#to prepare her to do the same— kneel before an empty throne and beg for forgiveness

[groundbreakingdot872]

I can see but one path, sire / It's like nothing I've ever felt before…

[lixie-lovie]

{ Rogue princess | skz }

l.felix x f!reader

Genre: ??? fluff, angst ig, royalty au, princess!reader, star child!felix, idk u tell me

Warnings: a bit angsty, bad relationships at the beginning, issues with parents, vague mention of past death, mention of animals, mentions of running away

((If anything needs to be added to warnings, lmk! I’ll fix it asap))

Word Count: 5.2k

Note: did I write this literally to comfort myself today? Yes. Have fun reading this reallllyyy self indulgent fic lolz. Hope anyone reading this has a good day! Ily

——————

A throne made of gold and satin-like velvet, all tyrian purple. Too large this seat felt, as did the hall full of people standing under gilded light filtering through the large stained glass window. Here you sat, next to your father in an even more ornate throne, in front of a crowd of people who knew your name, your face, but nothing of your soul.

They couldn’t name that green was your favorite color because of the trees you would catch glimpses of through the windows of your tutors room, ever strong through the seasons never having to carry the weight of a kingdom. They would never be able to name why ships made you weary and claustrophobic or that your favorite flowers of springtime are those that bloom away from the castles gardens when eyes aren’t watching. They couldn’t guess your favorite piece of music, the one you never heard at those god forsaken balls. They never could place that instead your favorite would be the one that came ever so gracefully from under your mother’s fingertips at the piano that used to spark so much joy in the hearts of the people, but now sat lonely collecting dust. They didn’t know you longed to reach the stars someday, yearning for their delicate freedom in the inky black sky. They couldn’t tell that you wondered if they felt out of place too.

More so than anything else, they could never guess how much you hated staring at the men kneeling before you now, begging for a wife, a servant to their needs of pleasure, for the sake of “peace.” They would never know the disgust that sent a shiver down your spine at the twisted grin of these men that took your fingers in their too rough grasp and kissed that back of your hand, their sin tainted lips lingering moments too long. Their hands twitching at their sides with their sickening thoughts as they watched you stand from your throne, adjusting the circlet of silver adorning your perfectly crafted hair.

Your father, your king, grinned widely at the propositions made my these men, happy at the prospect of one of them taking your hand, winning your heart. Happy at the prospect of selling you away. A fair trade he’d call it. A duty.

He’d never understand, you came to realize. He was the man who had chosen your mother, the same way these creatures of lust in front of you are now. Readily ridding the world of her happiness and songs, harshly forcing her into a life of servitude, solitude, for the sake of duty.

“None of them would get it”

You’d say to yourself silently as you excused yourself to the washroom, wiping your disgraced palm clean of the suitors that you had been dancing with’s sweat, your nose scrunched in disgust. In the washroom you would stand, hands now pressed to the too warm mirror in that stuffy room, staring at your reflection. Your reflection stared back at you tauntingly, the flushed cheeks and too perfect hair, until your eyes got caught on the thin band gracing your head. The piece of metal that used to be the only thing tying you to your mother’s lineage, now was only an unwelcome reminder of your duties lined up in the other room, waiting for your hand in marriage. You sighed harshly, ripping the despicable band of silver off of your head, ruining the perfect waves your hair was lying in before. You laughed too hard, running your hands harshly over the layers of paint adorning your face. Your breaths became ragged as you tore the cloth sigil from the bodice of your dress, the only thing left showing your status in this deplorable kingdom and soon you realized, the only thing holding you back.

You stared at your own reflection, a haggard appearance of a forgotten princess staring back at you, and you smiled. Quickly, you rushed to the door, checking for footsteps, before finding your way to the nearest maids chambers. Stepping inside you grabbed a few essentials and a cloak as black as the night’s sky. Once you felt satisfied in what you had taken, you steeled your nerves before quickly and cautiously making your way to the stables, now abandoned with everyone attending the event.

Your eyes scanned the area quickly before settling on a horse with hair as white as snow and eyes the color of indigo. Your form slowed, your breaths coming out in soft pants as you made your way towards the creature in awe of its beauty. You reached your hand out slowly, to gain the trust of the majestic beauty. Suddenly and strikingly you heard a voice sounding from behind you.

“My lady! Where do you think you’re going?” A rough, calloused hand gripped your shoulder tightly, startling you. You turned around quickly, your arms raising defensively. As the offending party grabbed your wrists to gain your attention your excitement died down and your breaths came out easier when you took in the features of Changbin, your personal first knight assigned to you. Your expression became one of relief as you took in the worried, curious look resting on his angular features in the low light of the stables.

“I’m leaving, Changbin. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I can’t go through with this. Please don’t try to stop me..” You said gripping his hands in yours, staring into his eyes hoping to portray the feelings pooling in the base of your throat, causing your words to come out choked. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t change your mind if I wanted to, princess. Here, take this.” He said, smiling softly. A gentle sigh left his lips as one hand reached into one of the many holsters on his person, while the other drifted to comfortingly rest on the crown of your head. His large, rough hands pressed a small holstered knife into your palm. “It’s a blade your mother used to use. I was supposed to give it to you tonight at the ball, but this felt like the right time.”

For the first time that night you smiled genuinely, staring into his eyes softly in thanks while turning to prepare the horse for your disappearance. Changbin’s hands found your waist, hoisting you up and onto the back of the horse before he quietly led you out of the stables, checking for prying eyes and quietly uttering you a safe trip. You made simple promises to return safely to him, unsure of how much truth they held, but sure of the comfort filling your chest with the smile gracing his face.

With that, you turned your head to the dark forest ahead and took a deep breath to steady yourself before going on this possibly dangerous adventure. Then, like lightning striking your nervous system, you heard a voice you had hoped to never hear again.

“Y/n!” Your father’s voice rang out over the courtyard causing you to gasp and whip your head in the direction of the sound. Changbin’s worried eyes stayed trained on your face as your indecision bubbled in your chest at your father’s commanding tone. Quickly muttering some words Changbin sent the horse off running in the direction of the forest, your confused mind allowing the actions to happen wordlessly as you watched Changbin draw his sword against his own king to protect you and allow you the freedom you had longed for. 

---------

It had been moments, maybe hours, you were unsure. The sky bared no stars as you stared hopelessly heaven bound with your eyes blurred. The chilly air hurt your cheeks now dry from the rivers of tears at your actions. Your steed came to a slow, wearily looking around the dangerous wood. All that was to be heard around you were the low grumbles of the predators and the soft snapping of twigs. In the haze of your misery you were lost and cold, unsure of even your own safety as you whipped your head uneasily in every direction of unknown noises. 

It was then that a loud howl sounded from somewhere nearby, a chorus of others following suit. You tried catching sight of the beasts making the horrid sound, but soon it seemed as though the guttural growls were surrounding you, closing in on their next meal. You yelped loudly as the horse became unsteady and afraid, dashing off towards the nearest escape. From your lips feeble shrieks of protest left, but to no avail. The creature’s of the hunt followed suit, a game of cat and mouse. Suddenly, one creature, the largest, leaped out from beyond a too dark clearing in front of your path, baring its fangs and lashing out with its dastardly claws. The horse came to an unsteady halt, rearing back and knocking your frail form harshly to the ground. You inhaled sharply, rolling away, your limbs tucked inward, as fast as possible from the now trampling hooves and paws. You held your breath, covering yourself with your arms and you cried. Tears poured down your face as you waited for the steps of the animals to recede. You heard their noises of primal instinct and found yourself counting the minutes down until they were long gone and satisfied with their hunt. 

When your arms went numb and the tip of your nose was sufficiently frozen, you turned over in the dirt, wet with dew, to stare at the empty sky. Your tears came until they could no longer, your breaths uneven with bitter air exhaling harshly from your lungs, and as your eyes stayed trained upwards, you allowed yourself one prayer to any god that would listen. 

Please. Just let me see one star. One being from above that would understand. 

Abruptly you were taken aback by an unusually chilling wind blowing through the branches of the tall oak trees, causing you to wrap your arms tightly against your grimy, shivering self. Slowly you allowed the exhaustion of the night to take over your features, your eyes closing allowing sleep to take over your dirt ridden form. Finally, you felt some semblance of peace come over you as you drifted off, a prayer still sitting heavy on your pale, chapped lips. 

“You’re one weird human.” Your ears suddenly perked as a deep voice suddenly sounded from somewhere nearby. You screamed, scurrying to cover yourself with some kind of protection. Your eyes scanned the surrounding area frantically searching for the source of the voice. 

“W-who’s there?” You said with as little confidence as you could muster. You cursed your voice for shaking silently as you continued your frantic search for this possible danger. Your eyes landed on a large branch nearby and your legs moved on their own accord, sliding you harshly against the hard, cold ground to scramble to grip the branch tightly, turning and holding it out in a manner you could only hoped looked more threatening than it felt. 

“So silly..” The deep voice chuckled out from somewhere behind you. You yelped, waving the stick in the opposite direction, hoping not to lose your footing against any loose rocks or sturdy tree roots. Your dress was torn and soaked and the gentle breeze now moving in random intervals was jarring and dancing around your cloaked form, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. A sudden snapping sound from a branch above your head caused you to scream, throwing the large branch with all of your feeble might towards the offending sound. A larger breeze blew by, obscuring your vision with your own hair and you scrambled to remove it from your vision. As your finally were able to get a glimpse of a male slinking towards you another breeze blew harshly by causing your to sigh sharply, your hands flying back up to your face to remove the hair blocking your vision yet again. “Your gonna hurt someone throwing those things.” The voice sounded again, humor twinkling off of his lips with smooth curls of laughter. 

“Who are you? What do you want with me??” You said, your feet backpedaling as you finally removed your hair from your face again to take in the sight before you. Your eyes scanned the clearing of trees in the dim light unable to find the man you had been questioning and just as you began to question what was even real, you heard him again, your head whipping in the direction of the sound. 

“I should be asking you that, considering you called for me..” He said, the humor never leaving his tone. You began to feel embarrassed at the thought of this man laughing at your pitiful state. Your cheeks grew red and your ears felt hot as you began wondering why you didn’t feel as in danger as you had earlier that night, deciding to deem it all on how wild the rest of your night had already been. Instead of answering you simply furrowed your brow, scanning and searching with your eyes still trying to find the source of the inquiry. Out of the blue in the still night, yet another breeze blew by roughly, chilling you to the bone. A branch suddenly creaked above you and you scrambled back to get a view of what could be perched there.

“Looking for me?” What you found, illuminated by the dim white moonlight, was a boy, seemingly about your age, swinging his legs softly to the gentle sway of the winds. His hair was strikingly white, pure as snow. His pale skin shone softly as if covered gingerly in new born stars. His eyes held mirth, much like his cheshire smile, and his whole body was lax with amusement as he stared down at you. In shock you stumbled backwards, falling over yourself and landing harshly on the ground, yet again tonight staring up at the sky. You felt the wind tousle your hair, but you didn’t seem to have the energy to care much as your mind grappled with its own questioning thoughts. 

“Uhm..lady? Are..haha..are you okay?” His question, broken with impish laughter, felt comforting in a way as he leaned over your form, searching your face with curious eyes and a interrogative furrowed brow. You turned your head softly, staring into the now shocked eyes of the boy with the angular features and moon like eyes before suddenly your lips twitched, the corners of them quirking before a laugh began to bubble out of your chest. The laugh itself with incredulous and loud, joyous like a little kid finally discovering how something works. The boy looked back at you, tilting his head like a confused puppy as he watched you sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows. He didn’t make a move to back up or give you any space, instead leaning closer to examine you further. 

“Did you hit your head or something, funny lady?” He said, his deep voice and boy-like expression of wonder and frustrating confusion only spurring your laughter on further as you grappled for breath. The events of tonight were catching up with your exhausted state and you found yourself wondering if this boy who shone so brightly on this gloomy night was even real. 

Once you could finally catch your breath you sat upright and really took in the sight of him. He may have seemed young on the outside, but somehow he held a powerful aura, like he knew more then he let on. His smile was dazzling as he stared up at you with eyes that twinkled with a silent knowledge. You felt as though he was looking past your filthy outward appearance, and instead he was reading through your soul, listening silently to the story you couldn’t find the words to tell. 

He stood suddenly, as if he found the answer to the question that had been dancing around like the winds, curling through each of your minds. His smile became softer and more genuine as he looked down at your still seated self and slowly outstretched his hand. It was a gesture you were unfamiliar with. It wasn’t a sudden, demanding grasp of your non-consenting hand. It wasn’t rough and calloused, with a predator-like grin gracing his features, but, instead, as you slid your hand over his palm in a silent proclamation of trust you found yourself reveling in how silky smooth his larger, more slender hand felt wrapping around yours in a protective gesture. He glanced at you, a playful smirk playing on his cherry red lips. 

“Do you trust me?” He said, his deep voice breathy and patient, allowing you whatever amount of time you felt like you needed before you nodded slowly, hesitantly. He tilted his head in a munificent gesture, encouraging you to verbalize your thoughts. You felt the minuscule inkling of a curl to your lips forming, your eyes catching on how he seemed to be emitting light in this dim forest. The wind blew softly, ruffling your hair and caressing your now heated cheeks. He watched your features carefully as you bowed your head and giggled to yourself at the sensation of the winds dancing around the both of you. The chilly night felt warm as you turned your head slowly and methodically towards him again, your eyes glistening with an unreadable emotion and you breathed in deeply in a more relaxed manner. 

“I do.” You said, beaming up at him now, your small, frail hand squeezing his a little tighter. He smiled fully now and to you it felt like sunshine. He watched your face, entranced in your beauty taking not of how grateful he was to have answered your call tonight, vowing to bring that smile back whenever he could. Your expression grew concerned as the look in his eye changed and he suddenly pulled you towards him, wrapping one arm around your shoulders before taking off in a sprint. 

You tried to match his pace with a yelp, the wind now pushing you around forcefully. Your cries of protest were drowned out with his hysterical giggling. He forced you forward for a few more minutes as you began to question his strange motives before suddenly he came to a stop. His landing was much more graceful then your sudden stumbling forward, but as you gained your footing your objections died in your throat as you took in the sights around you. The forest behind you now, you stood in a clearing with grasses tickling your ankles, but the most impressive thing about this sight was the flowers. In full bloom, covering the surrounding area as far as your eyes could see were twinkling white flowers. Some stayed small and subdued, while others were larger, demanding more attention, but all of them shown with outstanding luminescence. Your breath caught in your throat as you stood completely rigid, taking in the sight. 

You then felt a soft breeze, pulling your out of your shock with a shiver before you felt an unexpected heat radiating from behind you. You felt a soft hand trace your jaw from somewhere behind as you held your breath expectantly. His hand moved from your jaw to trace the outline of your neck, gathering your hair lying there and tying it tenderly away from your face. Your sudden inhale as his fingers tickled the nape of your neck caused him to chuckle, his close proximity allowing you to feel his warm breath fanning over your shoulders. You suddenly felt balmy as he leaned his face closer, his breaths coming out in an intoxicating manner, dancing around the area where your neck meets your shoulder. 

“Look up.” He said, his voice coming out in a heady whisper. You gasped as you complied, your head whipping up too quickly, causing the male to snicker behind you. You couldn’t seem to care as you took in the sight before you. The once empty sky was now covered in brilliant gleaming stars, all feeling as though they were staring right at the two of you, encouragingly. You weren’t sure what they were encouraging, but just the silly thought itself had you laughing softly, your eyes slowly trailing over everything in front of you yet again. If it weren’t for the questioning hum the man had released you may not have even noticed the sturdy arms wrapped loosely around your waist or the cool skin of his cheek now resting on your exposed shoulder. You may not have even taken note of the breath now fanning comfortingly over your own blushing cheek of the look in his eyes as you turned slightly in his arms to get a better view of this new expression. 

He took in your overwhelmed face as you tried to form words for the thoughts racing through your mind and he laughed, his head tilted back and chuckles racking his toned chest. You took in the movement behind his green tunic, complimenting his pale skin and you blushed again, turning your face away sharply. He gripped your shoulder with one hand softly, making sure not to startle you, while his other hand outstretched softly to point towards the cushiony grass beside of you. You took the hint and made a move to sit and take in the view before you.

He giggled as he helped move the layers of your dress away so you could sit comfortably before taking his seat beside you. You found yourself becoming encumbered with exhaustion and slowly with the gentle breeze swaying the twinkling lights, you let your head pull to the side to rest easily on his shoulder. He moved slowly as to not jostle you allowing more comfort for your tired form.

“You know, lady. I never caught your name..” He said, a hint of gentle humor lacing his deep baritone.

“I’m sorry..” You hummed out, “I’m y/n. Supposed princess of this kingdom.” You said, your tone sounding harsh even to your own ears. “I’m not sure I’d like to even ask who you are.” You said, laughing to help lighten the mood.

“Hmm.. I don’t think I was ever given a name where I am from.” Your brow furrowed at his response as you moved your head from its resting perch to look up at his questioningly. He laughed again, his body folding as he chuckled at your expression. “A story for another time, y/n.” You accepted his response begrudgingly, distracted by the way your name sounded on his lips.

“So what are you going to do when morning comes, little one?” He said, no malice in his tone. You sighed harshly flopping backwards to lay in the soft grass fully, surrounding yourself in the perfumed scent of the fluttering flowers. He took that as an answer in itself as he watched you, amused.

“You need to go back.” You groaned loudly as these words left his lips and he laughed as he shushed you, pushing you softly causing you to dramatically roll over laying your head on his thigh, a noise of protest leaving your bemused lips. “Let me finish would you!” He continued, annoyance playfully covering the syllables while he ran his fingers gently through your messy hair. You smiled, appeased for a moment while staring longingly towards the stars above. The sky was lightening and you felt your smile slipping at the realization that they would be gone again soon.

He frowned watching your face grow frantic with concern before softly resting his cools fingertips on the bottom of your chin, non-forcefully turning your face in his lap to look at his own passionate expression. He tilted his head to match the angle of your, his silliness making you giggle softly before continuing.

“You may have to go back, but you can always come back here, it’s all for you.” He let his eyes slowly trail over you, landing on your hand twisting anxiously tearing up small strands of the grass without realizing. He slid one of his hands comfortingly down your arm, trailing his fingertips lightly over the back of your hands. It felt as if getting a sunburn, getting too close to the beauty of something terrifying. “Look to the stars, I’ll always be there, watching and waiting.” He finished, his voice getting deeper with each second he stared at your animated expression staring up at him expectantly.

You felt your eyes welling up with tears at the peace being here brought to you, knowing it would be ending soon. You tried forming words, prayers, but your lips were too wobbly and my voice was too weak.

“When will I see you again? Wh-what should I even call you??” You finally managed to squeak out, the thick, hot tears you felt curling down your cheeks didn’t sting nearly as much as the thought of leaving him here, only to return to the torturous duties lined up for you at your home. He smiled sadly at you, blurring your senses with how ethereal he looked. His hands twitched against your wrist as he continued his comforting path, avoiding your eyes as he furrowed his brow in thought. Without thinking, out of desperation for an answer, you swiftly intertwined your own fingers with his, your palms slotting together as if fitting missing puzzle pieces together.

“You’ll see me when you need me.. but I’ll always be there.” You pursed your lips in a pout and he smiled again, taking his hand once tangled in your hair and running it slowly, methodically over your furrowed brow, smoothing the skin there and allowing your features to find solace again. “and why don’t you give me a name that you like, y/n.” He offered, his voice softer than you had heard it before, no amusement, only timid hope.

A name. Something so uniquely human. Something lovingly crafted for an individual. Something that holds meaning and myth. Something totally your own. You frowned in thought for a moment and he watched as your eyes glazed over patiently. Suddenly, you sat up rigidly, turning to face him, leaning closer then you had ever been previously. The sudden movement startled him, causing him to laugh awkwardly, his eyes blown wide while staring at your expectant and excited face.

“I’ve got it! I’m going to call you Felix!” You exclaimed. He furrowed his brow, tilting his head and repeating the syllables slowly, testing the way they tasted on his lips. Then he smiled at you teasingly, taking your breath away briefly. You rushed to find some way to explain yourself before the heat fighting it’s way up your neck found your cheeks. You stared into his eyes determined before explaining. “It means happiness. I found happiness tonight, here with you, when I couldn’t back there. They may not ever make me happy, but I have you. My happiness. My Felix.” You finished, grinning widely, appeased.

His grin couldn’t be contained as he laughed softly at how cute you could be. As he let his grin take over his features he let his eyes drift over your close proximity. His fingers began to unfold from between yours, drifting their way up your wrist, feeling your rushing heart beat. They slowly danced over your shoulder making you shiver slightly, as he noticed his teeth took purchase in his bottom lip, the movement catching your eye. His fingertips barely tickled the skin of your neck, causing goosebumps to break out over your skin. Once his hand pushed your hair back, tucking it behind your ear you could hear your own breathing, practically panting at his gentle actions. The longing in your eyes causing his eyes to become hooded with a guarded emotion.

Slowly, his hand found its place on your cheek, his cool palm was in great contrast to your too warm skin. You reveled in the feeling, yearning to remember the way this solace felt in this moment. He smiled softly, a flash of teeth all you could see before he was leaning in tenderly. He allowed you to make the moves on your own as well, only continuing forward when you would and only you were both nearly touching, so close you were breathing the same air, he allowed himself a glance at your pink lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own lips before he pulled back slightly a serious expression on his face.

“Can I?” His voice came out breathy, heavy with something you couldn’t name. You smiled softly, pleased with his ability to ask, always thinking of your feelings first. You couldn’t even resist long enough to answer before you were wrapping some of your fingers around his larger wrist, tangling the others in his too pretty hair, pulling his face towards yours and connecting your lips together passionately.

This kiss was unlike anything you had ever heard of, instead of sparks and passion it was butterflies and subtle hints of laughter you could feel bubbling in your chest. The kiss was lingering and slightly bittersweet. You could taste the saltiness on your lips from your tears mixing with the sweetness of his lips on yours. It was perfectly melancholy and grossly beautiful. Tragedy in the form of serendipity.

As you parted Felix’s hands soothed your cheeks and wiped your tears, a smile playing jokingly on his lips. He poked your nose and leaned forward to kiss your forehead lovingly. You smiled through the onslaught of tears and gasped at the dawning sky above you now. Your eyes frantically searched for stars you knew you wouldn’t be able to see anymore, until they fell on Felix’s sad expression. He tried to smile softly for your sake as he stroked your cheek gently.

He then removed himself from you, before standing and helping you up as well. Once you were both standing, staring at each other with eyes full of unspoken words he breathed in deeply before leaning in to plant another swift, stolen kiss on your lips. You smiled as he pulled away, staring at the way his handsome features curled in amusement at your shocked form. He then, without your noticing, had moved his hand to the back of your head and with a soft mutter of words he knew you wouldn’t understand, you were suddenly unconscious in his arms. He lifted you, bridal style, and began walking back towards the forest where you had first met.

——

Once you all were back to the castle, a gentle breeze swaying the curtains, he laid you tenderly on your bed, smoothing your hair out around you and covering you with your own cushion-like blankets.

“Forgive me, princess. I usually would have asked.” He laughed quietly as you stirred in your sleep, as stubborn as you would have been awake. “I won’t be here when you awaken, but I’ll be back for you. You never have to be alone.” He slowly leaned forward, delicately placing a feathery light kiss on your lips. He made his way back to the window, tiptoeing as to not wake you, before turning to get one final glance at you.

“I’ll stay for you, y/n. Always.” He said, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips as a singular tear, the color of moonlight fell from his eye before all that was left in the room was a lonely princess and a gentle, light air dancing through the window like laughter and stolen kisses on a night only two will remember.

——————

[author-morgan]

Title: The Hands of the Queen Pairing: Bárid x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Reuniting with old friends brings new woes. Contains spoilers for the Wrath of the Druids DLC. @angstygunslinger​ come get Eivor’s brother cousin.

“DO MY EYES deceive me?” You query, watching the Norsemen disembark the longship at the docks. Norsemen in Ireland were not a rare sight, but those bearing the sigil of the Raven clan are. He steps onto the wharf, cool blue gaze darting around the new land —Dublin. Despite the long years, Eivor Varinsson is unmistakable, even if the last time you saw him was as children. You turn back to your apprentice, motioning for her to take leave with the basket of herbs and flowers —you would see the poultices and elixirs made after a reunion with an old friend. “Eivor!”

He spins on heel, eyes widening and lips curving upward beneath his golden whiskers. Yours is a face he’s not seen in what seems a lifetime. Eivor is quick to take you into his arms as one of his oldest friends. He steps back after a moment, still smiling even when you lift your hand to his scarred cheek —oh, the stories you could tell one another since the days of childhood passed. “You are a long way from Norway, friend,” he notes, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your lips quirk upward. “And yet, I am not alone,” you tell him, stepping back. The King of Dublin confided in you that he sent word to his cousin and old friend, asking for Eivor’s aid in trying times upon hearing of his deeds in England. “Come” —you motion for Eivor to follow, thanking Azar for her assistance— “I will take you to see my husband.” Bárid had grown anxious in recent weeks, worrying his message had not been received as the coronation of Flann grew nigh.

“Husband?” Eivor questions with a brow raised and mirth lacing his tone —struggling to believe the headfast and independent girl who would take no help from anyone would ever decide to be tamed by a man or woman. He glances at you and finds a flush of color on your cheeks, a rare and stunning sight. It takes only a moment longer for Eivor to piece together your position here in Dublin and that in the years past, you must have wedded his cousin. “You and Bárid?” He almost laughs, recalling how often the two of you were at odds over trivial things.

“He has his charms.” You’ve known many to lead unhappy marriages, but the gods truly blessed you when you married Bárid —even after all the times you squabbled as children. Eivor chuckles, glancing around the port city. It looks as though the people are preparing for a feast. “You’ve always had spectacular timing, Eivor” —you smile, half-thinking of the night Eivor came into the world squalling like a warrior. A reminder of the cold spring night when your own son was born. Banners are hung on the path to the King’s Hall, and lanterns strung from low tree branches. Today is a good day, and not just because of Eivor’s arrival.

“You’re just in time for a feast in my son’s honor. Sichfrith is seventeen today.” Eivor shakes his head in disbelief —so much time gone, and yet it all feels as though it were only yesterday when he, you, and Bárid were playing in the snow in Norway, all giving your parents more grief than they deserved. “We’re getting old, Eivor,” you laugh, guiding him into the longhouse where people bustle about in preparation for the night’s feast and where Bárid sits on his throne —holding court.

WITH FLANN’S CORONATION as High King, you hoped to hear word of from Bárid —that he would be returning to you sooner rather than later, but no raven or pigeon comes bearing news. It remains as such until a stormy night. Horns resound across the city in the black of night; had you been able to sleep in an empty bed, their cry may have woken you. Donning a cloak, you exit the longhouse in the pouring rain and lashing wind, seeing a procession turn toward the knoll. “Eivor!” You greet, quickly embracing him before heartache and fear take hold of you. “Where is my husband?”

Eivor draws in a shaky breath, turning to the wain drawn by two war horses. His cousin clings to life, but barely. The blade had cut deep —an avoidable folly had Flann trusted his pagan friends. “Bárid,” you whisper, fingers trailing down his muddy cheek. Your name rolls off his tongue, barely audible and pained. Steeling yourself, you move the blanket covering Bárid’s middle. If he is to live, you must act quickly.

Recovering the wound, you turn to the longhouse, calling for your son to wake. “Sichfrith!” He stumbles into the hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but stands alert when he sees the tears on your cheeks and Eivor carrying his father. “Go, wake Luigsech,” you tell him, pushing him toward the raging storm. “Quickly!” Sichfrith darts into the storm, seeking out your apprentice. Taking an ornate dagger from the bedside table, you place it in the hearth —letting the flames lick the steel until it glows. Fire is the only way to cleanse this wound. Silently, you and Eivor work to rid Bárid of his ruined armor. The gash is long and deep; the flesh below his right armpit torn open across his breast and nigh to his ribs. You pray to Eir and that she may guide your hand in what is to follow.

The first rays of the morning sun flood the room by the time you're able to sit back —brow slick with sweat and hands bloodied. There is nothing else you can do save wait for the gods to make their decision. Eivor presses a cup of cool spring water into your hands, then moves to the opposite side of the bed. It does not feel right to leave you alone with your thoughts just yet as Sichfrith had gone pray and unleash his sorrow on some poor straw-stuffed soldier. “I always feared the day this would come,” you admit, eyes flashing up from Bárid to Eivor. For so long, Bárid had traded his sword and shield for diplomacy and trade, a false hope you might grow old together —watch your son ascend to the throne for a long reign. You take a long drink from the cup, setting it aside while shaking your head. “You warriors and your Valhalla.”

Eivor reaches across the bed, seizing your hands. Now is not the time to resign to despair. “Do not give up hope,” he breathes, knowing his cousin is strong, strong enough to overcome this —strength ran in their family. “Had the High-One called his name, he would not be here now.” It is a type of poor consolation, but consolation, nonetheless.

You hold Bárid’s hand against your chest, lips brushing his knuckles when ire strikes you. Eivor sees the shift in your eyes —a woman scorned. “They will suffer for this.” The Abbot of Armagh’s last days on Midgard had begun. Drawing in a slow breath, you look to Eivor, appearing to him now as a leader and commander. “Take Sichfrith” —it was time he saw battle; you could shelter him no longer from the woes of the world— “and all our forces to ally with Flann.”

Eivor Wolfsmal rises, dipping his head in genuflection, happy to wrought destruction on those who would harm his friends and family. “As you command, queen,” he says, leaving with no delay.

In solitude, you allow yourself the time to grieve and beg the gods not to take this man from you. “Come back to me, Bárid,” you whisper, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead and another to his cracked lips.

“SLOWLY,” YOU CHIDE, almost laughing while helping Bárid to the entrance of the longhouse. The cry of the horns had come in the early hours of the morn, and after naught but two days of being conscious, Bárid sought to spring from bed to welcome the return of his victorious son. You press your hand against his chest, reminding him it will be weeks before he is fully recovered from his injuries —even with your skillful hands and vast knowledge of the healing arts. Holding tight to his hand, you smile, seeing Sichfrith ride next to Eivor with the pride of victory etched on their faces. Glimpsing Bárid, you see the same pride echoed in his smile and know never had there been a prouder father.

Sichfrith dismounts, untying a blade strapped to his saddle —a token from Flann of his friendship and a promise the High King of Ireland will support Bárid’s title of King of Dublin, and Sichfrith after. You watch as your son kneels, presenting the finely crafted sword. Silently, Bárid takes the blade, looking over it for only a moment before passing it back to Azar. He urges Sichfrith to rise, holding his son an arm’s length away before bringing him into a tight embrace. Your smile widens, gaze flicking to Eivor in hopes he will see how thankful you are for his deeds.

Despite himself, Bárid reaches out with his sore side, pulling you to him. Both he and Sichfrith wrap an arm around your waist. The tears on your cheeks are those of joy and relief. You brush your hand through your son’s hair, kissing his forehead. Bárid’s smile grows wider when he sees you looking at him with the same love and adoration from when you were both young lovers. He stoops forward, pressing his lips to yours —the two braids of his mustache tickling your jaw. The gods smiled down upon you the day you wedded Bárid, and now, as you embrace your husband and son, you begin to realize they have not stopped smiling upon you since then.

[jeaninetwill]

DO WE GET WHAT WE DESERVE? // SELF-PARA

only the dead have seen the end of war.                   — plato.

the capitol.

The Tower had fallen. 

There was this almost comical notion to it. Smoke was rising from a flickering spot at the base of it. Flames ate at the structure, licked at the walls like it could taste the suffering it’d held there, time and time again. Jeannie could, even from the rooftop she was standing on, watching from a safe distance, as instructed. 

She felt hypnotized by it. Her fingers curled tighter around the metal banister as she leaned forward, gentle summer breeze of the night brushing through her hair, sweeping over her cheeks like the softest caress. All the way below, thirteen stories down, people screamed. Yelled for justice, begged for mercy, scratched their throats raw with inaudible pleas. Jeanine pushed out a breath into the night that no one would hear over the humming of the hovercraft on the landing pad behind. 

I want to fly.  Yeah? Maybe in another life. 

Promoted to Sergeant and all she was doing was stand on a rooftop and look out over the Capitol, while the troop of soldiers she’d arrived with from Thirteen had defended down into the streets to protect those who yelled for justice on the Capitol’s behalf. For those who begged for mercy on their knees in front of a rebel or two. For those you couldn’t find the words to express their utter fear of change. This was important, she had to bitterly remember. Very important. 

That was what Radia was doing, way down underground. It was what Titaniara Battenberg was doing in her mansion. Jeannie did the same, leaned forward on the rooftop like she was ready to take flight into the chaos below. Watching, waiting. For what, she didn’t know. Maybe to go up in flames again, like the tribute Tower. 

Her lips curled in brief disdain. Copycat. She’d done that first. 

district one. 

Jeannie only saw footage of the attacks in One. Huddled in a corner in the hovercraft, her eyes flickered between the screens. The mines, the victor’s village, the Academy. There was no methodic to the mess and Jeannie’s brain tried to make sense of it like there was any to be found. She didn’t understand why the rebels didn’t focus their attention on the Capitol, get their leader out of her cell, topple Battenberg off her throne and take over the heart of all of this. One diamond mine less didn’t make a difference. It just made a mess. 

Her arms wrapped tighter around her legs. Somewhere next to her, she heard a scoff. 

“Bastards,” the voice whispered. Soldiers force rebels on their knees on the screen. 

district seven.

Five soldiers from Thirteen died, and Jeanine was ushered back into the hovercraft as soon as the situation seemed to precarious.

An empty gun and a knife couldn’t do much against axes.

She felt a little silly suggesting she could just throw either of it in defense.

district four.

Hunter’s boat was sunk.

Jeannie had wanted to watch the last bit of wood disappear in the gently lapping waves. The footage cut to the district square, and several kneeling people.

district five.

Forty people died within two hours and Jeannie had to watch the entirety of it while Radia’s eyes were burning holes into her every once in a while. This was a test, and Jeannie had no idea whether she was passing it or not.

district two. 

In Two, Jeannie was kept in the middle of the troop. For courage, she’d heard somewhere. For safety, she thought instead. There wasn’t much courage to be offered when her gun held no bullets and the knife at her thigh was the only thing she could pull out in a fight, the only thing she’d managed to begrudgingly get from her companion. 

For safety, she knew. The hovercraft was no fortress. Jeannie would’ve been safer behind concrete walls, hundreds of feet underground. But she would’ve also been invisible. A guard from the dark of the night that would’ve protected no one but herself. 

In Two, the victor’s village burned. Copycat. There was no time to ask if anyone knew whether or not a certain Everett Lance was safe. The victor’s village went up in flames and it was such a familiar sight by now that it felt like a little piece of home, like she was standing in a piece of her mind, laid out, bared for the world to step into as well. 

Through the crowd, a pair of eyes met hers. For a moment, all Jeannie could do was stare, while the man stared back at her, dumfounded almost. There was familiarity to it, the sort that made her brows furrow.

As quick as he’d appeared, he was gone again. 

district ten.

It was her first time seeing a cow, and it was the first time Jeannie was glad to be told to stay back. She plucked grass from the side of the street and offered it to the animal, and quickly found that apparently, it wouldn’t shy away from swallowing her hand up whole right alongside the grass. 

Jeannie allowed herself a laugh. Even the soldier tasked to watch over her and the heard of dairy cows they’d found, couldn’t help but chuckle. 

district eleven.

They were ordered to pick up and transport, that time. Two sleek caskets sat in the center of the hovercraft. Jeannie pressed herself into a corner as though they begged for more space than death could demand. Nonetheless, she didn’t dare move. 

district twelve.

A weeping willow sank into the ground when a mine caved in. The smoke wasn’t kind to any living organism, the fire didn’t spare the century old wood. In fact, the fire spared no one. Neither did the hunger. 

Neither did the bullets that prevented the rebels from reaching Thirteen. 

district three.

Three had colorless fireworks that Jeanine knew all too well. They didn’t let her go near it. She didn’t quite know why, but if she had to chance a wild guess, she’d consider the fact that bombs and her had never gotten along well. It felt like shaking hands with an old friend now, one who held your hand tightly enough to squeeze a whimper from your lips and tears from your eyes, grinned into your face until you sank to your knees, waited to ask how you were feeling, and vanished before hearing an answer that wouldn’t come. 

Jeannie watched camera footage again, and wondered if she could feel anymore detached from it. None of it felt real. None of it felt quite real and there was a reason. 

It’s a Game.  It’s all a Game.  What are you gonna do, kill me?

She almost had herself convinced with this. 

When the meeting concluded, Jeannie sent Radia Thorn a short nod. 

She walked back to her room, stifled her choked sobs in her pillow. 

district six.

She saw Six from up in the sky as they passed over it from Three. No need to stop, she’d heard somewhere. The situation was already under control, without an honorary Sergeant there for support. 

There was no damage done to the victor’s village, no more dead victors to report, and Jeannie could breathe for a moment, before the heaviness settled back into her stomach. It tasted of metal, blood and the smoke that rose from the derailed train. 

district nine.

Jeannie was taken on a search through a house, under suspicion for housing rebels, and even now when she closed her eyes, she could see the frightened look of the woman pressing herself against the wall. Like Jeannie was holding a knife to her throat, like she was doing anything other than turn around herself a couple of times to look for something she didn’t want to find. 

She could offer the woman no reassurance, but she had the decency to look away when a soldier with a round face put her in handcuffs and led her out of the house. As though the clicking of the metal was too private, too embarrassing a thing to be seen. 

It should’ve weighed heavier on her conscience. 

The eyes that’d stared at her in fear had been the same as the boy’s in the bloodbath, not even a year ago. 

district eight. 

It rained in Eight, and still, it burned. 

A wet squelch sounded from under her boots as Jeannie jumped of the landing ramp onto the wet earth. A breath escaped her lips as her hand remained pressed against the metal hull of the hovercraft, propping herself up as she wandered around the side of it. The soldier who’d stayed behind with her was focused on the screens inside enough for her to catch her breath, wander out into the soft drizzle that matted the hair to her head, wet strands sticking to her forehead. 

It was dark enough that she couldn’t see the smoke rise from the burning factory in the distance, but the otherwise dark sky was still colored red in some places. Perhaps the rain had washed some of the grime away, softened the stench of smoke and ash in the air. Or, she was just used to it. 

Her back settled against the warm body of the machine, humming still, from the running motor. Jeannie took a breath, and let it escape into the air again while around her, the rain made the already muddy ground even harder to navigate. It was nice enough. She could prepare herself for the scolding of dirty shoes on the hovercraft while she closed her eyes to settle her soul. 

She was out here for the shortest moment, and already she felt out of place. Something in her magnetically tugged towards somewhere warmer, familiar. Ash sticking to her skin was a habit she couldn’t seem to shake, nor did it appear like she particularly wanted it to. Panem was burning, and it finally felt as though everyone had been let in on her secret. They knew how it felt. They knew now, and Jeannie would’ve smiled at everyone walking past her during the day, if there was anything to be found nice about how she felt. 

She was sixteen and she was twenty five and she’d died before and everyone who knew what that felt like deserved every ounce of pity this world still had to offer. 

Jeannie closed her eyes, and listened to the splattering rain and the vibration of the motor pressing into her back. Just another moment, before the soldier would surely notice her absence and drag her back inside like it mattered that she was here in the first place, called her Sergeant Twill like it meant anything in the first place. Just another moment of solitude. She deserved that, after one strategy meeting after the other. After one scrutinizing look too many. Just another moment, and she could pick up the pieces she’d let fall for a moment and go on. Just another moment, and she’d-

There was a rough yank at the lapels of her damp jacket and Jeannie let out an involuntary yelp. She’d known someone would come looking for her and drag her back inside, scold her for carelessness, but she hadn’t anticipated for it to be this... vicious. 

Her eyes fluttered open as she stumbled forward, entirely prepared to look at the round face of the soldier she’d snuck away from. Instead, she was met with a pair of familiar eyes. 

She realized it quicker this time, though only part of it. 

There were eyes, and this time they didn’t look at her dumbfounded. They looked angry. 

Jeannie didn’t even have time to swallow her surprise or her gasp when she was pulled forward again, harshly lifted off her feet with the sort of strength only a special sort of rage could provide. 

“I know what you did.” 

She felt the breath knocked out of her lungs even before her back hit the muddy ground and a grunt vulgarly forced its way past her lips. A sharp pain erupted in the back of her head as she tried to gasp for air, and failed. The world was devoid of oxygen and she could do nothing more but have her mouth open uselessly to try to catch the last of it. The man bared his teeth at her. 

Oh, what a soldier she was. What a Sergeant. He delivered a kick to her side, and she did nothing to stop him, couldn’t even breathe to put any energy into a movement. A boot sank into the side of her ribs, then another, and another, and Jeannie finally found the air to send a choked sound into the air, muffled by the falling rain. 

“I,” she rolled over, away from it, and the boot connected harshly with her back, before an arm pulled her back, “know,” he turned her back over, grip on her upper arm tightening when she began to struggle against the throbbing at the back of her head, the pain radiating through her chest, “what,” his hands grabbed the lapels of her jacket again to lift her aching upper body up off the ground, before slamming her back down into the ground, “you,” Jeannie yelped at the new wave of pain in her skull, she was lifted and pushed into the dirt once more, “did.”

She knew it too. Did he want her to spit out her guilt and repent right there and then, soaked and choking on the pain?

She found use for her hands, clumsy fingers rising up to shove at his face as he yanked her up again only to repeatedly shove her down. After a while, the pain in her head dissolved into numbness. Jeannie tried to kick out, and failed. A finger sank into something soft, something that elicited a yelp that didn’t come from her own, by now raw, throat this time. But the fist that connected with her nose made even that little triumph short lived. 

Jeannie could taste blood then, and it wasn’t from the copper spilled on TV. No, she knew this. It lingered, like the pain did. Her back itched with wounds that weren’t there, had never been there on this body that’d never crumbled to ash either, but knew what it felt like nonetheless. She tried to kick out again, tried to wriggle her arms from the tight grasp, and failed. Her efforts were merely met with a strong retort that even drowned out the sounds of her struggling as he put all her remaining strength into shoving at the man pressing her down into the mud. 

“I know what you did,” he forced out between clenched teeth, “and you’re gonna pay for it. You’re gonna- You’re gonna pay for it, you hear?” 

And for a second, that sounded awfully... broken. Panicked, almost. Jeannie stopped struggling for a moment, and that was enough to get the man’s grip to loosen for a moment. 

There was this unintentionally calm moment, in situations like this. The Tower burned and Jeannie pushed out a breath. Three went out with a bang and Jeannie could nod at the way it felt like, the way it filled her with this sort of dread that almost felt like something akin to numbness. The man’s grip loosened, and Jeannie pushed out a breath through the blood in her mouth, her nose, the searing pain at her ribs. 

Jeannie pulled back her leg, and this time, the kick met its target. The man grunted out in pain and weight lifted off her and she could scramble back, turn around and crawl away on hands and knees. Well, for about as much as anyone could call the crawling actual crawling, with how often her knees slipped out from under her, with how slow she was being with it. Her fingers grasped the cold outline of what she could only assume to be a rock, before she heard a gunshot ring out behind her. 

With a sharp exhale, Jeannie collapsed to the ground, blood mingling with the dirt and rainwater underneath. 

Before darkness beckoned her, the barest, bitterest smile lifted the corners of her lips. 

Even the Quarter Quell had been kinder to her than her home. 

[vigilvntes]

Broken - Kylo Ren x Reader

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

"when i fell hard, you took a step back."

--------------

You had failed. Failed the mission. Failed the Supreme Leader.

Failed Kylo.

He had trusted you, and you fucked up. The Supreme Leader told you if you returned empty handed, it would be the end. So it looked like the end was nigh.

When you landed on Tatooine, you were confident in yourself and in your abilities. Training under Kylo was no easy feat. Despite him being your lover, he challenged you harder everyday, trying to make you the best you could be. And you thought you were ready for the ultimate challenge of a solo mission. How wrong you were.

The mission was ultimately quite simple. Locate resistance fighters. Extract information. Leave no one alive. But she never made anything easy.

------------------

You landed your ship close to where the resistance had landed, planning to make the rest of your way there on foot. But she had sensed you.

She had come to you first.

The one they called Rey. The Jedi girl. The one who had plagued Kylo Ren since the destruction of Starkiller Base.

The two of you stared eachother out. You, his lover, trainee. Her, his enemy, the light that conflicted him.

Eventually, she took in a sharp breath. "(Y/N). Why are you here?"

You narrowed your eyes, "Isn't it obvious? The Resistance are here. You're here." Each time you had met Rey, she had found her way into your head. Found your weakness. Which was him. You were almost prepared to hear how she spoke of your lover. Almost.

She bit her lip, pondering her next move, before she spoke gently, "I see you in his dreams, you know. I feel your presence in them, even if you're not there. You're bonded with Kylo Ren, more than anyone else."

You couldn't lie, you felt her presence too. In the back of his mind, bothering him, day in and day out. It wasn't that he loved her, no. He wouldn't do that to you. He just wanted to be better. To defeat her.

"You're his biggest weakness, (Y/N). The one thing that could bring him back to us. Back to his mother. To the light. And i think you know that."

You shook your head, looking away from her. "He would never turn his back on the First Order. I would never turn my back."

Rey took a step towards you, "I know you see the light in him. He's conflicted. And so are you. You were once part of the Resistance, you can always come back. You can always come home."

"Stop. Talking," you demanded, but she continued despite your wishes.

"You're both lost. You don't know where you belong. I know something in him longs for the light, for his mother. And i feel the same in you, too. I know you feel it! Neither of you have shut me out yet-"

Before she said anything else, you had sent her flying back. Using your power made you lightheaded, dizzy. Or maybe that was just the gravity of what she had said finally hitting you.

You looked down at her, as she leaned back on her elbow, looking up at you. Shaking your head, you whispered, "I'm sorry. I can't ...."

Turning your back on her, you made your way back to your ship. Your head filled with conflicting thoughts. She was right. Right about everything, you couldn't deny that. But surely you were in too deep now. Surely there was no turning back, for you or Kylo.

-----------------

As your ship pulled into the hanger of the supremacy, you silently cursed yourself for allowing her to see you weak.

You sat in your ship for a few minutes, too scared to leave for the moment. You were due for a punishment, that was certain. Snoke would punish you in the worst way, as he did to Kylo. You just weren't sure what that would be just yet.

Sighing to yourself, already expecting the worst, you left your ship, and there, just outside the doors, stood Kylo, his eyes narrowed, his plump lips turn downwards in a frown. Fuck.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he silenced you. "Supreme Leader Snoke requests your presence in the throne room."

You just nodded, silent. You wanted to talk with him. Touch him. Feel him. You wanted him to embrace you and tell you everything was alright. He wanted that too. But you both knew better. Punishment always had to come first when it came to the Supreme Leader. He would have time to console you later in the night.

You couldn't do much else but follow him through the halls, your head hung low. He moved fast, and you struggled to keep up, almost running behind him. The truth was, he wanted to get your punishment over and done with. He hated seeing you in pain, hated the look in your eyes afterwards. So broken. So beaten down. And he hated the one who would do that to you.

The doors to the throne room opened automatically as you approached, and Kylo couldn't do anything more than shoot you a quick, sympathetic glance, before the two of you entered.

You lifted your head as you approached Snoke, "Supreme Leader, I-"

"Silence." He hissed. "Kneel, child."

Your lip quivered, and your breath shook, but you did as you said, and knelt before him. Your whole body felt weak, drained, and tears couldn't help but fall down your cheeks almost immediately.

Snoke stood from his throne, approaching you. "You have failed. You allowed the scavenger girl into your mind...To read your thoughts. Your weaknesses. You returned with no information, and left the Resistance fighters....alive. Is that not worthy of punishment, Ren?"

Your eyes flicked to Kylo, silently begging him to save you, begging him to stand up for you against Snoke. But he didn't.

Kylo swallowed, looking away from you, he spoke shakily, "Yes Supreme Leader."

Snoke grinned, "Good." He stood right before you now, as he slowly placed his hand on your head, gripping tight.

You let out a scream, tears falling down your cheeks at a faster pace, as your mind slipped into the darkness.

You stood amongst the rubble, looking for any sign of another remaining survivor. But the more you searched, the more you realised there were none. Everything had been blown to pieces, no one had survived, apart from you.

You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry. But you couldn't. You couldn't do anything but stand there, hoping for it all to be just a dream. It wasn't, that you knew for sure.

You turned when you heard something behind you, the sound of a ship landing. Out of the ship stepped a creature, tall and lanky, but he radiated dark energy. He offered his hand out to you, hissing, "I can feel it. You have so much darkness in you. Come, my child. Come with me."

And you took his hand.

The darkness grasped your mind again.

You were in battle. Well, not exactly a battle. A village, which held women, children. Families. But you didn't care, you weren't the same as you were before. You had been training, harnessing your dark powers for months. Information about the Resistance was here, and you were prepared to do anything to not disappoint Kylo.

You knew deep down you weren't feeling yourself that day, you felt as though someone else was in control. Something else, perhaps.

You slaughtered each and every village member that approached you mercilessly, never giving them a chance to speak, a chance to defend themselves or their families. All you cared about was bringing down the Resistance.

You led the Storm Troupers through the village, until one of them found the information you were looking for. The man who held it was young, fresh-faced. You looked down at him, then at your squad, "Tie him up. Take him to Commander Ren."

You turned, making your way back to the ship, trying to ignore the man's screams, "Leave no one alive! Take the children."

The screams of the people killed that day haunted you forever.

The darkness again.

This time, something new. Something unfamiliar. This wasn't a memory of yours, no, this was something else entirely. Something which scared you more than the previous.

You laid on your back, resting on an elbow, your other hand reaching up, as if to prevent something.

Above you stood Kylo Ren, his lightsaber glowing red, aimed at you, and before you could stop him, before you could scream, he had plunged it through your body.

You were awake now, your head in your hands, sobbing. You let out another shrill scream, one that made Kylo cringe.

Snoke only looked down at you, a smirk on his features, "Completely broken." He hissed, as he made his way back to his throne.

Once Kylo knew it was acceptable to do so, he rushed over to you, trying to comfort you, to stand you up so you could leave together, but you pushed him away. Before he could so much as tell you to stop, you had rushed out of the throne room, sobbing quietly as you ran through the halls.

As soon as you reached your quarters you began packing, shoving everything you owned into a bag. You were ready to leave, ready to escape the grasp of Snoke. Rey was right, she almost always was. You had to return to the Resistance, return to Leia. Maybe that would convince him to come home too, although you weren't too sure.

A few moments later, the doors to your quarters slid open, and there Kylo stood, his eyes slightly red. He took a deep breath, feeling more guilty than before at the sight of you, dishevelled and broken. He shook his head, "(Y/N).... I'm sorry."

You looked away from him, "Sorry doesn't cut it, Kylo. Not this time. I'm leaving, and i'm not coming back."

His jaw dropped slightly. "But-"

"No. I'm not hearing any of it. You stood there, watching him inflict the worst pain on me. You allowed him to do that."

He closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself. "You know i couldn't stop him. You know what would have happened."

"So it's alright to watch me suffer?" You questioned.

"It's better than the alternative."

"And what is the alternative?"

The both of you fell quiet for a moment. You knew exactly what would have happened if Kylo had interrupted. Snoke always did enjoy a fight to the death. The emotional and physical suffering the two of you would have felt if it had come to that would have brough pleasure to him. That made you feel sick.

You sighed, touching his cheek gently, "I have to go. I have to leave. I can't be here anymore."

He let out a shaky breath, "Where will you go?" He already knew the answer.

You bit your lip, "Back to the Resistance. Back home. Where i belong." You walked over to your door, ready to leave, but you turned back to face him, "I hope to see you there one day. Maybe we can finally have something real. Just us. No Snoke. No First Order. No Kylo Ren." And with that, you left, only turning to look back once.

It was safe to say no control panel was safe that night. No officer was safe. Not even Snoke. Kylo let out his emotions in the only way he knew how: anger and a lot of destruction, on anyone who crossed his path.

[chorusfic]

the fall, the flight, and everything between--

(could be read as a follow-up to ill tidings. vague references to the ny’alotha raid)

---

Kalyste drifts.

It is different from a lack of consciousness, which feels heavy like stone in her limbs, different from exhaustion, which feels like a magnetic pull towards the ground she ignores only by digging into her deepest reserves of discipline. She feels light, and somehow unstable, like if she lets her attention wander she will become nothingness, as insubstantial as smoke in the wind.

She wonders if this is what Alleria cautioned her against, if this is the void come to claim her for good, in its endless hunger.

This is different, though, from the feeling that swallowed her nearly whole in Telogrus Rift. This is weightless drifting compared to the rift’s constant tugging at the threads of her consciousness, hoping to direct her in its desires, to remake her in its image. A deep sense of unease flutters across her senses, and a time-honed instinct from thousands of years of watching her own back--and others’--tells her beware, and she listens, and thinks.

Has she always been drifting? Has she always been here? Or has it been only a split second, dragging through time like plate-armored boots through sand?

“Kalyste!”

The scream centers her, abruptly, sharply, and she knows the voice’s owner as well as her own. Briony. But why is Briony yelling for her, in this deep, empty space, where there ought to be nothing but her?

Nothingness resolves itself and becomes the throne of a corrupted god, and in a scale of time she could only describe as instant and infinite, Kalyste takes in Briony, Wynonah, Wyndric, Asrian, the high exarch, crowded around...

Her. Her body. Her body.

In a rush, it comes back--N’Zoth’s final attack as the high exarch prepared to channel the power of Azeroth’s heart, the bolts of void energy lashing out at anything that might stop the caster’s intent. Most everyone had been safely guarded within the high exarch’s shield...save one.

Briony.

Kalyste remembers dashing from the shield’s protective barrier, seizing Briony’s arm, and shoving her close enough to the barrier that one of the Freys--Kalyste hadn’t seen who, in the melee--had been able to pull her in.

Nobody could have saved Kalyste from the retaliation, and the heavy truth of that realization brings what’s left of Kalyste’s drifting consciousness back to its center.

She, Kalyste Wildlight, is dead.

“No, no, no, Lady Kal, come on, talk to me!” Briony is already sobbing, in that desperate, heart-wrenching way Kalyste has seen before, from those begging their loved ones to stay, and never had she thought to hear it meant for her.

“Kalyste?”

Another voice, one Kalyste knows better than her own, almost breaks the dam of her own composure, and she turns to see Anasterian, watching her with a baffled expression on his face. “It’s--I suppose--”

“What are you doing here?” he asks before Kalyste can organize her thoughts, and the question brings her up short.

“Well, I died, in case it wasn’t patently obvious.” there’s something so incredibly morbid about the humor Kalyste finds in the matter-of-fact way she says it, but with effort, she suppresses a laugh.

Anasterian shakes his head, the confused expression still resting across his face. “It’s too soon, Kalyste. You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

“Can’t I go anyway?” Kalyste finds herself blurting out, voice shaking at its roots, followed by an immediate pulse of guilt, and she can tell the question strikes Anasterian at his core.

“Kalyste,” he says softly, this man she knew and loved as a brother, who she stood beside for thousands of years. She has seen him at his best and worst, and never has he looked so shocked or sorrowful as he does here.

Perhaps it’s the nostalgia, perhaps it’s the weight of her years and the things she’s survived, but it feels like too much to keep clutched to her chest anymore, like a hand of cards that has rewarded her with only misery and isolation. “I’m...” Kalyste begins, then coughs to cover up her own sob, a single one, caught in her chest like cobwebs, “...I’m tired, Steri. I’m...I’m just very tired. Haven’t I earned a rest? After everything?”

Anasterian picks up one of her hands, then both of them, and his grip is firm, and warm, and it lights a dying ember in Kalyste’s chest, all but forgotten. “There is no one I know on this world who has earned a rest as much as you, dearest sister,” he tells her, quiet and earnest, “but your last rest...I do not necessarily ask you for their sake,” he nods towards the shapes nearby, still surrounding her body, time slowed once again to an infinite crawl, “but for yours.”

Kalyste turns her gaze towards them again, releasing her hands from Anasterian’s grip, and with her focus, the scene plays out. Briony is clutching Kalyste’s body across her knees, her sobs almost too thick to make out the words anymore, pleading, begging for Kalyste’s life.

“You were supposed to be there, damn it!” Briony chokes, her hand clutching one of Kalyste’s limp ones. “You were supposed to watch Tae and I get hitched, and walk us down the aisle together since neither of us have mums anymore, you were supposed to teach me that cleaving trick you said you learned in Outland, you told me you’d fight for this, you said--” Briony chokes again and doesn’t immediately recover, and Wynonah kneels next to her, Wyndric at her other side, both Freys uncharacteristically somber. “It should have been me, she should’ve just let me go. She’s three thousand fucking years old and a bloody general, and she throws her life away for me,” Briony manages, and everyone around her straightens.

“Hey, hey now,” Wyndric speaks first, tightening his grip on Briony’s shoulder, “you know the Lady Kal would hate for you to think that, I hate for you to think that and I didn’t even die for you. She fucking loved you, kid.”

“Kalyste would rather sacrifice her life for a world where you would be safe, no matter how much she might want to see that world herself.” Asrian says, quiet and tremulous, and Briony’s sobs pick up in volume again, twisting Kalyste’s heart in a vise grip.

“You were something else, Lady Kal.” Wynonah finally says, volume stolen by her grief. Wyndric lowers his head, but picks up Kalyste’s empty hand, the other still claimed by Briony while her tears decorate Kalyste’s chestplate. “Sorry I gave you a hard time about Hal. You deserve...” Wynonah looks away before refocusing, “...you deserved to be happy for a bit.”

Briony freezes stock-still, then manages, still half-swallowed by her tears, “Oh fuck, what’re we gonna tell Hal? He’ll be fucking devastated. Fuck!”

With one ghostly hand reaching out for Briony’s shoulder before remembering she wouldn’t be able to feel the touch, Kalyste withdraws, and buries her face in her hands instead. “Steri--”

“I would never say that you should live only because others will it.” Anasterian fixes her with that same steely blue gaze she remembers from many arguments they had over the years, the expression that said he was not speaking to her as her king, but as someone who cares for her, deeply so. “But perhaps you would live for those who make it worth it.”

“It’s too late for that.” Kalyste leans back, puts the iron back in her spine, the general in command, but it takes more effort than it ever has before, and she closes her eyes, the last of her strength unable to keep them open. “I can’t go back, not like this.”

“You can.” Anasterian comes to her side once again, picks up one of her hands. “Kalyste--you have spent much of your life shouldering the burdens of others, and doing so with the poise and grace and stoicity that only a Wildlight, that only you, could, but I think it’s time you shed some of that weight. Trust in them,” Anasterian nods down at those who would call Kalyste family, those who hold her body, slumbering more peacefully than it has in millennia, “as they trust in you.”

Kalyste does not know what it is to shed her weight and give it to others--so much of her life has been spent on others, an expenditure that she does not regret, but it leaves her so woefully unprepared for this, for a reversal. “I’ll try,” she says, because she wants to, Light’s mercy, does she want to, because it means more time with these people who have already tried to take her weight in more ways than one. “I don’t know how to go back.”

“I’ll guide you.” Anasterian’s voice says, already fainter, as if from a great distance. “You will fall, and I know you will want to fly, but you must fall to return.”

Kalyste drifts.

Kalyste falls.

For a split second, she cannot remember how to breathe, and her coughing and choking feels like another opportunity to fall, and this time she wouldn’t be able to fly even if she wanted to. With effort, Kalyste gasps in a short, choppy series of breaths, her heart erratic in her ears, and her skin is cool, but she feels hands on her cheeks, armored hands, and hears Briony’s voice, high-pitched with shock and disbelief and a kind of improbable hope. “Kalyste? Kal? Lady Kal!”

Kalyste’s gaze is unfocused, blurry, a tunnel through which she squints to see what lies beyond, and the shifting shapes resolve into Briony’s face, blotched red and wet with tears, but Kalyste’s hands don’t respond like she wants them to, scrabbling at the floor with frantic, jerking motions. She draws another breath for strength, focuses her sight enough to look Briony in the eye, and while her tongue feels leaden in her mouth, she manages, “I told you...I would fight...” before the battle is too much, and the darkness comes to swallow her once again.

Kalyste drifts, and this time she doesn’t know if it’s hours or days or seconds between her bouts of cognizance, but she fights, she fights for every moment of lucidity she can grasp for in the shifting dark. She hears voices, reaching through the endless shadow, and her ears pick them up, buoys in the stormy sea of her mind.

“Kal? Kal! Don’t you fucking--”

“--take her, she’s going into shock--”

“--fetch Alaela!”

“--all I can. If she wakes, it is--”

“--stay with her, to keep an eye on things, y’know.”

“--it rings in the day, and it rings in the evening. Oh, I could pray, but it won’t stop you leaving.”

It’s the song that pulls her free, word by word, and the voice that sings it. Kalyste has never heard Briony sing, but she knows the cadence of her voice, the deeper pitch and the Lordaeranian accent.

“Shadow in black, you are grim from your reaping.” Briony’s voice continues, and Kalyste strains her ears, desperate to hear, even more desperate to speak. “Oh, can’t you spare just a day for the weeping?”

Speech is too difficult, yet, but Kalyste reaches for the last, recovering vestiges of her strength, and flexes her fingers where she can feel them rest against what feels like a quilt. Slowly, other shreds of awareness return to her, like with that tiny action, the shell around her skin protecting her from everything outside shatters, fragmenting away piece by piece.

Her body is warm, surrounded by sheets and quilts and pillows for her head and shoulders, and she can hear the faint creak of wood that comes from the boards--walls, floor, ceiling--in her borrowed home in Boralus, as well as the faint ticking of the clock downstairs. The smells of wood varnish and armor cleaner tickle her nose in their familiar potency, and Kalyste releases a breath.

It will take more of her strength to open her eyes, but she’s come this far, and she’ll damn well see it through. She flexes her fingers again, her awareness of Briony’s singing gone in the wake of the effort the action takes out of her, but the singing stops anyway the moment Briony’s hand seizes hers, and is replaced by a shaking, terrified voice, saying “Kal? Lady Kal?” there’s a pause, where Kalyste struggles to come up with a response, and Briony adds, “Can you hear me?” so much quieter than Kalyste has ever heard her voice. Just as when she watched from outside her body, with Anasterian’s image at her side, her heart clenches tight, and with it comes the last burst of strength she needs to open her eyes.

Briony hovers, her hand locked around Kalyste’s in a carefully firm grip, her amber eyes blown wide and already shimmering with tears, and Kalyste draws in one more breath, holds it, releases it, before saying, “You have a lovely singing voice, my dear.”

Torn between a laugh and a sob, thick with relief and joy and renewed shock, Briony tightens her grip and Kalyste struggles to do the same. “You scared us to fuckin’ death, Lady Kal.”

“That’s hardly fair, Bri,” comes Wyndric’s voice, and he pokes his head into the door a split second later, holding a mug with a tendril of steam wafting from it, “since she’s the one who actually died--ow!”

Rubbing the back of his head, Wyndric scowls at someone just beyond the doorway, and Wynonah saunters through, taking whatever mug Wyndric had been holding on her way. “At least save the dead person jokes for when she’s not still almost dead, Wynnie.”

She still feels too weak to laugh, but Kalyste does summon a smile, and it feels better on her face than it has in months, free of the effort it takes to do so under the pressure of the void’s whispers. “What happened?” she asks, still quieter than normal, but slowly regaining her usual steam.

Briony sighs and leans back in her chair such that two of its legs leave the ground, feet balanced on the frame of Kalyste’s bed. “Well, to be blunt, you died, Lady Kal. It was--” Briony swallows, and composes herself before continuing, “--really bad.”

“Dunno what happened, but it was like a miracle--you were dead for a hot minute, then suddenly you weren’t.” Wynonah shrugs, and takes a drink from the mug she’d swiped from her twin--coffee, if Kalyste had to guess. “Woke up and told Bri something, then passed out again.”

“You’ve been out for about two weeks, off and on.” Wyndric continues. “Sometimes it seems like you’d wake up, or get closer to it, at least, mutterin’ in your sleep and all that, but you didn’t respond to any of us. Lae finally said it was a coma, and that if you woke up, it’d be all on you: she’d done all she could.”

“All of us have been pulling shifts watching you.” Briony picks up the tale again. “Me, Nonah, Wynnie, Asrian, even Essie and Lae when they were free. Hal was here every night when one of us couldn’t be here--figures tonight would be the first night he got called away.”

“Night?” Kalyste looks out the window, then, and, sure enough, sees the darkness approaching midnight. “It’s the middle of the night?”

“Sure is. Why else would I be stealin’ Wynnie’s coffee?” Wynonah smirks at her twin, who rolls his icy-blue eyes. “Asrian would’ve been here, but he’s grabbin’ food for us. Was his turn to leave.”

“Wait.” Kalyste fixes a glance on each of them, settling on Briony, before cycling back to the Freys. “All of you have been here? The whole time?”

“Well, not the whole time,” Briony rolls her neck until it pops, stretching her back, “since some of us got sucked into the last bit of cleanup from Ny’alotha. At least one of us has been here all the time, though. Wynnie was here most.”

“Don’t need sleep, after all.” Wyndric reminds her cheerfully, draping one ankle over his knee. “Finally, being a death knight’s useful for something.”

“Don’t look so surprised, Lady Kal.” Wynonah gestures with her mug before taking another drink out of it. “We know you’d do the same for us. And as an honorary member of the Frey family I’m afraid you’re stuck with our hoverin’ til you’re back on your feet.”

“I should go tell Hal.” Briony gets up and casts a reluctant glance in Kalyste’s direction. “I’m sure he’ll hit the roof.”

Wynonah snorts. “I’d pay to see that. Don’t worry--we’re not goin’ anywhere till you get back.”

Still, Briony hesitates, then points a finger at Kalyste, who raises a single brow. “If I come back and I find out you’re dead again--”

“I’m on my best behavior. I promised you I would fight, and I will.” The smile comes easier this time, and she is tired, still, but filled with the energy from everyone at her bedside, filled with their excitable relief and joy.

Filled, she thinks, with the warmth of her family.

Wynonah and Wyndric--and Asrian, when he returns from fetching the group’s sustenance for the night--keep her talking, but ask little of her, having either been warned by Alaela that her strength would still be limited or simply knowing her well enough to know that this is the sternest test she has ever passed in her time as a warrior, a survivor, and either way Kalyste finds herself touched even deeper by their intuition.

Trust in them, Anasterian’s voice reminds her, as they trust in you.

“Hal’s here!” comes Briony’s shout, and it’s the only warning they get before Kalyste hears heavy footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a time if she’s counting the steps right, heart racing at almost the same pace, and the Freys and Asrian stand clear as Halford swings within, less a helmet, one of his shoulder pauldrons, and his claymore, face faintly flushed with exertion and moderately out of breath. Silver hair falls across his forehead in damp locks, but his gray eyes lock with hers and Kalyste feels her own well up with heat, tears falling before he’s even fully within.

Her arms reach out, weak and shaky, and it’s the only invitation Halford needs to take two swift strides to her bedside and wrap his arms around her in turn, picking her halfway up out of the sheets that have been her body’s sanctuary for the past two weeks, waiting for her pieces to fall back into place. He chokes, and his hand sinks into her ash-gray locks, careful of the single tentacle as he always is, and Kalyste places her arms around the solid shape of him as her blankets fall away, shifting from one sanctuary to another with seamless ease.

They say nothing, but Kalyste tightens her grip, and lets her tears fall, the first weight she can think to shed, into her family’s waiting hands.

---

Her strength returns to her far more slowly after the first day, and that is perhaps the most frustrating part of her recovery.

“I don’t understand,” Kalyste had told Alaela one day, at the end of her patience after a long and frustrating afternoon of attempting to cross her borrowed home herself, unaided, without much success, “I wasn’t out of it long enough for muscle atrophy to take hold.”

“No, you certainly weren’t.” Alaela had told her cheerfully, her own considerable volume of patience still intact despite Kalyste’s increasingly irritable mood. “But death--even temporary death--takes a toll on the body. Your brain was deprived of air for almost two minutes, and your soul completely untethered from your body. By all accounts, your survival shouldn’t have been possible--only someone with a particularly strong will could have evaded death like that without help.”

“So, you are telling me I ought to be grateful I’m here at all, rather than bellyaching about how long it’s taking to get back up to my usual strength?” Kalyste carefully avoids mentioning her encounter with Anasterian, which she was increasingly convinced must have been a conjured image from her subconscious rather than his spirit, but it was anyone’s guess.

“You’ll be back to normal soon.” Alaela had assured her, artfully dodging the question, but giving Kalyste a pointed glance that spoke volumes. “In the meantime, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Two weeks after waking, and Kalyste can just barely take herself out of bed and into the receiving room next to the bedroom before needing rest, but one week after waking, she had not even been able to leave her room. It is progress, she reminds herself, even if it may not be as swift as she would like.

Three weeks after her initial waking, Halford comes into their room holding his helmet in his hands. Kalyste reads a book Wynonah had acquired for her earlier in the week after complaining of boredom, and looks up when Halford leans his claymore in the corner next to Kalyste’s own, which she regards somewhat wistfully. “Are you up for a trip to Stormwind tomorrow?” he asks.

“May I ask what for?” Kalyste slowly bookmarks her book and sets it aside. “I confess I’m still not quite back to normal, after all.”

“I know--it would be a short visit.” Halford assures her, hands working to remove armor pieces. Kalyste’s own itch to help, but she doubts she’d be able to stand long enough. “The king wants to grant us recognition for our work against N’Zoth’s forces, and you, for your efforts within Ny’alotha itself.”

Kalyste shudders briefly at the reminder of that wretched place, but shoves the uneasy feeling aside. “Very well. I imagine I will need to lean on you for support on our way there.”

“Battlemage Menethil is coming here tomorrow morning, and opening us a portal to Stormwind. You won’t have to travel all the way to the Tradewinds Market just yet.” Halford runs a quick comb through his hair before setting it down, and Kalyste throws open a section of quilt for him when he gets close enough that he couldn’t be doing anything but coming to sleep. “The king has been informed that your recovery is incomplete, and the ceremony won’t be long. We’ll return here, and you can rest if need be.”

“I suppose that is agreeable enough.” Kalyste releases a breath, setting her book down on the bedside table before puffing a breath over her candle. “Though I admit I still despise that I must be coddled so.”

Halford doesn’t respond immediately. He busies himself tucking his body carefully around hers--after the first day he’d returned to their bed, and he’d been so cautious as to not touch her at all that Kalyste had taken initiative and wrapped herself around him, he’d returned, with no small amount of relief, to their typical arrangement--with knees fitted behind hers, an arm around her stomach and the other arm atop her pillow, over her head. He doesn’t quite bury his face into her neck like usual, but that just means he’s not done talking yet. “I know you dislike the necessity of it,” he finally says, “but you know as well as I that taking care of yourself now is the only way you’ll regain your strength.”

“I’m not accustomed to it,” Kalyste admits, shifting her legs and settling into Halford’s grip, “this drawn-out period of inactivity. I feel as though I ought to be doing something, making myself useful, but I’m far too weak to do much of anything.”

Halford is silent for a long beat, but doesn’t lay fully down, so Kalyste turns over her shoulder to see him regarding her with a kind of pensive seriousness, and it’s only when she turns enough to look him in the eye that he says, “Kalyste, you very nearly died for the Alliance, under a remarkable amount of duress from N’Zoth’s influence, which you successfully resisted for a sustained length of time. There is no one who could say you haven’t made yourself useful, even if that had any bearing on the fact you are entitled to rest when you require it, which it doesn’t.”

“I don’t think I’m really accustomed to that, either.” Kalyste turns back over, her muscles still feeling tender and fragile. “Rest without obligation. Relying on others for my care.”

Pushing himself back just enough to pull his hands free, Halford runs them over Kalyste’s back, and she hums when he digs his fingers into a particularly sore spot. He turns the gentle kneading into rubbing up and down her back, from shoulders to ribs, and the methodical motion fills her with drowsiness, closing her eyes as Halford settles against her again. “Do you recall what you told me, when I stubbornly avoided asking for your help when my shoulder was dislocated after that trogg ambush some months back?”

“I do.” Kalyste mumbles, only half-awake, but still paying attention.

“The same applies here.” he tells her, and she can feel his breath against the back of her neck, warm and familiar. “I would not be here if I did not believe in aiding you when you require it. Even if I haven’t been as available as I would like.”

“We both know we have responsibilities outside of ourselves.” Kalyste’s lip twitches up into an unseen grin, but she knows he can hear it in her voice when she says, “And I’d have strung you up myself if I’d heard you were shirking duty for my sake. I have never been alone long in my recovery.”

And it’s the truth. On the days where Halford cannot be there to aid her daily struggle, someone always keeps her company. Asrian brings his scrolls and tomes and keeps her occupied when she asks questions about arcane theory that have never been her strength, but Asrian simplifies them enough to be understandable. Wyndric brings his mug of coffee, for smelling, which he hands off to Kalyste when it’s cool enough to drink, and his somewhat morbid but well-meaning sense of humor. Wynonah brings books, and all the latest gossip from the Snug Harbor, and tales of her and her brother’s escapades in the years before they knew Kalyste. Briony brings pages of songs, some of which Kalyste knows, some of which she doesn’t, and together they sing, a harmonious melody with Kalyste’s huskier, Silvermoon-accented voice and Briony’s harsher, Lordaeranian tones.

It is the most Kalyste has ever relied on anyone in her three thousand years of life, but it never feels forced, rarely awkward--none of them have ever allowed it to feel that way for long. It feels, quite simply, like her family has come together for no other reason except to help.

Kalyste has had family before, of course--her parents had been her first teachers, catching her when she stumbled, giving her their wisdom in the years before she became knight-general. With her father’s death and her mother’s withdrawal from politics, however, there had also been a withdrawal from Kalyste herself, and she had been left to fall or fly, with only her own willpower to carry her.

She’d had Anasterian, too, and later she had loved Kael’thas like family, but Anasterian was a king and had far more to concern himself with than her. It had been her job to shoulder the burdens he could not carry alone; she would never have given him any of her own.

Not since her youth had Kalyste felt so treasured, so cherished, by this wonderful collection of people from vastly different backgrounds that she had, in some way, become important to.

Sometime during her introspection, Halford had fallen asleep--his breath puffs across her neck as he lightly snores, and Kalyste wraps herself in the sound just as she tightens her hold on the quilt covering them both, feeling its warmth settle into her bones, light enough to let her breathe, light enough to let her soar.

[rosesisupposes]

Do It For Us

Sequel to Do It For Him

word count: 5,881

pairing: Royality, background Analogical

warnings: Some mentions of poverty, forced ending of friendships, Deceit Is A Bit Of A Dick, mention of arranged/forced marriage, but mostly Quite A Lot of Fluff

reader tags: @residentanchor​ @royally-anxious​ @bewarethegrammarpolice​ @jemthebookworm​ @arandompasserby​  @sparkly-rainbow-salt​ @astral-eclipse​​ @thelowlysatsuma​ @adorably-angsty​

And, of course, happy birthday month to Royality Queen @notveryglittery and a million thanks to my beta reader and platonic wife @mariniacipher

I had so much fun with the previous fluff, and then @xxxbladeangelxxx inspired me to give the sunshine gays a sequel <3

Read on ao3

Sun glinted and flashed over the metallic staccato of swords clashing against each other. Grunts of efforts mixed with heavy breathing, as two men squared off in the castle courtyard. One feinted to his right then brought his blade in a flashing arc to his left, but his opponent saw through the ruse and blocked easily before retaliating with a snake-like thrust, laying his blade on the other’s neck. The man knelt, acknowledging defeat.

“I yield.”

“A good match, Ian!”

The kneeling man smiled, shaking sweat-matted hair out of his eyes. “It’s kind of you to say, but we all know you’re just so gods-cursed fast, Sir Roman. All we can hope for is to hold our own.” The standing knight grinned, auburn hair only just barely dark at the edges from exertion. “That’s what training’s for, is it not? Learning how to beat me.”

Roman was stretching and chatting with other knights and soldiers in the training yard when he caught sight of a silent audience member to the early morning exercises.

He slipped over to the corner to greet his Prince, grabbing a damp towel on the way to wipe his face.

“Patton, dearest, what wakes you so early?”

The young heir to the throne grinned up impishly at the knight-captain of his guard. “A little birdie told me you practiced shirtless.”

None of his bravado and bluster was enough to prepare Roman for this. A blush immediately spread across his cheeks as his gaze dropped. He was the man primarily responsible for the kingdom’s heir, and he’d run his mother’s farm for years before beginning the rigorous knight training of the past decade and a half. Every inch of his body had been toned in service to the crown and the prince in front of him. And said prince was gazing besottedly at his muscled chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with lust. Or rather, almost nothing.

Pulling them both around the corner, out of view of the soldiers, Roman leaned down to kiss Patton softly. Patton smiled up into the kiss, feeling the heat of Roman’s continuing blush. He broke apart, letting the sensation linger, when suddenly he squeaked as Roman lifted him and spun him around.

“Who knew our sweet prince was so shallow?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

“Only my gaze is shallow: my love is deep,” the prince responded, giggling as he regained his footing. He kissed Roman’s cheek and delighted in the pink tinge that resumed there.

“Dear one, as much as I love to see you, I am starving. I’m on my way to the kitchens unless you need my protection now?”

Patton’s smile dropped for a moment before returning. “No, sweet. I would never keep you from your meals. I will be in my room.”

Growing up as a single child in a royal family meant a young Patton had to be rather creative when it came to making friends. An impressively strong sweet tooth combined with an ability to easily slip past his etiquette teacher led him to toddle down to the kitchens almost every other day. Puppy eyes earned him cookies from the maids and chefs unable to resist. It was after a successful mission, when he was sitting in his favorite alcove, munching on macarons, that he spotted another boy his age.

“Hey! Hello! Who are you?” he piped up happily, waving with his free hand. The other balanced his haul of violet cookies in his now-stained tunic.

The boy froze, eyes wide as he realized the comment had been indeed aimed at him.

“Me? ‘M no one.”

“Silly, no one is no one!” the little prince said cheerfully. “Do you wanna mac’ron?”

The boy approached shyly. “Yeah, that would be nice. They’re my fav’rite color too.”

Patton handed the dark-haired child one of the tiny sandwiches. Cautiously, the other bit into it.

“Oh! ‘S good!” he exclaimed, mouth full.

“What’s your name?”

“Um, Virgil. Virge.”

“I’m Patton! Hi!”

Virgil nearly dropped the remaining half of the cookie. “The prince?”

“Uh-huh! Here, do you want another?”

“I, uh, no, I can’t, they said I can’t talk to the prince or the king or the duke because I’m too little and shy, I don’t wanna be bad.”

“That’s silly,” the little prince said. He squinted at the other boy. He’d already decided that Virge was his new best friend - for the first time, an adult hand wasn’t immediately pulling him away from him. “Dada is very nice. An’ Lyle is silly. You won’t be bad for talking to them!”

Virgil swallowed, then ate more of the cookie. “You sure?”

“Of course!” Patton responded, beaming. “Do you wanna play with me?”

Every day, Virgil expected he’d see the last of the prince, that playing hide-and-seek with a scullery servant would lose its appeal. But instead, their friendship only grew as the years stretched on.

When they were ten, he’d snuck Patton out of the castle for the first time, checking behind him every second. But they’d made it into the city without detection. They’d played hopscotch with other children in the main square, helped a seamstress hold her fabric still, and found a mother cat giving birth to a litter of kittens. Not even discovering his allergy to the fluffy creatures had dampened the young royal’s spirits, and they’d snuck back into the castle high on success.

When they were fourteen, Patton had found Virgil hiding in the dark corner, trying to calm racing thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. Patton had held his hand, talking quietly, and gotten him to start listing what he could see and feel. Virgil had confessed that he’d never tried those strategies before. Patton had hugged him tight to make up for all the times he hadn’t been there.

Roman had put a shirt on, at last, to go find food after training. Following his nose, he spied jam tarts cooling on the counter and slipped into the kitchen through the back door. Cautiously, he went to take a treat, only to get his hand slapped by a mixing spoon. Virgil’s glare made him smile sheepishly.

“Just one?”

“If you want to explain to the full Noble’s Council why their pastry tray isn’t perfectly arranged, then yes, you may have ‘just one,’” the pastry chef complained. “You know we have regular food down here, too.”

Roman sighed dramatically. “But without pastries, how will I survive? How will I live? I beg of you, take pity on me!”

“Then beg,” Virgil responded flatly. Then he made the mistake of making eye contact with the knight and snorted, falling into true laughter. “I’m making regular jam cookies later, Ro. Come back in the afternoon, I’ll keep some on the side for you. These are just the nice ones, kay?”

Roman grinned. “This is why you’re the coulis-t person I know, Virge.”

Virgil groaned in response. “I never should have taught you proper pastry terms. Talyn has some sliced ham and rolls in the next room, go beg from them, alright? I need to finish decorating.”

The knight gave a small mock of a bow and obeyed.

He and Virgil hadn’t always been so friendly. As a young man arriving to the castle for knight training, he’d haunted the kitchens every waking moment. The idea of a full belly was still exciting to a boy whose farm had struggled with droughts for almost half his life. But his sister and her husband had taken over the farm, and he’d been picked out for his strength to become a fighter.

He’d spent his first month in the castle sneaking into the storerooms at every given opportunity, eating anything he thought he could get away with. The kitchen helper, who was about his age, perhaps a year younger, had caught him first in the middle of the day, despite the lunch rush, then in the dead of night. How had he even been awake?

Roman was self-conscious of his hunger, surrounded by all that wealth, and lashed out at the creepy cookie who kept turning up when he least expected it.

But then, one quiet afternoon, he’d been sure the kitchens would be entirely empty. It was the rest period, so surely the safest time for a quick snack. Walking cautiously, he’d rounded the corner, only to see Virgil, covered in flour and butter stains as he carefully plaited a pie crust into a sheaf of wheat. The serenity of his concentration, the clear ease that came with no kitchen madness around him, and his proud smile as he successfully sealed his pastry forced Roman to see him in a new light. He’d cautiously come forward and complimented a job well done. One would think he’d actually seen a field of wheat, once!

The other man had nearly jumped out of his skin at first, but had then calmed enough to wave off the compliment with a smile. They’d had an actual conversation for the first time ever, and hundreds more soon followed. A strange friendship, perhaps, one that was tested every time Virgil made homemade jam for a treat that Roman wasn’t allowed to eat, but a strong friendship all the same.

Roman often wished he was able to show his love for Patton more openly, so that he could introduce the prince to the friends he’d made in the castle.

As he got into uniform to begin an official day as Patton’s protector, Roman spared a sigh for an old friend he’d yet to find here in the capital city. Growing up in a small farming community on the furthest borders of the kingdom, Roman had known only his siblings and parents until a new family moved into the plot next door. Their house burst with children, but there was one boy his age, one who viewed his very energetic siblings with a world-weary eye, even at seven years old.  But Roman, the youngest by a huge age gap, was lonely, and jumped at even a stick-in-the-mud as a potential playmate.

Their parents saw Logan and Roman’s friendship as oil and water, yelling matches during chores, long arguments that stretched through the harvest. But their clashes only showed how well-matched they were, how their competition forced them both to improve. Logan brought home books from the headwoman’s private library and introduced Roman to classics and plays, if only so they could immediately argue about the proper interpretation. More than one winter’s night found them in one of the barns with Roman leaping around a makeshift stage in an effort to prove how dramas were meant to be seen, not read.

But then, Logan left. The headwoman knew how much his parents struggled through the droughts with so many mouths to feed, and saw Logan’s innate brilliance. She found an opportunity for him to receive room and board in the capital city itself, and he’d be able to receive the best education Solarya had to offer. It was everything he could have wanted - except, he couldn’t bring his friend. Roman couldn’t leave his farm, anyway - his older brother was serving in the army, his sister had married and moved, and there was no one else to help his parents.

“Lo, I promise, someday I’ll come join you! You’ll see!”

“Roman, while I hope you’re correct, do not make promises you may never be able to keep. It is enough to say that we will try to reunite one day.”

They were standing at the gate, waiting for the coach that would take Logan and his few worldly possessions away, when Roman impulsively hugged the other boy. “I’ll miss you, Logan.”

The eleven-year-old stiffened, then hesitantly hugged back. “I… will miss you as well, Roman.”

Logan hadn’t expected the capital to be so overwhelming. Obviously there would be more people, but why was it so loud? Did more people in one space mean everyone needed to shout all the time? Even inside the castle, there was ambient sound everywhere. He didn’t find his first moment of peace until he was shown to the library. And the quiet of the room couldn’t compare to the symphony of excitement in his brain. Who knew there were so many books? So much knowledge to be unlocked! He was about to dive in when the closing door behind him caught his attention.

“Hello there!” a cheerful voice said in a very energetic library whisper. “You must be Logan!”

Turning, he caught sight of a jovial-looking man in the robes of a Royal University scholar. Round glasses balanced atop a long nose above a huge smile. “I’m Dr. Picani, your tutor. Do you how do?”

Logan stared. This man was not at all what he’d pictured as the most-respected professor in the kingdom. And what was that last sentence? He recognized all the words, but not in that order.

“Uh, hello?” he murmured back. “Yes, I’m Logan. I… sorry, you’re my tutor?”

“You betcha!” the happy man replied. “Not yours alone, of course. We’ll be sharing our time with one other student, who should arrive any second. Let’s go to the study room, shall we?”

He led the way to a small room that contained even more books in addition to a huge slate hung on the wall and two tables with a handful of chairs. Logan sat, still a bit dazed.

Barely a moment had passed before a rap sounded on the door. Dr. Picani opened it to reveal a huge soldier with a no-nonsense expression. “Dr. Picani. His Highness for his lessons.”

The professor nodded, and the soldier stepped aside to reveal a boy a bit younger than Logan. He had clean golden curls and wore a silk tunic. Logan was immediately uncomfortable. Sharing a class with a noble? Who’d probably be much smarter and resentful of sharing a class with a less-educated commoner? He looked down at the wood grain of the table, swallowing disappointment with the reality of what had appeared to be all his dreams coming true.

“Hiya!” a voice cut through. “I’m Patton, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Logan,” he replied, looking up once more.

“Nice to meet you Logan! I’ve never seen you in the castle before, are you new?”

“Yes, I just moved to the city.” Logan decided to not mention where he’d come from - better not give this noble any more reason to look down on him, no matter how strangely friendly he appeared to be. “I presume you’ve lived here for many years?”

“Since I was born! Not that I remember it exactly. Or really anything until I was three. Maybe I only moved here then? No but Dad says we’ve always been here so that’s probably right…”

Logan stared at the other young man as he happily chattered away. Was this what all nobles were like? The few who’d ridden through his hometown had barely made eye contact, let alone talked to commoners like normal people.

“Your Highness, maybe we better start the lesson?” Dr. Picani interjected with a smile.

Logan’s eyes grew huge in his face as he stared at the boy next to him. The guard had said it too - was this really the Prince of Solarya? Yes, Logan knew the Prince was named Patton, but it had become a very popular name in short order since the royal family chose it. The heir to the entire kingdom was grinning bashfully up at their shared tutor, practically still bouncing in his seat with anticipation.

The capital city was bizarre. But seeing the eager smiles on both his tutor’s and the prince’s faces, Logan realized he was probably going to have to get used to it.

As he neared his eighteenth birthday, Prince Patton was pulled into a small audience with his father and the vizier. Both men were stern.

“Prince Patton, why have you been neglecting your deportment classes?”

Patton winced - he’d hoped they wouldn’t notice. “Actually, Father, I have been using that time to learn more about my future kingdom and subjects-”

“You mean you’ve been spending excess time with your servants,” Duke Lyle cut in. Patton fell quiet, seeing his father’s frown deepen.

“Patton, you’re the crown prince; one day, you’ll be king. Our entire country’s fate will be in your hands. But the throne is only as strong as the respect our people have for it. If the prince himself doesn’t exercise proper decorum, doesn’t maintain the acceptable boundaries between liege and vassal, then no one will. Order will disintegrate, and every noble house in our realm will be affected. Now that you are coming of age, you must end these distractions, before another day passes.”

“But Father-”

“No buts, Prince Patton. My decision is final. If you cannot treat those who serve us in the proper manner, and insist on treating them as peers, I will be forced to dismiss them entirely.”

Patton felt tears brimming at the edge of his eyes. He was to lose his friends, then, no matter what he did. At the very least, he would not cost them their livelihoods.

“Very well, Father. I will do as you ask.”

Duke Lyle watched, eyes glittering in victory, as Patton left his father’s study and slowly trudged up the tower steps to his room.

Patton’s birthday arrived, and he was officially presented to the realm as the now-adult heir, no longer just the son of the king but now the official Crown Prince and king-to-be. He performed his role in the pageantry well, smiling and appearing solemn in the appropriate moments. He greeted dignitaries who brought well-wishes, he listened to subjects’ petitions as they appealed to his father, and he did his best to follow the deliberations of his father’s council of advisors. But under his polite mask, he was miserable.

Without his friends, he was alone in a world filled with adults who expected him to carry himself with all the dignity of a royal, yet did not listen to a single suggestion he made. Without the ability to visit Logan in the library, or Virgil in the kitchens, Patton’s days started to blend into one another as he was sent from meeting to audience to meal to meeting.

He begged his father to at least let him visit the city. “I won’t forget my position, Your Majesty. But I wish to be visible to them, at least. Please?”

King Thomas weighed his son with his eyes, then relented. “You may, then. But you’ll need a guard with you at all times.”

Patton deflated the slightest bit. “I suppose that would be most proper, wouldn’t it. One of the castle guards, then?”

Duke Lyle piped up, “Your Majesty, now that the Prince is of age, he ought to have a personal contingent of guards, shouldn’t he?”

The king nodded. “Indeed. There are a number of promising knights who might perform the job quite well.”

Patton was able to even smile naturally at both men. Having to keep the common folk at arm’s length wasn’t ideal, but at least he’d be able to talk to them. And having a knight-guardian would mean he’d at least have companion, if not a friend.

“Your Royal Highness,” Duke Lyle spoke up. “It has come to my and His Majesty’s attention that your silver jubilee is approaching.”

“My what?”

“You turn 25 this year, son,” the king answered. “When I was your age, I had been married a year, and you, my first child, had been born. It is time we look into marriage for you.”

“Father, Duke Lyle, I hardly think such a thing is necessary, not when Father is in such good health-”

“This is not just for the purpose of heirs and lineage, your Highness,” the vizier said smoothly. “Through your marriage, we can make an alliance, or settle tensions with noble houses in our realm or our neighbors’.”

Patton twisted hands in his tunic, hoping neither man noticed. How could he bear to marry another, when Roman’s love was all he wanted or sought? But they’d never approve, or allow such a thing.

“For instance,” the duke continued, his tone one of careful detachment, “the great house of Sanders has a son about your age. His parents are actively searching for an eligible match for him. And of course, they would never want to match him with someone entirely outside his preferences, just as we never would for you, Prince.”

“There are also some younger sons in neighboring kingdoms who could potentially make for a good alliance, but securing the support of House Sanders would be my preference,” the king added.

“I, uh, I thank you, your Majesty, your Grace. May I be excused to think on these options?”

“Of course, son. We will resume at another time.”

Patton walked outside quickly. Pushing through the door into the hall, he came face-to-face with Roman, who was smiling at him with that same gorgeous light in his eyes that always set the butterflies in his stomach a-flutter. But now the butterflies were sluggish and frail, disintegrating into a nauseating goo.

“Roman, can you come to my room? We need to talk,” Patton said. His normal smile quivered as he looked around the hall for observers.

“Of course, dearheart,” Roman said warmly, leading the way. He was so graceful in all his movements that Patton’s heart burned just to watch him walk away.

“Roman, my rose, it’s my father, and the vizier. They… want me to marry. A political marriage. One who just so happens to be Duke Lyle’s nephew. The young Baron Remington of House Sanders.”

Roman stiffened, then smiled sadly. “We knew it would come to this, did we not? We dared to love, knowing the impropriety of it, but we dared all the same. Sunshine, I would never interfere with your duty. I will always guard you, with my heart and my life, but if you must needs marry this noble, I will not stand in the way.”

“You wouldn’t resent it?”

“Would I pine and sorrow for my misfortune?” Roman asked, kissing Patton’s hand softly, then holding it against his own cheek. “Of course I will. I’ll curse my ill luck in being born common, cry fie upon the stars for separating us by our lineage. But I could never resent you, dearheart. Nor can I regret having the chance to have known you and loved you these past six years, not when I treasure each adoring glance and each kiss as dearly as I treasure my life. I only ask that you allow me to remain your vassal and guard, to hold you safe when I cannot hold you close.” Patton melted, hearing Roman’s rich, caramel-sweet voice speak such tender words of devotion. He leaned in to kiss the knight’s affectionate words while they lingered on his lips, and in that moment made a decision.

“Roman, I am to be king, am I not?”

“You’re already the king of my affections, but yes, you will be king of Solarya too, in time.”

“And the king’s rule of Solarya is absolute.”

“As it has been since the Sun herself named the first monarch, yes.”

Patton nodded. “If I’m to be the absolute ruler in the future, I can’t let anyone push me around with edicts that go against my heart and conscience.”

Roman caressed his prince’s cheek with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I won’t be coerced into marrying for politics when it necessitates a revolt against my affections. I will refuse to marry Baron Sanders.”

Roman felt his heart galloping in his chest as he met Patton’s shining, determined eyes.

“Patton, do you mean…?”

“Yes, my dear knight. Please, if you’ll have me…” He sank to one knee in front of Roman, keeping their hands clasped. “Sir Roman, will you marry me?”

Roman felt tears leaking out the edge of his eyes as he smiled so wide that his cheeks started to ache. “I will follow you to the ends of the earth, Prince Patton. I have been and always will be yours. Yes, I will marry you, dearest sweet.”

Patton found he was tearing up as well Roman pulled him up to stand with him. Brushing his cheek with light fingers, Patton kissed his now-fiancé thoroughly. As the kiss suddenly turned salty from spilled tears, both men started to giggle. Roman felt his breath catch in his chest, watching the afternoon sun catch Patton’s curls as he threw his head back to laugh. The knight pulled his prince back to him, tasting the sound of laughter on his love’s lips.

“Father. I am not going to marry the Baron. I will be marrying my guard, Sir Roman.” The king stared in shock as his son continued, doors still hanging open from him barging into the king’s private study. “I will be also inviting my old friends from within the castle to our wedding. You may rule as you wish while you continue on the throne, but my reign will not be so divided between classes.”

The vizier, in his customary place by the king’s side, found his voice. “Your Highness, this is all highly-”

“‘Highly improper’? Yes, your Grace, I’m sure it is. And I plan to do it all the same.”

“Your Majesty, you must intercede-”

King Thomas turned to face his chief advisor. “Lyle, you know I value your judgment and advice, but it’s true. Patton will determine his own ruling style. I won’t undermine it, through marriage or otherwise.”

The duke tried once more. “Perhaps, then, a small, private ceremony within the castle?”

“No, your Grace. I am not ashamed of my fiancé nor his status. It will be a full state wedding.”

And it was.

The day dawned bright and sparkling. Keepers of the royal dovecote prepared the white feathery creatures for the grand finale. Footmen laid yards and yards of carpet along the aisle and lined up the benches and chairs of the interior ceremony, while even more footmen and maids displayed bouquets down and out of the public audience doors where the rest of the crowd would watch.

In the office that had been taken over as the central location for the wedding planning, Patton knelt to be on eye level with his floral consultant. “Is everything in order?”

“Yup!” Val responded with a grin the displayed a missing front tooth.

“Even the crowns?”

“You don’t get to see them yet!” she responded, sticking out her tongue. “No peeking!”

Patton grinned and kissed her hand. “I’ll leave them in your capable hands then!” Standing, he exchanged a quick hug and kiss on the cheek with Teresa. He’d commissioned them to arrange every single flower for their celebration, with the full power of the royal treasury behind them. Looking around this room, still filled to bursting with lovely blooms and wreathed in a rich bouquet of scents, he knew he’d made the right choice.

He left and went through the kitchens.

There was Virgil, head pastry chef, forehead creased in concentration as he directed the last details of the grand wedding cake, as a helper delicately placed a sugar-spun rose on the top. The chef turned and caught the eye of the prince with a shy grin. Patton mirrored it and flung himself forward to hug the man.

“Thank you for forgiving me, Virgil.”

“Hey, it was royal duty and all that, right? Knowing you wanted us back, and to be part of your wedding - how could I say no? Even if it is to that lunkhead of a knight.”

“Excuse you!” Roman said, entering with an offended gasp.

Virgil smirked and hugged Roman as well. “Oh good, I didn’t want to talk about you behind your back. Always better to call you a simpleton to your face.”

Roman grinned. “I’d expect nothing more from my favorite marzi-pain. You’re going to be free for the ceremony, right?” He slipped his hand into Patton’s, still getting a tingle of excitement from being so open in front of others.

“Yes, I’m just finishing up here. Is L-, uh, is Logan getting pulled away from his books too?”

“We twisted his arm, or rather, Patton asked very kindly and possibly offered to increase the library budget. So yes.”

“Why, is there a reason you’d perhaps like our resident scholar to be present?” Patton asked in his blandest-possible court voice.

Virgil ducked his head in response and said nothing, but Roman and Patton made eye contact as they both noticed the tiny smile playing across their friend’s lips.

A servant popped his head through the kitchen door. “Your Highness! And Knight-Captain! Thank goodness. We’re getting close to the ceremony, we need to get you both ready!”

The fiancés squeezed their linked hands once more before following the servant out, waving to Virgil as they left.

Royal fanfare sounded as a string quartet began to play processional music. King Thomas stood at the altar as  Duke Lyle attempted to conceal his glower in his place at the king’s elbow. They looked with the rest of the audience as people from the city, the guard, and the castle turned in their seats. Two aisles curved on either side of the seating area.

As gentle tones played, young women strode down the carpeted aisles, sprinkling flower petals. One wore light pink and purple under a blonde updo, and the other in blue and white under a matching hairdo in light brunette. Patton and Roman emerged in their wake from separate entrances. Virgil and Logan, in matching slate-grey suits, accompanied each fiancé as they paced deliberately down the aisle. Roman wore a custom dress uniform, a beautiful work in red and white, accented with gold filigree. The seal of the ancient House of Solarya had been reworked into his own flattering colors. His auburn hair was perfectly curled and shone in the sunlight. But it was nothing compared to the blaze of his smile as he neared his beloved Prince.

Patton gripped Virgil’s elbow tight as he strove to keep his steps in time with the music. The prince had kept the pomp of his station for the ceremony itself, but when it came to his own person, his modesty shone through. He did not wear the silken doublet and hose of the royal family, nor the yards-long cloak. He had chosen to leave off even a modest tiara or circlet to show his rank. Instead, he dressed in the finery of his citizens: tailored long jacket and long pants in his signature light blue. In his lapel, a rose as red as cherries in summer was affixed proudly, mirroring the lovely sprig of hydrangea pinned to Roman’s sash.

At last, both journeys down the aisle were complete, as Roman and Patton came face-to-face at the aisle. Taking his hands, Patton smiled so wide his face was practically split in two. The musicians finished on a last sweet note as King Thomas stood forward to officiate.

“Ladies, lords, nonbinary nobility, and all our treasured friends of Solarya,” he spoke, his strong voice projecting out the open public doors to the waiting public beyond. “Thank you, one and all, for joining us on a day of such bliss for our family. Our son and heir, Prince Patton, means today to wed Sir Roman, Knight-Captain of the Castle Guard. We are beyond proud of our son, and bless this union wholeheartedly. They have prepared their own vows.” The king stepped back, bowing their head. Virgil, far too close to the current head of the nation for his comfort, was startled to spot the king wiping away a single happy tear that coursed down the royal cheek.

“Dearest Patton,” Roman began, clearing his throat. “Whether near or far, I am always yours. I was content to be your guardian from all the world. Now, I pledge to be your champion, protecting your person, your throne, and your heart. I will tell you each morning those qualities of yours that I’ve fallen in love with, and I will never run dry as I fall in love more each day. From now until forever, dear sweet. I love you.”

Logan watched his childhood friend glowing with adoration and found his normal distaste with sentiment had entirely vanished. Or perhaps it had curled up in his throat and was the reason he now felt almost close to tears. He surreptitiously sneaked a glance as his fellow groomsman and saw Virgil’s shining eyes grow soft in his face as he watched the gentle kiss Roman planted on his beloved’s hand.

Patton carefully wiped an eye underneath his glasses and took his turn to speak. “My precious Roman. I feel as if I have loved you for a thousand years, and yet I know I will love you for at least a thousand more. Glorious knight, your courage takes my breath away, and your ideals alight a fire in my mind and heart. I pledge to never again be your liege, but your partner, equal in every sense. You will be no royal consort, but my king as I will be yours. From now until forever: I love you.”

At the prince’s pronouncement, Virgil watched Roman’s eyes widen. He risked a look behind to see a similar level of shock in the king’s eyes, and something that looked like speechless indignation in the Duke’s. It seemed Patton hadn’t told any besides his best men of his plan to elevate Roman to full royal status, including his husband-to-be.

But Roman recovered as Patton elegantly bowed to kiss his hand in return, and Teresa, glorious in a coppery gown, stepped forward with a mahogany box. Virgil and Logan walked to meet her as she flipped open the top, revealing two flower crowns nestled in a velvet bed. Tiny red roses and individual blue hydrangea flowerheads created two circlets as the best men removed them and set them upon the grooms’ heads. Long silken ribbons in gold connected the two crowns to each other, allowing room for Roman and Patton to turned to face the crowd. As the audience caught sight, there was a gasp followed by a roar of approval and joy. The binding crowns, as they were called, were part of the age-old Solaryan commoner marriage ceremony. Only the most progressive or least-connected noble houses had adopted the tradition that almost every other citizen of the country practiced. But now the citizens of Solarya watched as their crown prince stood with his husband in the finery they themselves had worn on their wedding days. And the delicate crowns sat where soon would lie the two crowns of their future kings.

King Thomas was barely able to speak through his delighted tears, but managed to squeak out: “Husband and husband!”

Roman took the opportunity to dip his love deep and kiss the prince in full view of the entire kingdom as white doves took flight and celebratory bells began to peal, bright and loud. They’d done it, in spite of all. They’d defied, class, norms, and propriety to declare and affirm their love to all who cared to see. A new age of Solarya dawned on the horizon, as bright as their patron Sun and just as warm.

[n-jadaddy]

Wadjet

Erik x Goddess!Reader

Enjoy <3  

edited: 8/7/21

“Now N’jadaka, I am trusting you will be on your best behavior.” T’Challa said while   Fixing his cuffs and adjusting his suit. “We are going to visit a very important person and I’d rather not make a bad impression, it’s been years since they’ve been to a meeting with the other tribe leaders and I don’t wan-“

“Alright damn! I get it. Talking to me like you my mama and shit. I know how to behave” Erik said, looking up from straightening out his own suit. “And why are we out here dressed like undercover penguins anyway, this suit tight as hell,” he continued while adjusting the crotch area of his dress pants. Both men were extremely well dressed, T’Challa wearing a black suit with platinum accents and Erik wearing a similar one with gold accents. “I told you N’Jadaka, we are going to visit the head of the , we are trying to convince her to come to the tribal meetings more often. On their land formal dress is the norm around royalty, our attire is a sign of respect.” T’Challa explained while placing the silver necklace to activate his suit around his neck. “Alright, alright. If it ain’t no smoke, won’t be no smoke” Erik did the same with his gold necklace, tucking his father’s chain into his black dress shirt. T’Challa and Erik head out toward the Royal Talon Fighter, Okoye and Ayo following closely behind them. 

“Where to, my King,” Okoye asked, prepared to put the location into the ship's navigation system. 

“Lower Egypt, the Delta region” T’Challa answered, “The ship will not get any closer than that, we will have to walk the rest of the way” he began to adjust himself in his seat next to Erik. 

“And why is that? You didn’t tell me about no walkin’ I ain’t got on the shoes for that!” Erik said with a scowl on his face. 

“Vibranium does not work there, the ship will cease to function, so will our kimoyo beads, and even our suits will not activate. The palace is built from a type of material that counteracts the power of Vibranium. Which is the other reason why we are visiting- to find out what it is and bring it back to Shuri. That's why you are here.”

“You tryna do that and gain the trust of the leader to come to the meetings too.” Erik smacked his teeth, “sounds like a snake move” T’Challa laughed wholeheartedly. 

“Oh, trust me N’Jadaka, the only snake present will be her”

 After two hours of travel, the talon fighter powered down and everyone had to walk the rest of the way, shoes in hand. The walk was overall peaceful, the sun not beating down on them too much but it was hot enough to see heat waves. However, there were many complaints from Erik. “why the fuck is it this hot?!” “where the fuck is this place?!!” Many of his questions went ignored by Dora and T’Challa. 

“Medjay ahead, we have arrived,” Okoye announced. The outside of the palace was enormous, it was a traditional pyramid, seemingly, nothing special. Once they reached the entrance, they were greeted by it’s guards.

They were Statuesque, standing strong and confident welcoming their new visitors. Their heads were covered with solid gold masks the shape of dogs with black script embedded into the edges, emerald colored fabric adorned their waist secured by a solid gold belt. The only detail setting them apart from Anubis was the green reflective chest plates adorned across their chest, also gold with inscriptions. Both guards held weapons, spears,  very similar to the Dora but with a green gem centered between the blade and the bar. 

“Good Evening, King T’Challa” they said in unison, “It is very good to see you again,” said the one to the left. “Yes, it has been a while” continued the one to the right. “We hope you enjoy your visit” with that, they bow and turn then slam their spears against the sandstone beneath them. The hieroglyphs on the borders of the entrance began to glow a foreign bright green. Their panther suits shone a faint gleam, the same green color, along with their kimoyo beads,  then the floor started to rumble and shake. The entrance had opened, “You may enter” the Medjay said. 

“Thank you so much ladies,” T’Challa says with a smile as Erik and Dora enter the palace. They let out an unprofessional school girl giggle as the doors close “no problem”. The group walked the dark corridor, the only light sources being the torches aligned the walls that illuminated the hieroglyphs engraved into the walls. 

“Is it me, or was that weird as hell?” Erik looked back to the doors then at T’Challa while putting his shoes on. 

“They were just nervous, it is very uncommon for them to have male visitors,” T’Challa answered, “up ahead, the throne room” 

Erik was not talking about the Medjay, he meant the strange reaction the Vibranium had when they entered the hallway. Everything about this place seemed ‘off’ to him, and the sudden urge to cough didn't make it any better. ‘Why was the air so thick in here?’ Erik resisted and held his composure and decided to take a different approach.

“No men, huh? That’s why they are so unprofessional. They need some order around here!” his voice was harsh and forceful, purposely saying it out loud enough to echo through the corridor. 

His statement caused Dora and T’Challa to look at him in shock at his disrespect, of course, Erik didn’t mean it. He was just testing the waters, T’Challa needed information and he would get it for him. 

“N’Jadaka! I told you before we left to be respectful” T’Challa gritted through his teeth and said an angry mother would do to her child.

“What? They disrespected me first! Greeting you at the door like I don’t exist. I’m somebody too!” He said even louder as they walked into the throne room. It was enormous, solid gold plating on every inch of the walls, fragments of the same strange green jewels scattered within the plating. In the middle of the room, a large throne. Unlike the surrounding area, it was a solid black with larger stones embedded into the arms of the empty chair. 

“And look at this! You were pressed about us being late, shawty ain’t even here!” Erik raised and dropped his arms dramatically. The Medjay guarding the room turn in unison to look at him, and slam their spears against the floor, speckles of gold float in the air around them but more concentrated around the throne.

“Disrespect?”

A mysterious honeyed voice bounced off the walls in the room causing Erik to look around in shock.

“Who said that?” Erik turned and continued to look around the room, he turned to T’Challa. He mouthed “kneel” then bent on one knee, crossing his right arm across his chest. The Dora did the same. Erik did not listen. 

The gold follicles morphed into a woman, over  6ft tall with beautiful dark skin and a curvaceous body. Her hair was held up in a green head wrap and her body draped with expensive fabrics and jewels, the top of her eyelids painted over in gold. Her arms and chest were exposed, allowing the hieroglyphic tattoos to be seen. Erik was mesmerized by her beauty, he's never seen a woman as beautiful as her before, but he kept his reaction at bay.

“My apologies, they are only children. They are not familiar with you or know of your title, N’Jadaka son of N’Jobu. It was my fault I should have informed them, hopefully, you can forgive me.”  The woman said genuinely looking into Erik’s eyes, he was transfixed on hers; they were the same green as the gems with inhuman slits in them. Snake eyes. 

“It’s aight,”  he said just above a whisper but enough for her to hear, they both stared into each other’s eyes “You look just like your father” Erik was taken back, he scrunched his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by T’Challa.

“Goddess Wadjet, so nice to see you again” T’Challa and the goddess hug each other with smiles on their faces. 

“Oh quit the formalities T’Challa calls me Y/N” She smiled “Okoye, Ayo looking as beautiful as ever” She embraced them both.

“Now, I am sure you all are tired have a seat so we can discuss” 

T’Challa and Y/N reminisce and laugh together while Erik looks over the room and tries to make sense of everything, you weren't just some queen and this wasn't just someplace, T’Challa was serious when he said you were important.

  He burned holes in the side of your face gaining your attention. You turned towards him and grinned, “It is  rude to stare, perhaps taking a picture would last longer” the room burst in a fit of giggles from everyone but Erik, just a small smirk from him. He couldn't get over how stunning you were, the way your lips moved when you spoke every word clearly. 

Everything about you put him in a trance, he felt a familiar twitch in his pants and adjusted himself in his seat, looking away from you and towards the wall. Face retorting back into a frown he needed to focus.

“Now that you’ve buttered me up, tell me what you want from me.” Your entire demeanor changed, you sat back on your throne and folded your legs. Kings onl visit you when they need something, like your efforts weren't already enough.

“Well, I was thinking. Since you play such an important part in keeping Wakanda safe I want you to come to the meetings with the tribal leaders, we even got M’Baku to come to them more often, we are just missing you” T’Challa looked at you with pleading eyes. You knew this was coming, ruler after ruler begged you to come out of the safety of your home, you were never interested. You were the protector of Kings, and you'd rather do it from a distance. However, T’Challa was different from his father, and if M’Baku attended a meeting then you had to see what else had changed since T’Challa became king. 

“Fine. 30 years of refusal is enough, I might as well attend” T’Challa nodded his head clasping his hands together and Erik looked in surprise ‘that was easy’ he thought, he thought she’d put up more of a fight.

Although your agreement to T’Challa’s proposal excited him, you noticed that he didn’t seem content with only that. “You don't seem satisfied, what more do you want?” They always want more. His eyebrows furrowed, he thought about it then opened his mouth to speak..

“Wel-” T’challa started but was interrupted by Erik.

“We want to know what your palace is built out of, what's all this flashy green shit that fucks with the Vibranium” Erik said bluntly. Eyeing you then jumping out of his seat, he took two long strides toward you. The Medjay crossed their spears in front of you to prevent him from getting any closer. You raise your hand to dismiss them. Allowing Erik to come forward, you stood before him looking down at him. “Asim, Aziza. Please escort T’Challa and Dora Milaje to the guest rooms, it is getting rather dark. I'd rather them not travel home tonight.” You said not breaking eye contact.

“Yes Goddess” Asim and Aziza swiftly lead everyone out of the throne room, T’Challa looks back to Erik and nods before leaving.

Oh yes, you thought, finally, the two of you are alone. You’d have been thinking of Erik the same way he’d been thinking of you. You’d been watching over him for years and seeing what a gorgeous man he's grown into made you clench your thighs. Strong and demanding. Just the way you liked them Being gifted with the power to be feared and respected by all men made you desire just the opposite, and here he was in all his glory.

“I see your attitude still tends to get the best of you. You could have asked me nicely and I would have been much obliged to tell you.” You start to circle him, watching the way his lip twitched in an upward scowl, exposing the gold on his teeth, he growled out a harsh, insincere ‘Please’. You roll your snake-like eyes playfully, satisfied with the response. For now, at least. 

Placing your decorated hands into Eriks, you show him the rings that covered your fingers, some silver some gold. They all commonly held the shiny green stone in the center, the smallest of the rings resting above your knuckle on your pinky finger, hardly hanging on.

“This is Malachite, The stone of transformation” Erik’s hands remained still as he tried to resist the urge to stroke the back of your soft hands with his thumbs. His eyes trailed from your hands to your face, he was able to admire your beauty from up close. Noticing the small unique details of your appearance, like the faint gleam of your fangs as you continued to speak.

  “The Malkata was built over it during Pharaoh’s rule. He did nothing to preserve it so when he perished I took control of the production and distribution of the gem. Just as Vibranium thrives in wakanda, Malachite thrives here in Malkata.” You rub your hand across his gold necklace, the Vibranium starting to vibrate and glow. Erik was taken back at his suit's reaction, snapping out of his trance, becoming defensive.

“That ain’t it, yo creepy-ass doing something else with the Malachite, Vibranium is the strongest material on this planet how can some ordinary gemstone enable it.” he asked, tilting his head. 

You chuckle and step away. “The answer is simple.” You thought for a moment, comically taping your index finger on your defined cheek. “It’s none of your business” placing your hands on your hips. Erik stepped closer putting his arms around your waist pulling you tighter against his pelvic area.  Whispering into your ear he says “Anything that messes with my family and my country is my business, so why don’t you be a good girl and tell me what's up, and maybe I'll give you a little something in return. His hands traveled lower cupping the under area of your ass.” you scoffed and pushed him away. Were you aroused? Of course, you were it's been centuries since you’ve had sex, but there was no way in hell you were going to share the secrets of your country for your own selfish needs. 

Your patience was running thin. 

“I am no whore” you turned to walk away. Not now at least.   “Aye where you go-” he grabs your hand turning you around. You stare back up at him with a paralyzing look, sealing his lips. He couldn't speak even if he tried only murmurs and grunts coming from him. His body had gone stiff too.

“N’Jadaka, I am sure you are no fool. You grab me like that again and I will not hesitate to rip your arms right out of the sockets and beat you with them” As of that moment Erik did not feel threatened ‘you could beat this dick’ he thought. Your anger and frustration were so sexy to him he didn't even care that you could kill him at any moment. You could smell his arousal and stepped away, ‘What a strange man’ you thought. Raising our hand, you released Erik from paralysis.

 “You may see yourself out” walking away you turn one last time to Erik “And tell T’Challa I will not be attending the next meeting, I'm busy.” 

Erik carefully watched you leave the room. Once he was sure you were gone, he dropped his act and smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets fiddling with the tiny ring he had taken from your hands. He had done his part, now needed to figure out how he was going to tell T’challa he fucked up the first part of the deal. 

[tinybibmpreg]

Day 63 // ft. Azarane, Christovao, Surath, and Brother Berrain

#89 / Truth

“Tell me what you want,” Arazane begged.

Then, for the first time in weeks, he received an immediate and truly honest answer, “I want my family to be safe.”

“Then why are you doing such risky things?”

“It’s my duty, Arazane. I’m sure you’ll understand someday.”

-

Christovao handed him a tea bag, and giving him a fake smile that didn’t reach his empty eyes, told him that it would help him with his morning sickness. Though he trusted his lover more than anyone else, as he took the offering, he was filled with a sense of dread. But he smiled back and thanked him, and silently resolved to take it to be tested for magic.

“Sir Yamega!” one of the other knights called for Christovao. “The king is riding out to the border to check on new evidence. He wants you to lead his personal guard.”

“Who has been assigned to guard Prince Arazane?”

“I have, sir.”

“Good.” He turned back to Arazane. “I’ll report back as soon as the King allows me, your highness.”

“Of course.” With a dip of his head, Christovao put on his helmet and left. As soon as he was gone, Arazane said to his new guard, “I need to visit Brother Berrain. Accompany me.”

“Yes, your highness. Are you ill?”

“No. I just need him to check something for me before he goes out to treat the afflicted.”

-

The little tea bag exploded on impact with the shimmering water in Berrain’s mixing bowl, and he and Arazane startled. Arazane had suspected that the tea would have some faery magic in it, perhaps something to make him forget Christovao’s involvement with the woods, but he hadn’t expected it to react to the minor barrier charm like that.

“Goodness, your highness, that tea was made entirely of magic. There’s not a speck left. Where did you get it?”

All he could do was stare at the once pale green water as it turned a deep blood red, symbolizing what was malevolent intent. Finally, he asked, words slow, “...Berrain, can I trust you?”

“Of course, Prince.”

“You can’t tell anyone. Not even my father.”

“I haven’t even told him that you’re with child,” Berrain assured. “Any secret you speak is safe with me.”

He hesitated, but then put a hand over his belly and replied, “Christovao gave it to me.”

“Sir Yamega? Why on Earth would he give you such toxic magic?”

“I- I don’t know what exactly happened that started all of this, or when it began, but he went into the woods. There was a faery, dying, I think, and he helped them. They convinced him to help them, and he’s spent the night in the woods. The plague on the people… Christovao is the one infecting people.”

“Did he tell you what’s wrong with them?”

“No. But he was disturbed by the idea of anyone cutting open the sores. He said it’s better for everyone to not know.”

“I’ll tell the others not to try it. Now that we know it’s faery magic, maybe we can work on a treatment… Don’t worry, I won’t tell them my source.”

Arazane nodded, grateful. “Berrain, do you know how we can help Christovao? He’s not even the same person anymore, and I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he gets exposed…”

Berrain clucked his tongue. “Claimed by the faeries. Not much anyone can do there. All the cases I’ve heard end in tragedy. Faeries are fickle creatures. If they get bored of something, they’ll get rid of it. Killing’s a sport to them, you know.”

“I know. I don’t want anything to happen to him… He was just trying to be kind, helping someone in the woods… Chris doesn’t deserve to suffer because of that!”

Going towards a bookshelf full of large, old volumes, Berrain pulled one out from the bottom. It looked ready to fall to pieces. He brought it to his exam table, and set it down. Carefully, he opened it, and began flipping through the pages. “Now, we know so little about faeries, and this is probably terribly outdated, but I’m sure I can find some way to help him. This book was outlawed decades ago, but almost everything we know about faeries and their magic, their culture… it’s all in here.”

God, he hoped that they would be able to help him. Arazane sighed, and let his gaze wander around the room as Berrain searched for the page he was looking for. Something caught his eye, and he looked back at the bowl. Instead of being a solid blood red, there was a white circle in the center. “Berrain? What does that mean?”

“Huh? Oh- Lord, what is that?”

“Blood is for malevolent intent, right?”

“White… White is benevolence. That’s strange, how can something be both at once?”

“Maybe it’s a typically malevolent spell, but prepared with good intentions?” He’d rather think that Christovao had given him a curse to help him instead of hurt him.

“Perhaps. Pity that detection charm is recent, or else I’d look it up in my books.”

It took awhile for Berrain to find the information they wanted, and when Arazane looked down at the book, he was greeted with eerie sketches of humans with hastily scrawled notes next to them. Most of the drawings were weeping or in the midst of violent acts, and one looked to be laughing even as their limbs were clearly depicted as broken. Next to that one, it simply said ‘emotion reversal. Pain = pleasure, sadness = joy, and so on, so on.’

“Contrary to popular belief-” Berrain started, jumping at the chance to explain something to a willing audience, “-claiming by faeries doesn’t cause random effects. This book documents the specific symptoms different people get. Of course, each case is different, and has their own mixture and severity… Ah, here it is! Is this how Sir Yamega is behaving, Prince?”

It was a sketch of an adult man, with the face scrawled out. Next to it, there was a glued on journal entry in quickly scrawled handwriting.

I visited the town of Hero’s Lake this winter, where I met with the wife of a farmer who was robbed on his way home through the woods. The man was accidentally thrown into a faery circle, where he lay unconscious all night. His wife told me how he gradually lost all of his emotions, until the only thing he truly desired to do was tend to his animals, so he could bring milk and eggs to the faery circle for them to eat. I attempted to cure the man with a purification spell, but with no effect. It is with great misfortune that I write that two weeks into my visit, the man committed suicide in his barn, where his wife and I discovered his body being pecked at by crows. I suspect it is because he was no longer providing the creatures with food during the cold months.

Likewise, I met the parents of a young girl who suffered from a similar fate on my travels. The faeries grew bored of her in a matter of minutes when she couldn’t provide any more amusement, and strung her up for the crows.

Those with no emotions are in great danger, as the faeries will become bored with them once they no longer need them. Any attempt to stop them from fulfilling their purpose can lead to the display of other symptoms. The girl’s father attempted to stop her from walking to the field where the faeries watched her dance, and she thrashed about, screaming as though in pain. She injured her leg in the skirmish, and could not dance properly, which led to her demise.

They would have to be careful then. Trying to stop Christovao from helping the faery wouldn’t work. Though it would mean the people would continue to be diseased, Arazane had to let him continue, lest he lose his lover forever.

“That’s exactly what happened to him.”

“Has he displayed any other symptoms? Can you tell what his last desire is?”

“I don’t think so, and he said all he wanted was to protect his family… But why would a faery have him want that? It must be to help the faery survive. Maybe it truly is sick.”

-

Every Sunday, Arazane’s father allowed the citizens of the kingdom to come and speak to the court, to make requests or ask questions. It allowed him to get to know the problems of his kingdom, and his father was a good man who always tried to solve the problems the people brought to him, lest they turn to the magicians and untrustworthy spells for help.

He always attended, and Christovao always stood guard. So he left Berrain to do more research, and returned home. By the time he arrived, his father had returned from edge of the woods, and Christovao was there to help him out of his carriage, offering a gloved hand.

Christovao nodded to the knight that had been guarding him, dismissing him. “How are you, your highness?”

“Well. I visited Berrain. He’s doing some research about the plague, and I wanted to know if he had anything I could tell the King.”

“Good. The King is expecting you in the throne room.”

The knight led him there, and Arazane took his place beside his father. The King leaned closer to him, and asked, “How was your outing?”

“I visited Brother Berrain. He believes he knows what’s causing the plague, and is certain it was not caused by dark magic, but he has to test his theory. He’s also going to warn the other doctors not to attempt to cut into any of the affected areas just yet.”

“Excellent. This kingdom doesn’t need another rogue magician. This is great news.”

It really wasn’t, but Arazane did not say any more on the subject. He sat back and watched his father talk. Everyone was relieved to hear that Berrain was once again making strides in his research, and a messenger went to spread the news and warning to the rest of the doctors, who were out tending to the afflicted.

“There is no need to shield your face in my court, sir,” the King said as a lone person walked up. They did not kneel as everyone else did. “Please, feel free to remove your hood.”

“Of course. Now, please do not fear, my good man. I mean no harm and come in good faith.”

It couldn’t be.

The person pulled off their cloak to reveal that they were none other than a faery. In all the years that the kingdom had stood, Arazane knew that not once had a faery ever set foot in the palace. There were barriers to prevent that, charms to ward them away.

But the faery smiled at them, insect wings stretching, long ears twitching. “Hiteran, I come to make a request.”

“I do not bargain with pixies!”

“No, no, this is no offering. I’ve simply come to retrieve something of mine. A person, who is very dear to me.”

His father glanced at him, and Arazane shook his head. “Faeries do not leave the woods to fetch people. They lure them in.”

“True, of course.” Something seemed off about this faery. In a way, he was familiar, though Arazane knew he’d never seen a faery in his life. “But this person is already claimed. He belongs to the woods. To me.”

“A personal claim?”

The faery nodded, putting his hands on his belly. “Yes. You see, I’ve come to retrieve the father of my child.” Arazane felt his eyes on him as he spoke, and he held back the urge to wrap an arm around his own belly.

“A human fathering a faery’s child?”

“Yes. It’s truly a miracle. The Ancients have smiled upon our union. We have sworn ourselves to no one but each other, and he has vowed to protect our child. I thought it would be considerate of me to inform you before he comes with me.”

Faeries couldn’t lie outside of the woods. Everyone knew that. Arazane felt like he was drowning as he realized who the faery was here for.

The faery snapped his fingers, and Christovao stepped forward, drawing his sword. He approached the faery, and instead of striking him, he got on one knee, the point of his blade pressed right in front of his foot like a staff. He bowed his head, and the faery smiled.

“Hello, Chris. It’s wonderful to see you again.” The faery crouched down and removed Christovao’s helmet. He let it fall to the floor, and took the knight’s face in his hands, angling it upwards. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Yes.”

[sparkleywonderful]

The Prince of Ice: Ch.21

Part 21 of The Prince of Ice series, a retelling of Heir of Fire from Rowan’s point of view.

The Prince of Ice: Parts [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ] [ 11 ] [ 12 ] [ 13 ] [ 14 ] [ 14.5 ] [ 15 ] [ 16 ]  [ 17 ] [ 18 ] [ 19 ] [ 20 ]

- - - - - - -

He sat at his work table monitoring Aelin. His instincts to protect had battled for hours against his demons. He had never fussed over his mate, the same way he was fussing over Aelin. If he had, maybe… He froze that thought deep into the dark abyss that had become his soul. If there was one lesson that was deeply ingrained, it was that he could never go back.

He looked over at Aelin, noticing she looked peaceful. At this moment he could easily see the Ashryver lineage in the gold of her skin and hair. He remembered decades ago when Rhoe had fallen in love with one of the fair princesses on a trip to Wendlyn. He had given up his right of succession to marry Evalin. The royal court in Terrasen had feared that she would would stay young as he continued to age. With no heir possible from King Orlon, it was determined that their child would be the heir to the throne.

He had a feeling it was a concession on the part of the nobles. Rhoe and Orlon were the last of Brannon’s line. He recalled the lessons that he and Edna sat through, the lessons to mold them into the heads of House Whitethorn. He recalled his uncle mentioning that Terrasen had a great distrust of Maeve and in some ways Wendlyn. Terrasen would never kneel to a princess of Wendlyn.

His eyes dropped to the scared hands and wrists that rested on her abdomen. Instead of being groomed for the crown, she had spent the past ten years being trained to kill. Instead of attending balls and royal functions, she had spent a year as a slave. She was much stronger than he had initially given her credit for. The spoiled brat facade was just that, a mark she wore to face her world.

The scent of two familiar demi-fae pulled him from his thoughts. He had always enjoyed the company of the old man and Luca was starting to grow on him, much in the same way Fenrys had. Even now in her current condition neither male were a true threat to her well being. So the growl that erupted from his throat took all of them by surprise.

Emrys flashed a knowing smile, “Well Elentiya, it seems you are in competent hands, we’ll come back in a few days.”

He appreciated the old man, but that knowing smile ruffled him. He needed to bury the thoughts that blossomed from that smile. The guilt to move forward and live while is mate has died could consume him if he let it.

He continued to study the map marking the location of the found bodies. There was not an easily seen pattern, except that the locations made little sense. He could not remember a time where he had stared so intently at a map hoping it would give him the answers he was looking for, while providing the escape of not facing the current situation in his room.

Aelin pulled him from his thoughts, “You know, I highly doubt anyone is going to attack me now, if they’ve already put up with my nonsense for this long.”

“This isn’t negotiable.”  And it was not negotiable. He could hardly explain the strength in his desire to protect her.

“So you mean to tell me that whenever someone comes close to burnout, she not only goes through all this misery, but if she’s female, the males around her go this berserk?”

He set down his pen and twisted to examine her. Was this berserk? No. Berserk would have been barring the doors, eating only meals prepared by himself. Berserk would be incapacitating every demi-fae in this fortress until she was healed. No, he was fighting against berserk.

“This is hardly berserk. At least you can defend yourself by physical means when your magic is useless. For other Fae, even if they’ve had weapons and defense training, if they can’t touch their magic, they’re vulnerable, especially when they’re drained and in pain. That makes people—usually males, yes—somewhat edgy. Others have been known to kill without thought any perceived threat, real or otherwise.”

He pulled her mug from her, seeing that it was drained he refilled it.

“What sort of threat? Maeve’s lands are peaceful.”

“Threats from anywhere—males, females, creatures … You can’t reason against it. Even if it wasn’t in our culture, there would still be an instinct to protect the defenseless, regardless of whether they’re female or male, young or old.”

She was looking a little peeky. He reached for a slice of bread and a bowl of beef broth. “Eat this.”

“It pains me to say this, but one more bite and I’ll be sick all over the place.”

Ignoring her, he dipped the bread into the broth and held them out to her. Before she had a chance to argue with him, “You need to keep up your energy. You probably came so close to burnout because you didn’t have enough food in your stomach.”

He should have been closely monitoring, before he asked her to keep three fires alight, he should have ensured she had a full meal, something more than an apple. It was his job to instruct her and even though they had already determined he was the worst teacher in the world, he never recalled telling her that her fae body requires more food than her human form.

While she ate, he fussed around the room before grabbing the now empty bowl from her, returning to the worktable trying to ignore the pain that was written between her brows.

“So when the magic runs out,” she said, “that’s it—either you stop or you burn out?”

The fact that he suspected they shared a carranam bond, her question allowed him to ease into a conversation he had been avoiding the last few hours. He knew her training on her fae nature was limited, would have been limited even if the last ten years had not occurred. Demi-fae rarely were powerful enough to have experienced the carranam bond.

Rowan leaned back in his chair. “Well, there’s the carranam.”

“It’s hard to explain, I’ve only ever seen it used a handful of times on killing fields. When you’re drained, your carranam can yield their power to you, as long as you’re compatible and actively sharing a blood connection.”

She tilted her head to the side. “If we were carranam, and I gave you my power, would you still only be using wind and ice—not my fire?”

He nodded his response.

“How do you know if you’re compatible with someone?”

He thought for a moment, “There’s no way of telling until you try. And the bond is so rare that the majority of Fae never meet someone who is compatible, or whom they trust enough to test it out. There’s always a threat that they could take too much—and if they’re unskilled, they could shatter your mind. Or you could both burn out completely.”

He felt the guilt he had been hoarding over the deep need to care for Aelin in ways that he did not Lyria fade completely. While the mating bond was sacred, to experience it did not leave you completely defenseless. To share a carranam bond with another soul, to allow yourself to open completely to another soul, to trust them enough not to harm you, that was an entirely different matter. To trust another soul that deeply explained the strength of his need to protect her.

“Could you ever just steal magic from someone?”

“Less savory Fae once attempted to do so—to win battles and add to their own power—but it never worked. And if it did, it was because the person they held hostage was coincidentally compatible. Maeve outlawed any forced bonds long before I was born, but … I’ve been sent a few times to hunt down corrupt Fae who keep their carranam as slaves. Usually, the slaves are so broken there’s no way to rehabilitate them. Putting them down is the only mercy I can offer.”

The memories of those times threatened to overtake him. The only reason he survived those deaths was because he often prayed for the same mercy he granted to those broken souls.

“Doing that must be harder than all the wars and sieges you’ve ever waged.”

It was those times that he had prayed to the gods, begged to them for a better world, a world without monsters.

“Immortality is not as much of a gift as mortals would believe. It can breed monsters that even you would be sick to learn about. Imagine the sadists you’ve encountered—and then imagine them with millennia to hone their craft and warped desires.”

He watched Aelin shudder at the thought. She had also seen and known the monsters that plagued their world, but only from the human aspect. “This conversation’s become too awful to have after eating,”

“Tell me which one of your little cadre is the handsomest, and if he would fancy me.”

He could not hold back the choke that left his throat.  The thought of her and Fenrys made his blood boil, it was amazing how the boyo could annoy him even in a general conversation. But her with the others caused him to feel a strong dread in the pit of his stomach.

“The thought of you with any of my companions makes my blood run cold.”

“They’re that awful? Your kitty-cat friend looked decent enough.”

It took all of his being not to choke out a laugh. Kitty-cat?

“I don’t think my kitty-cat friend would know what to do with you—nor would any of the others. It would likely end in bloodshed.”

He crossed his arms at the grin that alight her face. While there was a part of him that wanted to see her smile, the other part did not want her to smile at the thought of being with one of his companions. He needed to end this conversation before it morphed into another line of questioning.

“They would likely have very little interest in you, as you’ll be old and decrepit soon enough and thus not worth the effort it would take to win you.”

He almost smiled when she rolled her eyes, “Killjoy.”

When he looked over her again, his eyes caught on her wrists, the proof that she had once worn shackles.

“A skilled healer could probably get rid of those scars—definitely the ones on your wrist, and most on your back.”

He was not sure why he offered the fleeting thought, her scars told a story that should not be erased.

“There were cells in the bowels of the mines that they used to punish slaves. Cells so dark you would wake up in them and think you’d been blinded. They locked me in there sometimes—once for three weeks straight. And the only thing that got me through it was reminding myself of my name, over and over and over—I am Celaena Sardothien.”

It took all of his two centuries of being Maeve’s blood sworn to lock down the rage that was boiling inside him. He sat listening to a girl of eighteen tell him about her hell.

“When they would let me out, so much of my mind had shut down in the darkness that the only thing I could remember was that my name was Celaena. Celaena Sardothien, arrogant and brave and skilled, Celaena who did not know fear or despair, Celaena who was a weapon honed by Death.”

“I don’t usually let myself think about that part of Endovier, after I got out, there were nights when I would wake up and think I was back in those cells, and I would have to light every candle in my room to prove I wasn’t. They don’t just kill you in the mines—they break you.

“There are thousands of slaves in Endovier, and a good number are from Terrasen. Regardless of what I do with my birthright, I’m going to find a way to free them someday. I will free them. Them, and all the slaves in Calaculla, too. So my scars serve as a reminder of that.”

The name whispered on the wind all those weeks ago came forward. Fireheart.

What other pain was she caring close to her heart? Before he could stop himself, “What happened ten years ago, Aelin?”

“I’m not going to talk about that.”

“If you took up your crown, you could free Endovier far more easily than—”

“I can’t talk about it.”

This is when he knew that she blamed herself in some part for the events that occurred ten years ago.

“Why?”

“There is this … rage, this despair and hatred and rage that lives and breathes inside me. There is no sanity to it, no gentleness. It is a monster dwelling under my skin. For the past ten years, I have worked every day, every hour, to keep that monster locked up. And the moment I talk about those two days, and what happened before and after, that monster is going to break loose, and there will be no accounting for what I do.”

And there it was. He had worked through that rage when he slowly killed the Fae that had murdered his wife and child. He was able to settle the rage knowing that those responsible were dead. He could not imagine what it would have been like to have to bottle up that rage because he was helpless to seek vengeance.

“That is how I was able to stand before the King of Adarlan, how I was able to befriend his son and his captain, how I was able to live in that palace. Because I did not give that rage, those memories, one inch. And right now I am looking for the tools that might destroy my enemy, and I cannot let out the monster, because it will make me use those tools against the king, not put them back as I should—and I might very well destroy the world for spite. So that is why I must be Celaena, not Aelin—because being Aelin means facing those things, and unleashing that monster. Do you understand?”

He did, more than she realized.

“For whatever it’s worth, I don’t think you would destroy the world from spite. But I also think you like to suffer. You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you’ve committed. And I know this because I’ve been doing the same damn thing for two hundred years. Tell me, do you think you will go to some blessed Afterworld, or do you expect a burning hell? You’re hoping for hell—because how could you face them in the After-world? Better to suffer, to be damned for eternity and—”

“That’s enough,” she whispered.

What a pair they were. He continued to sit at his work table, knowing that if laid next to her in this very moment he would pull her into him. That was a line he could not cross. It was bad enough that he did not request a cot, sharing a living space would blur the lines, sharing a bed would blur then even farther.

He also knew that he should not get attached, that in a short matter of time that he would have to leave. That this chapter of their lives would end and at that time they would have to part ways.

For tonight and for the days to come he would live in the moment, take the small reprieve from the darkness that she had to offer.

Together. He knew that the together they spoke of did not end here. With that thought, he laid beside her allowing her scent of jasmine, lemon verbena and embers caress over his battered soul, before he spoke,  “At least if you’re going to hell, then we’ll be there together.”

Tired of fighting the urge to touch her, he brushed a large hand down her hair, hiding the smirk when she flatly stated, “I feel bad for the dark god already.”

“When I’m back to normal, can I assume you’re going to yell at me about almost burning out?”

He let out a soft laugh but continued stroking her hair. “You have no idea.”

In that moment he decided that the day she decided to free the slaves from the labor camps, that he would be beside her. Even if Maeve whipped him within a millimeter of his life, it would be worth the pain to see a single wish of hers to come true. “I have no doubt that you’ll be able to free the slaves from the labor camps some day. No matter what name you use.”

When he felt her hand against his chest, and she whispered “thank you for looking after me,” he grunted to fight the urge to pull her closer. Boundaries. She was off-limits for a thousand reasons, not to mention that even if he could open his heart in that way again, he was sworn to Maeve.

@awesomebooksuniverse @loppymooney @queen-elain @inrealliampain @namjoonseuphoria