, it’s time for me to move on.”

“And what about the children? Your friends?” He crosses his arms. “What about me?”

“They’ll live!” you snap. “And what do you mean, what about you?”

Chan growls under his breath. “Are you really trying to say that I mean nothing to you?”

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, like that time Jacob accidentally rammed you in the stomach with the pommel of a sword.

So… not a slip of the tongue.

“Why does it matter that you mean something to me when I don’t mean anything to you?” you finally say.

“And here I thought you were smart,” Chan snaps.

Anger flares in your chest. “I’m serious, Chan! Why would I ever think I meant something to you?” You gesture wildly at the expanse of trees surrounding you. “You’re a millennia-old guardian of a forest of magic. I’m a human who ended up here out of luck. Why, even if I ever felt anything for you, would you feel anything for me? What have I done to merit your attention?”

Chan’s eyes soften slightly. “So many things.”

Taken aback, you flail for words. “Elaborate.”

“You’re a sword-bearer. A kind sword-bearer. A sword-bearer Changbin trusts, enough to divulge his name and travel with for almost a year. A sword-bearer he believed was pure enough of heart to find the shrine – and don’t stop me there, if he hadn’t thought you would be able to find it, he wouldn’t have told you of its existence.” Chan stares at you with that same soft look, that soft look that pierces your heart and makes you feel guilty, so guilty, because you’re not as good, not as kind, not as pure as he thinks you are. “You carved your place in the shrine the first day you spent there. Without anyone asking, you took care of the children and helped Kevin in the garden. You did everything you could to give the children a bit of the love they never might’ve experienced otherwise and protected them from a threat you knew nothing of, something that could have torn you to pieces if you weren’t as trained as you were. You –”

“Stop.”

Chan looks at you, confused. “What –”

“I’m not – I’m not even near the brave person you’re describing,” you snap, tears starting to well in your eyes. “Stop talking about me like I’m some – some spirits-damned martyr, or something –”

“But –”

“And even if I was this, this noble and amazing person you think I am,” you interrupt, tears fighting to slip past your eyes, “how many other men and women at the shrine are the same? Kind, gentle, whatever you want to use to describe me? I’m not special, Chan. I’ve never been.”

Jacob didn’t think you were, at least.

“Y/N, why – just – did you not hear anything I just said about you?” Chan tries to take your hand, but you shy away, pretending the hurt in his eyes doesn’t send knives into your chest. “You earned the trust of a moon child haunted by those who carry blades in a matter of months. Those at the shrine took years to gain his full acceptance. You proved me wrong about sword-bearers. You showed me you were fearless, brave, kind – you are special, Y/N,” he insists, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’ve shown me that, shown me so much –”

“Stop.”

Your chest is heaving, the tears have spilled out, and you’re fighting for breath. It hurts, it hurts so much that Chan thinks this much of you, but all you are is a coward running away your feelings. “You don’t know,” you gasp, “you don’t know what kind of a person I am. I’m not what you see. How can you –” you angrily brush a tear away – “how can you not see that?”

“Then tell me,” Chan says. “Tell me why you’re so different. Convince me.”

You don’t want to. You don’t want to convince him, you want him to always have that beautiful image of you in his mind – a brave, gentle knight dedicated to protecting those who cannot defend themselves. But he deserves the truth.

And the truth is that you are a coward.

“I left my kingdom because I was in love with my best friend,” you spit. “He married the queen, and I couldn’t do anything but watch. I left because I couldn’t stand to see them so happy together, knowing I would only be on the sidelines of their love for the rest of my life. I left because I couldn’t bring myself to tell him how I felt, couldn’t bring myself to clear the air. I left because I wanted to run away instead of facing my problems, Chan! And even when I knew Jacob would always welcome me back with open arms, even during my darkest moments, I still chose to run away! I chose to find the shrine instead of letting my feelings go and reconciling with my friend. I chose to find the shrine and run away a second time because I couldn’t stand to face him again when I was the one who chose to leave.” A choked sob escapes your lips. “And now I’m running away again, because I thought you could never care for me in the way I’m beginning to care for you. Only you apparently do, but I can’t just stay here and let you love this perfect, noble character who doesn’t exist.”

Silence fills the air. Surely the birds are chirping, the leaves rustling, but you can’t hear anything over the pathetic sounds of you trying to control your tears.

“So now you know,” you croak. “You know the truth behind the coward this knight really is.”

You can’t even meet Chan’s eyes.

“You’re right,” Chan finally says. “For a knight, you’re an awful coward.”

His words stab you in the chest.

“Courage doesn’t constitute running away.”

You can feel the blood dripping out of your heart.

“It means facing your challenges head on, doing what you must.”

You clench your teeth, resolutely looking down at your feet. It’s the truth, you tell yourself. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. It’s the truth.

Then Chan’s trousers enter your vision. You stiffen, ready to back away, but Chan’s already tilting your chin up with one gentle finger so that you’re staring into his eyes. “But you’re brave, Y/N,” he murmurs. “You’re brave when it comes to protecting others, defending the innocent from those who would bring harm.” A small smile curves his lips. “You’re just not too good at protecting yourself.”

You burst into tears. And this time, when Chan presses you into his chest, letting you inhale his woodsy smell of fresh grass and sunlight, you don’t pull away.

. . .

“You don’t have to run away from attachment,” Chan tells you on the walk back to the shrine. “You don’t have to run away from familiarity, from caring about people. We care about you, truly. The children would be heartbroken if you left. So would Kevin and Juyeon and everyone else.” He gives you a gentle smile. “I would be, too.”

Keeping his words in mind, you put away your thoughts of leaving the shrine and try to open your eyes to how much people actually enjoy your presence. Some days, when the self-loathing rises and you don’t want to do anything but run away, it’s hard.

But Chan always finds you, if not the same day, then the day after. He takes you into the woods and tells stories until your sides ache from laughter and the sparkle – or so he tells you – is back in your eyes. With his slow, careful help, you begin to see the small, but visible effects you have on the shrine.

Eric’s and Chaeryeong’s eyes light up when you walk into the room. Sunwoo and Yuna fight for your attention. Juyeon’s calm face breaks into a smile when you show up for his daily swordplay practice, and Kevin laughs with abandon when you crack jokes in the garden. They’re small things, but you realize that leaving the shrine would’ve caused a lot more damage – to you and to them – that you didn’t realize before.

So you cement your place in the shrine, throwing yourself into the daily life of the place you’ve tentatively begun to think of as something deeper than a mere shelter. Juyeon’s interest in swordplay gives you the idea to begin training some of the girls and boys in defense. The priestesses agree after a little convincing – after all, you argue, even if the shrine isn’t threatened very often, dangers like the screech owl crop up every now and then. And if anyone decides to leave the shrine in the future and make their own life, defense could be a very useful skill.

Chan embraces your idea with more warmth than you’d imagine, given his aversion to sword-bearers. When you ask him about it, he just gives you that teasing smile that infuriates and calms you. “I trust you, don’t I?” His smile turns gentler. “You’re a good, brave sword-bearer. I think you’ll be able to keep your pupils from going… astray.”

You certainly do your best. Over several years of training, you watch Juyeon, Kevin, Yeji, and Lia grow into formidable opponents. Sunwoo takes more of an interest in archery after you fashion him a crude bow and arrow, practicing with the (kind of terrible) weapons until you buy him proper set in town.

Life goes on, and it goes well. Shrine life is peaceful as new residents enter – the newest resident, Haknyeon, is adorable – and you grow into yourself as the months go by. Chan never presses his feelings, only treats you the same way he always did until you’re ready to accept his care.

“Are you sure?” he asks when you tell him, eyes sparkling with hope and love and uncertainty all at once.

Your heart blossoms with love for the forest guardian. “Yes.” You smile. “I think I love myself enough to allow you to love me too.”

His lips taste like spring, like golden sunlight filtered through verdant leaves. Pressed against his chest, you feel safe, delicate in the touch of his fingers splayed gently across your back, strong in the warmth of his arms around your waist.

Oh, Chan makes you feel loved, loved in a way that slowly erases the self-loathing you’ve carried for so long, in a way that makes you feel brave enough to remain standing with each passing day. And even though you’ve still got a long way to go, you take comfort in the knowledge that Chan, your forest guardian, will always be there for you.

. . . . .

News doesn’t come often to the small village just outside the forest, so when there’s gossip that doesn’t pertain to the whereabouts about one villager or another, it’s worth listening to. This time, it’s a kingdom at war with another.

“Which kingdoms?” you ask idly, examining an apple.

“One is Adment,” the shopkeeper replies. You snort, a sentiment he laughs with. “Which was the other, honey?” he yells to his wife in the back of the stall.

“Was it Callia?” she yells back.

You don’t laugh when the apple drops from your hand.

Trying not to visibly show your distress, you wave off the shopkeeper’s worry at your expression and hurry to finish the shopping. To your luck, when you make it back to the shrine, Chan is already there, conversing with one of the priestesses.

“Y/N!” His smile drops slightly when he takes in your expression. The priestess quietly excuses herself. “Did something happen?”

“Callia – Callia is at war with Adment.” You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “Jacob’s kingdom. At war with the one that killed Changbin’s love.”

Chan’s face turns hard. “I see.”

“I – I feel like I need to do something.” You gaze at him, begging him to understand everything you can’t put into words. “Chan, I feel like I have to go back and help, somehow.”

Chan’s eyes are gentle but unreadable as he grasps your hand firmly in his. “You should do what you think is right,” he says quietly.

What I think is right.

What do I think is right?

Your mind races with panic, but one thought emerges, crystal clear in certainty.

“Yes,” you whisper, more to yourself than Chan. “I’ll do what is right.”

. . .

The priestesses give you their blessing to return to the kingdom you used to call home. Juyeon, Kevin, Lia, and Sunwoo volunteer to come with you as well, even though you try to dissuade them repeatedly with how dangerous it’ll be. They could die, you stress – this is war, after all. But they insist.

You put off saying goodbye to Chan until the day before you leave. He’s the one who finds you, actually – he has something to say, apparently, before you go.

It feels so strange, walking with Chan through the forest with the knowledge that you may never come back. It’s not like you’re a stranger to the evils of war – every time you rode into battle as a knight, you knew there was a high likelihood that you would die.

But it’s different, now. Jacob and your fellow Guards knew the risks of war – you were all seasoned fighters, trained in tactics and stealth and strategy. Here, you only have a very small group of fighters �� reasonably good for the amount of training they’ve had, but lacking in true experience. They won’t understand the true horror of battle until they’ve experienced it themselves.

There’s something else, too. You’re leaving behind someone you love for the first time, someone who cannot come and fight by your side.

“Can I go first?” you ask, stopping by Hyunjin’s pond. You want to see the still waters one more time before you leave.

Chan nods. “Of course.”

“I…” You look down, mustering your courage. “I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

For a moment, there’s just silence. Then a sudden flush spreads across Chan’s cheeks.

It bolsters your confidence. “I know I don’t say it often,” you continue, enjoying the shyness on your guardian’s face, “but I really do. I wanted you to know that I’m not going off to help Jacob’s kingdom because I love him the way I used to, but because I still care about him as a friend.” You gaze into Chan’s clear eyes. “I love you very much, and I wanted to tell you that before I left.”

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I never thought you were going to war out of romantic love for Jacob,” he says quietly. “You don’t need to worry about that, ever. I trust you.”

Your heart explodes with warmth. “So what is it that you had to tell me?”

“I never told you how forest guardians are chosen, did I?” Chan asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Well, sit down, and I’ll tell you now.” He smiles. “It’s a long story.”

Chan tells you of his first life as an oread, a mountain spirit settled in the craggy cliffs not too far from the forest. He tells you of the last guardian before him, a teasing fae named Jaebum.

“A fae?” you interrupt. “Isn’t that… not a good idea?” As lovely as Han and his lady are – you’ve met them several times by now – you wouldn’t exactly call him a suitable guardian. You’d say the same and more for his more sinister counterparts.

“Jaebum was different,” Chan says. “He cared deeply for the forest. After the two centuries I knew him, he found someone to love, to grow old with over time. He asked me to be forest guardian after he died.”

“So the current forest guardian chooses the next when they feel their time is over?” you clarify.

Chan nods, gazing into your eyes. “Yes.”

And all of a sudden, you understand.

“Chan, you –” You have to clear away the emotion rising in your throat. “You want to pass on the guardianship for me? To whom?”

“I’ve spoken to Changbin.” Chan smiles. “He was very receptive to the idea.”

“But – Chan, for me?” The old uncertainty starts to plague your mind. “Chan, I’m just… I’m just me.”

“Exactly.” Chan takes your hands in his. “You’re you. And I want to grow old with you. Live life with you. Don’t try to argue with me – this is something I know I want.”

You can’t even speak through the tears running down your face. “Chan –”

“Come here.” He wraps you in his warm arms. “I love you, Y/N. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

For how long you stay there, crying into Chan’s embrace, you don’t know. By the time you’re coherent enough to pull back, it feels like it’s been an eternity.

“So now you have to come back.” Chan smiles, though you can see a glimmer of fear, of uncertainty in his gaze. “You have to stay safe and come back for me, all right?”

“Yeah.” Hyunjin suddenly appears from the pond and you literally shriek, toppling backwards onto the grass. “You have to come back to Chan, or he’ll mope around for millennia and send the forest into ruin.” The nymph smirks, though you can see real concern hidden in his eyes.

“Like you moped for centuries over your cloud nymph?” Chan retorts, lips curved in an exasperated smile.

Hyunjin sniffs. “Details,” he says haughtily, already sinking back into his pool. He sends you a glance, though, that’s full of meaning.

You must come back. Don’t leave Chan waiting.

You make a silent promise that you won’t.

. . .

The next day, your cohort wakes up early. After yawning through a quick breakfast, you quickly gather your belongings and meet up at the front of the shrine. Several of the priestesses cluck over you like mother hens checking on their chicks, and you dutifully take their warnings and cautions with as light a smile as you can muster.

Chan shows up just as you’re about to go. The others thankfully leave you two alone for a bit (though you scowl at Kevin’s smirk and Lia’s whistle).

You don’t talk much, just stay wrapped in each other’s arms for several minutes. Eventually, though, dawn breaks. It’s time to leave.

“Be brave,” Chan whispers as you pull away.

You smile. “I’ll come back.”

With one last kiss that tastes of spring greenery, you leave the shrine. When you look back, Chan’s already disappeared.

. . .

It’s a long two years spent away from the shrine. The pace is difficult on your friends, who have only known the shrine as a home for so many years. For you, it’s a bit easier – you’ve been a traveler for a good few years, and it doesn’t take too long to settle back into the wanderer’s mindset, moving around, never staying in one place too long.

But they don’t complain. They’re strong, resilient, and resourceful – more so, really, than some of the knights you knew on the Guard. With their help, you launch quiet strikes at the border of Adment and Callia, taking down Adment’s forces small legion by small legion. Your group becomes known for your silent ambushes, though you take care to keep your identities hidden.

It’s like being a knight again on a smaller scale – planning attacks and carrying them out, knowing that you might lose your life or your friends along the way. It isn’t entirely unwelcome. Fighting still gives you that adrenaline rush, that grim, satisfying knowledge that you’re doing something to protect the people you love.

At the same time, though, it isn’t as fulfilling as it used to be. This life of fighting battles isn’t for you anymore. Yes, you will fight to defend, but you’ve found other ways to protect your loved ones, too.

It just cements the fact that you don’t think you’ll ever come back to Callia to stay.

Finally, Adment surrenders. You’re glad, truly – you’re ready to return to the shrine, as are your friends. As you begin the trek back through some of the rural villages, though, a few posters catch your eye. They spell out a request for the unknown border attackers to come forth to the palace and be honored for their aid in the war.

They know your story, Lia, Juyeon, Kevin, Sunwoo. It was only fair that you told them – how could you lead them to possible death without knowing why you came in the first place, why this was so important to you?

So you ask them. “Do you want to reveal yourselves?”

“I don’t think it’s a question of us,” Juyeon says quietly. “It’s about you.”

“Yes,” Lia echoes. “We’ll follow you, whatever you decide.”

Their trust still astounds you, even after so many years spent trying to dilute the self-loathing that used to plague your brain. “Give me a day to think,” you eventually say. “If you say you’ll follow me, I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

You stay up all night, debating. Your friends have already spent so long away from their home, fighting a war on your behalf. Is it worth it to take the extra few weeks spent traveling to and from the palace? Would it be fair to ask them to journey with you for even longer?

No, Y/N. You shake your head. They asked you to decide, which means they want a decision based on your feelings, on your desires. They’re kind enough to know that this must be your choice to make.

You sigh, leaning back against a sturdy tree. Why are you so hesitant about seeing Jacob again, anyway? You don’t love him anymore, not the way you used to. It doesn’t hurt you as much to think of him. Spirits, you even came all this way to help him in a war you weren’t even involved in.

Maybe you’re afraid that you’ll fall in love with him again, a tiny voice in your head suggests. Maybe you’re afraid that you’ll want to stay.

Oh.

That’s probably it.

Pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, you sigh again. You love Chan. You love the shrine. You’ve realized that fighting battles as a knight isn’t the way you want to spend the rest of your life. But you’re still afraid that seeing Jacob again will awaken feelings for him once more.

Wait. You sit up, frowning into the darkness. For your feelings to awaken, they would still have to exist.

You don’t love Jacob anymore. The thought of him doesn’t make your heart thump anymore, doesn’t choke your throat with emotions anymore.

Logically, rationally, seeing him again wouldn’t hurt the way it used to.

But love isn’t rational, the oh-so-helpful part of your mind pipes up.

You scowl. Stop making this decision harder.

As the fire dies to glowing coals, as your friends quietly snore throughout the night (except Sunwoo, he snores very loudly), you sit there, mind warring with fear.

By morning, you’ve made your decision.

. . .

The palace is almost the same as you remembered – high, polished stone walls surrounded by a bustling marketplace and lush gardens. The grass looks a bit wilted and the market chatter sounds subdued, but the kingdom has just gone through a war. You would be more worried, really, if everything looked exactly as beautiful as it used to be.

Anxiety bursts in your chest as you slip through the crowds, face covered in a scarf, getting closer and closer to the palace. Three of the Guard stand sentinel at front gates, and even though you’re too far away to see their faces, you’re sure you’d recognize at least a couple of them up close.

“Breathe,” Kevin whispers helpfully next to you. “You’ll be fine.”

You nod shakily. “Yeah.”

Two of the Guard cross their spears over the gates as you approach. The third steps forward, meeting your gaze.

Your heart skips a beat at the sight of an old friend. Changmin!

“State your business,” Changmin says, eyes unmoved. It stings a little that he doesn’t recognize you, but it’s understandable. You’ve both changed over the years – you’ve grown out your hair, while he’s cut his shorter, and he’s lost the last baby fat from his cheeks – and you have a scarf covering half of your face.

“I have business with the king,” you reply, heart hammering in your chest. “I believe my presence was specifically requested, along with that of my friends from the border.”

Faint recognition lights Changmin’s eyes, though they also narrow in slight confusion. He looks at you for a second, gaze piercing yours.

“Is something wrong?” you ask. “We can leave our weapons at the gates, if you wish.”

Changmin shakes his head, shoulders slumped in resignation. “No, I just thought you sounded like someone I once knew.” He looks down. “She had a sword like yours, too.”

Your heart hammers at your old friend’s words. What would he say if he did know it was you?

His voice cuts through your panicked thoughts. “May I have a name by which to introduce you to His Majesty?”

Last chance, you tell yourself. Last chance to turn back.

You won’t lie – the choice sounds appealing, at least to your pounding heart. Glancing up at the high stone walls, you feel the old urge to run away.

You could. You could turn away from the gates right now, leave Changmin remembering someone who will never return. You could travel back to the shrine and forget this ever happened.

But Chan told you to be brave. And being brave doesn’t only apply to war.

You pull down your scarf, smiling at the incredulous expression spreading over Changmin’s face. “You can tell him an old friend’s come back to visit.”

. . .

After yelling at you for never visiting and punching you at least ten times (your arm is so, so sore, but as he reminds you, you should just be glad he didn’t challenge you to a duel right then and there), Changmin brings you into one of the waiting rooms. “I’ll find you and bite you if I come back and see that you’ve disappeared again,” he threatens before heading back into the halls.

Sunwoo raises an eyebrow, looking mildly disturbed. “Bite you?”

You snort, smiling widely. “Long story.”

Too soon, though, there’s another set of footsteps echoing outside of the room. The smile slowly starts to slip off your face, and your heart, previously calmed by Changmin’s characteristic welcome, starts to pound again.

Be brave. Chan’s voice speaks in your mind. Be brave.

You steel yourself.

Then Jacob appears in the doorway, and the room feels like it’s falling away.

. . .

By the time your mind has caught up to the present, you’re wrapped in Jacob’s strong arms, in one of those Jacob hugs that you used to yearn for every day. It’s comforting, warm, but to your pleasant surprise, there’s no hurt. No pain.

You only feel happy.

“You came back,” Jacob whispers, more to himself than to you. “You came back.”

You just laugh, squeezing your best friend harder. “I did.��

Thankfully, your friends understand that you need some time with Jacob alone. Changmin leads them out, already bickering with Sunwoo (how they became friends so quickly, you’re not sure you want to know). In the silence of the room, you and Jacob just stare at each other for a moment.

“I –”

“What –”

You burst into laughter and Jacob joins in, feeling heady with absolute bliss and relief that your worst fears haven’t been realized. You haven’t fallen back in love with Jacob at first sight. His mere presence doesn’t make you want to stay.

“You first,” Jacob finally says when you’ve calmed down. “You first.”

The laughter disappears from your throat as your smile dims. “I never told you the full reason why I left.”

Jacob is a good listener, a fact that you’re grateful for. If he’d interrupted you at any point, you aren’t sure you would’ve been able to continue. Still, though, it’s harrowing, recounting the love you felt for your best friend for so long.

“When I left the first time, I didn’t have any intention of returning.” You state the harsh truth with a bitter taste in your mouth. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you about what I felt, so seeing you only hurt. I didn’t… I didn’t want to feel any more pain.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Jacob’s eyes are cloudy, filled with pain on your behalf. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known…”

“Stop.” You put a hand on his shoulder. “One reason I didn’t tell you was because I knew you’d blame yourself. It isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

Jacob sits in silence for a moment. “But you did come back.”

“I did.” A small smile curves your lips. “I found a place that took me in, allowed me to try and find myself once more. I found someone who helped me heal. So when I heard about the war, I didn’t have qualms about coming to help. It was something… I knew it was something I had to do.”

Jacob’s eyes clear. “I see. Your someone, your, um…”

“Husband,” you offer. It’s the closest thing to what Chan is to you that Jacob would understand.

He nods. “Your husband didn’t come?”

“No.” You shake your head. “I came with friends. We have our own things to protect, back at home.”

Home. That word surprises you as it leaves your lips. Home.

The forest, the shrine is your home.

It’s the first time you’ve made this connection. With the realization, a sudden burst of warmth fills your chest.

“I see.” Jacob leans forward, looking genuinely happy for you. “Things are going well, then?”

Briefly, you wonder if you should tell him about the shrine. You decide not to. That’s your secret to keep, at least for now.

“Yes, they are.” A smile involuntarily spreads across your face. “Very well.”

For a moment, the two of you just sit in comfortable silence. Then Jacob speaks. “Can I persuade you again to stay?” he asks, though from the look in his eye, you’re pretty sure he already knows your answer. “You can bring your husband and friends. There will always be a place for you here.”

It feels like you’re being thrown back in time to that day in the training room, just a few months before you left. Your answer is still the same as it was then, so many years ago.

But you have something else to add.

You shake your head. “Not this time, Jacob.” Your smile grows smaller, but softer. “Though I do promise I’ll visit you again.”

. . .

On the horses Jacob gifted you, it only takes a few weeks to return to the forest. You see the children and the priestesses first, waiting at the front of the shrine, followed by the other maidens and messenger boys. Their shouts of welcome bring a smile to your face.

Then Chan appears when you’re riding up to the gates, crushing you in a hug almost before you’ve leapt off your horse.

You lose yourself in your guardian’s warmth, in the strength of his arms wrapped around your body. It feels so similar to Jacob’s hugs, so comforting and soft and strong, but also so uniquely Chan. You laugh into his chest, tears beginning to stream down your face.

“I’m back,” you gasp between the tears. “I’m back, Chan.”

“I know,” he whispers, only holding you closer. “I know.”

A blissful eternity passes, wrapped in Chan’s arms, until he pulls back the slightest bit, just enough to press a long-awaited kiss on your lips. “You’re back,” he says one more time, as though he still can’t quite believe it.

“I am,” you confirm. “I did it, Chan.”

He knows. He knows, looking into your eyes, what you mean by “it.” He knows you don’t just mean that you fought Adment, that you came home alive. He knows there’s something more.

Something involving a certain past love.

Warm, warm pride blooms in Chan’s eyes. “Were you brave?”

Memories race through your mind – staunching bloody wounds, trekking through the forests at the border – but you know that isn’t what Chan means. He knows you can be brave in the midst of battle, brave in protecting those you love the most.

He wants to know if you were brave with him.

Your eyes twinkle as you remember the palace gates, seeing Changmin again, landing in Jacob’s arms once more. You remember his soft voice, his kind eyes full of real, platonic care, a memory you’ll treasure for years to come.

Where you once might have grimaced at the thought of your old home, now, the smile on your face only broadens with every passing second.

“Yes.” Your laughing gaze sparkles into Chan’s proud eyes. “I was.”

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