#trees & shrubs cloaked in snow

[zoeflake]

Like a Currier and Ives scene

[clytemnaestraes]

Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he'd hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen. He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal.

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it

Jon III, ACOK

Snow was falling on the Eyrie.

Outside the flakes drifted down as soft and silent as memory. Was this what woke me? Already the snowfall lay thick upon the garden below, blanketing the grass, dusting the shrubs and statues with white and weighing down the branches of the trees.

When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. All color had fled the world outside. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here.

Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks.

Sansa VII, ASOS

Sansa and Jon's thoughts about snowfall compared and contrasted with each other. While Sansa does indeed move as if in a dream as predicted by jon who thinks Sansa would be enchanted by the sight, where jon sees colours, she sees the black and white, indicative of how even her romanticism is tempered by the reality of the vale.

She still feels out of place, and the feeling that she doesn't "belong" in the vale is still very prevalent. It is noted earlier that Sansa was feeling disconnected from both her mother and father's gods in the vale, but snow ultimately proves to be her spiritual awakening, providing her the much needed connection to home, inspiring her to start building Winterfell with her own hands, leading to the eventual realisation that she's stronger within the walls of winterfell.

In both sansa and jon's thoughts, snow took over the world, blanketing it, overpowering everything else.

Both jon and sansa had been dreaming about their siblings the night before they awoke to the snowfall in the forest and the eyrie respectively.

She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya.

He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night.

[ceru-at-hogwarts]

The True Face of Courage (Ominis Gaunt One-Shot)

[SFW, another one-shot about Ominis Gaunt's childhood. What if Ominis was meant to be the Heir of Slytherin?]

My fiction masterlist | Read in AO3

For all his life, Ominis never forgot the day he came to his magic. It was engraved in his memory, fresh as if it had just happened a moment ago. He was barely seven years old. It was a cold winter day, and he was running as fast as he could in the forest, feeling his way frantically with his bare hands. He fell, he stumbled, and he crawled back up to his feet as quickly as he could. He was running until his chest felt as if it was about to burst. Every breath hurt now, his lung gasping for air. But he could not stop running.

Snow was falling, adding a thick layer to the already-frozen ground. Ominis could feel how his feet sank in it, each step must have left a deep footprint. There were branches and shrubs, and he stumbled upon it. Sometimes a wild branch hit him in the face when he ran through it, unable to see it. He could feel blood trickle from his face, from all the falling, and his shirt torn. He could barely feel his fingers by now. He had lost his cloak earlier.

Around him, every sound felt muffled, except for his frantic footsteps. They could hear him. They were hunting him, and Ominis knew what it would mean to be caught again. With their magic, he could not hear them. The forest was silent in his ears. This was their favourite game, and he was their prey.

“Depulso!” He suddenly heard him shouting behind him, and the blast of the spell hit him squarely in the back, pushing Ominis a few yards forward until he hit the trunk of a tree. The impact made Ominis gasp in pain. From behind him, a strong and rough hand pulled Ominis back to his feet.

They had captured him. Worst, it was him. Ominis could feel the tip of Marvolo’s wand inches from his face, magic pulsating menacingly from it.

“So… the little baby in the family had learned to run now,” hissed Marvolo in Parseltongue. “The game had become much more interesting. Hissy hissy hissy little snake…”

Ominis screamed, trying to escape the strong hand that held him, kicking Marvolo wildly as hard as he could. As his fear mounted, he could feel something boil within him, as if he was about to burst from a new, unfamiliar feeling. Marvolo grunted from Ominis’ kick.

“Little bastard!” Marvolo shouted, this time not in Parseltongue. “You will pay for this! Depul…”

BANG!

With a sudden jerk, Marvolo was repelled from him, making Ominis fall to the ground again. The force of Ominis’ newly awakened magic had thrown Marvolo back a few feet, making him landed on the fresh snow, shocking both of them.

“So… the little baby has his magic awakened now… Good for him, isn’t it? At least now we know he is not a little squib…” Marvolo taunted dangerously. Even when his nose felt half freezing, Ominis could smell his cousin’s filthy, unwashed clothes from a yard away. But he was too shocked still to move, scared even to the newly minted power that was now bubbling within him, ready to burst at the slightest provocation. For Marvolo was nearly a fully grown wizard, armed with a wand and well trained in the art of inflicting pain. And he, Ominis Gaunt, was only a boy of seven, and he had no weapon.

“SHAME ON YOU!”

BANG!

Of a sudden, Ominis felt a slight spell passed beside him and from the grunt of pain Marvolo made, the spell had hit Marvolo square on the chest, throwing the brute a few feet away.

This voice… and this smell of violet and bergamot in the middle of winter…

“A…aunt Noctua?” Ominis whispered, still shocked by everything that had just happened. Aunt Noctua ignored him. He could feel her standing in front of him now, facing Marvolo.

“Shame on you, Marvolo Gaunt! Shame on you for torturing a defenseless child! Our own family nevertheless!” She shouted, her clear and angry voice filling the forest.

Marvolo hissed in anger but did not dare to cross Noctua further. No one except Father dared to cross Noctua Gaunt, even if she was barely sixteen and still a Hogwarts student herself.

“You will regret this, both of you…” Marvolo hissed again menacingly, before disapparating away.

As soon as Marvolo had gone, Noctua turned to Ominis, putting her own cloak around the half-frozen boy. It felt soft and warm and smelled of her. Violet. Bergamot. Flowers whose smells he recognized each time she brought him along for a walk in the garden. It felt like safety. He could feel Aunt Noctua’s magic diffusing within him, slowly warming him inside out.

“Are you all right, Ominis?” Noctua asked worriedly, healing his injuries while holding him. Ominis could only nod, taking comfort in her arms around him. “I swear, the next time that brute cousin of ours did this to you again I will murder him.”

“Aunt Noctua, I… I think… my magic… I think I have my magic now,” Ominis said quietly, still shaken from all that had just happened. Aunt Noctua did not reply for a while. When she spoke again, her voice sounded sad and worried.

“I know. I have been observing you for a while. I have seen signs of it coming for quite some time now. I am afraid that this day will have to come one day… Only not that soon… Buy you more time before what’s about to come. But the alternative that it would never come would not be better. For you know very well what it meant to be a Squib in this family of ours,” she said finally, her voice quivering a bit. “Now that you had come to your magic… Oh, Ominis… If only I could bring you away, away from all this…”

Ominis did not reply. No one could escape Father. Not even Aunt Noctua. But there was something more in her voice that frightened Ominis. He never heard Aunt Noctua sound scared, not even when she was having a shouting match with Mother. And he did not dare to ask. It must be terrible if she was scared for him. He felt a knot in his stomach.

“I do not think it would be wise to hide this from your father, Ominis. He will notice it, and Marvolo will talk. Your father would be very angry if we try to hide this. I think… I think it’s best we tell him. I can try to delay what’s about to come as long as I can, to plead with him and your mother.”

For a very long while, none of them said anything more. Ominis absorbed every moment of it, storing them in his memory to be recalled later. Her smell. Her warmth. The firm yet gentle way she held his body against her. How she held his hands without ever letting them go even once. Her magic buzzed around them, enveloping both of them in a bubble of warmth.

“We should go now, it is nearly dark and your parents will be angry if we do not come home soon,” she said finally, sighing. “Hold on my shoulder.”

Ominis felt the nauseating feeling that churned his stomach as they disapparated, and a few seconds later he nearly fell to his knees as solid ground materialized under him. Apparating was always a very uncomfortable experience, it disoriented him and made him feel completely lost, but they had no choice. Aunt Noctua helped him back to his feet. He could feel her repairing his clothes with magic, his torn collars and cuffs and shirt repaired, the dried blood stains cleaned. She let him keep her cloak on him.

None of them spoke as they navigated the entrance hall of the manor where the clock was ticking, the long corridor where their footsteps echoed, in a house that is both familiar yet made him felt like a stranger all his short life.

Finally, they stopped. With an audibly nervous sigh, Aunt Noctua knocked three times on Father’s library door. Its sound was muffled, the door being heavy and thick, yet the sound still surprised him even after all these times. It sounded like a bad omen, his intuition told him.

The door slowly opened, and in the silence Ominis could feel Father’s presence, standing beside the fireplace. He quivered.

“Marvolo Gaunt had chased Ominis again through the forest,” Noctua said firmly, trying to sound as brave as she could.

“We do not speak of him in this house. We do not speak of that inferior branch of our family, a disgrace, under my roof,” Father hissed in Parseltongue. “Ominis will learn to deal with him on his own. To be a hunter you have to know what it meant to be prey. Until he learns, he will have to live with it.”

Aunt Noctua quivered slightly, but she held Ominis’ hand even more firmly now and stood her ground. For a while, she said nothing, then finally she replied in Parseltongue, knowing the weight of each word that was about to come.

“That he did. He had come to his magic today,” Aunt Noctua said quietly, carefully. Mother gasped audibly from beside Father. She sounded pleased.

For a very long time, Father did not say anything. When he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically soft and dangerous.

“Then the time has come. It is time for him to learn how to fulfill his duty as a member of this family and to his bloodline. Soon he will attend Hogwarts. A big task awaits him there. Our family’s legacy. Especially for one in his condition… His eyesight, or lack thereof, is probably a blessing. He must be prepared for that moment.” Aunt Noctua gasped audibly as Father took Ominis from her. “Do not follow us now, Noctua, his trainings start now.”

And with that, Father took Ominis with him, half dragging him to the Manor’s entrance, before both of them disapparated into the darkness.

Ominis could feel a hard and cold stone floor materialize from under him as Father and himself apparated. He did not know where they are. The room’s smell felt unfamiliar, damp, and cold. From the echo of water dripping, the place was massive. Were they in a cellar? A hall? Were they still in the manor? He did not know.

“I had waited for this day to come, since the day you were born,” Father hissed quietly. “You will carry our family’s duty as soon as you went to Hogwarts. And you will do us proud. But for now… you will learn what it meant to be a Gaunt. Your lessons start today.”

Ominis felt a wand thrusted into his hand. Whose? What was he to do with it?

At that moment, he heard the noise of chain rattling, and someone whimpering, not so far away from him. A woman.

“Muggles,” Father hissed simply. “Do not let them scare you. You should learn to inflict fear on them. It is your duty and your right as one born into such illustrious family of ours. And this is your first lesson today. I will teach you a spell. And you will cast it on them.”

Ominis did not dare to speak. Quietly he fingered the wand, scared of it. He could feel its smooth handle, the texture of its wood. It felt cold under his hand. Not far from him, the woman whimpered again. He could hear that it was a young woman, probably about the same age as Aunt Noctua. He could hear her breathing loudly, fear emanating from her.

“The spell is called the Cruciatus Curse. It is the right way to remind Muggles of their place in this world. That they should fear us.” Ominis could hear Father moved toward the chained Muggle. Suddenly, Father shouted in a loud, clear voice. “Crucio!”

There was a blast from Father’s wand and the Muggle screamed in pain. Ominis could hear her chain rattling loudly as if she was writhing on the floor in pain. It felt like an eternity before he could not take it anymore.

“Stop! Father, please make it stop,” he begged, the Muggle’s scream drowned his voice. He could feel Father’s gaze was now turned on him.

“Stop? Why should I? They could endure this much longer before they break. And if a toy breaks, you will simply replace them. There is an unlimited quantity of them in any case. You should know this. This is a sport, Ominis. One that you will learn to enjoy,” Father hissed, but at least he broke the curse and the woman stop screaming, now whimpering in horror. “Very well, you had witnessed enough of how it is performed. Now you will do it. Remember, the incantation is Crucio.”

“No… no… no… Please… Please don’t make me do it, Father,” Ominis begged, his stomach churning at the thought of inflicting such pain on another human being. He remembered the pain Marvolo had inflicted on him, by constantly repulsing him toward objects in his hunts for him. He remembered the worst moments of it, the fear, the pain, the desperation of being chased.

This woman’s scream told him that all the pain and fear he had endured so far pale compared to what she had just lived through. The sheer magnitude of this shook Ominis to the core. There he was, begging to spare and to be spared.

But Father was not pleased. “Probably, this will persuade you better to do what you are told to do,” he hissed. “Crucio!”

This time, Father’s spell was directed toward Ominis. Of a sudden, Ominis felt pain as he never felt before. With a loud thud, he fell to the floor. His head felt as if it was about to burst. It felt like millions of hot knives flayed his skin away from his flesh. His bone felt as if it was melting. He screamed more loudly than he ever had before. All he wished now was for the pain to stop. He would even welcome Death as a preferred alternative at that very moment.

All of a sudden, the pain stopped. Ominis gasped for air, feeling lingering pain shaking his body violently. In a sudden movement, Father pulled him back to his feet not too gently. Ominis struggled, disoriented, trying to not crumble back to the floor, now too afraid of displeasing Father even further.

“Now you will do what you are told to do, or you know what’s the consequences if you fail.” Ominis could feel Father taking his hand in his, directing Ominis’ wand to point in the direction of the whimpering sound where the woman must have lied on the floor.

Ominis hesitated, feeling anguished as he had never known before.

“DO IT NOW,” Father ordered.

“C…Crucio!” Finally, Ominis mustered his courage, feeling himself falling into the deepest of his fear. It was me or her. It was me or her. I am too scared. Please, please, please. Please spare me from this.

Nothing happened. Angrily, Father shook him violently.

“You have to mean it! You have to truly mean it to make it work!” Father shouted.

“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!” Anguished, Ominis shouted the incantation, feeling a deep hatred over what he had just been asked to do in equal measure with fear of having to go through the pain himself once again.

Nothing happened still. He could not truly mean it. He could not muster the will to inflict pain on another being.

“USELESS CHILD!” Father’s anger cannot be more palpable. “CRUCIO!”

Once again, Ominis felt the excruciating pain explode within him. He screamed and screamed and screamed for what felt like an eternity. And once again, of a sudden, the jet of pain stopped. Once again, he was pulled back to his feet. The woman on the floor was crying audibly now. Ominis felt the wand thrusted into his hand once again.

Finally, he pointed the wand toward the woman, trying to muster his will to truly mean it, and shouted, “Crucio!”

The woman screamed in pain as soon as Ominis’ spell hit her. He could only maintain it for a few seconds before the wand fell from his hand, feeling engulfed in all-consuming mental anguish for having inflicted such torture on another human being.

Once again, he fell to the floor as the pain hit his own body once again. He could feel Father’s anger, and this time Father did not hold back. He screamed and screamed and screamed. He screamed until his voice breaks and he could not scream anymore. The pain was all-consuming. But even then, he could feel the woman crawling toward him and all of a sudden, throwing herself in front of him, trying to shield him from Father’s curse. The woman was squirming, screaming now, but she held him under her, trying to protect him from Father even as she was engulfed in pain. Ominis could feel her above him, holding her ground.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” Father shouted angrily, murdering the woman in a flick of a wand, and by doing so breaking the Cruciatus Curse he was casting on Ominis. He could feel the woman’s lifeless body fell on top of him, and then everything became dark.

***

At first, as he woke up Ominis did not know where he was, only that he was filled with terror and anguish. Everything hurt, the lingering pain of his ordeal stayed in every one of his bones, his skin. His head was pounding and he could not think.

Slowly, bit by bit, he calmed down finally and try to make sense of his surroundings. He could feel a gentle pair of soft hands holding his own. Someone. A person he loved. A person he felt safe with. Violet. Bergamot. A soft surface. A bed. What felt like a cool wet towel on top of his forehead. The weight of a heavy blanket on top of him. The sound of firelogs burning. A radiating warmth from that direction. A voice he recognized, calling his name gently. Aunt Noctua?

Aunt Noctua was crying, he could hear that. She was crying as she held his hands. He squeezed her hands to tell her he's awaken now and it made her sobs. Then it made him finally cried too, releasing all the anguish he had lived through that day. The hunt, what happened in the cellar, everything. It felt as if he could never stop crying. He never dared to show any tears in front of Father or Mother, for fear of punishment. However he was now either dead already or he was with Aunt Noctua, and either possibility was much less frightening than being back where Father was.

“Oh, Ominis…” Finally, Aunt Noctua spoke again after what felt like hours.

“Where am I?” he whispered in reply.

“Back in the Manor. You are in my room. Your father came back without you but he let me fetch you. You’re safe for now, at least for tonight. I can try to fend for you for at least that long.”

“How… how about the woman?” Ominis asked tentatively. He could feel Aunt Noctua’s arms tighten around him.

“She had died, Ominis. Your father killed her,” her voice was filled with sadness and disgust.

“She… she threw herself on top of me to stop Father.”

“I know. I found her still on top of you when I arrived. I gave her a quick burial there. She deserved that at least. I will track her family later but you are my priority. I know… I know what living through that curse means, Ominis. I had to bring you back here quickly. You were halfway to Death’s arm yourself by the time I found where he left you.”

“Who was she…?” Ominis asked again after a while.

“A Muggle your parents had imprisoned for simply being Muggle. She did not choose to be born without magic, as no one chooses to be born with or without Magic. But Ominis, never forget that Magic or not, she had the courage to try to shield you from what she knew as the most excruciating pain your Father was inflicting on you. Even if she had to pay it with her life.”

Ominis felt tears run down his cheeks as he nods slowly, trying not to make his head hurt more.

“We cannot choose the family we are born to. Pureblood, Muggle, Half-Blood, it is purely by chance that we are born as either of these. However, never forget that whatever bloodline or family you are born to, you always have a choice. Never forget that even under such circumstances she had chosen to shield you and by doing so, knowingly take the excruciating curse and your Father’s wrath upon herself. That, Ominis, is the true meaning of courage. Never forget that.”

Ominis gulped, feeling guilt enveloped him for having pointed the wand and performed the curse himself toward the woman. Noctua sighed, knowing what he was feeling. Earnestly, she took Ominis’ hands in hers.

“Ominis look. I wish I could protect you from all of this. I wish I could simply hold you in my arms and protect you from our family for the rest of your life. I wish you did not have to live through the ordeal you had tonight. But I cannot protect you from your father, and time is running out. I will have to leave tomorrow. Listen to me carefully. The day you were born, your parents realized you are blind. They know you are a Parseltongue, as expected of those coming from our bloodline. Today you had come to your magic. For all these reasons, your parents decided that you are the perfect heir to the legacy of our family. And you must not let it happen.”

Ominis laid quietly on the bed, not sure he understood. Everything was still hurting. But at least now he felt much calmer, feeling Aunt Noctua’s warmth beside him. However, Aunt Noctua’s voice was even tighter now.

“Soon you will come to age to be sent to Hogwarts. As you know very well, we are the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself. We speak Parseltongue. Your parent had told you about the Chamber Slytherin left, intending to purify the school from the so-called Mudbloods. They had told you what’s inside the chamber, didn’t they? Your mother told me so. They might not tell you why they told you all of that. However, for years they had been preparing you for the day that you should be the one to open the chamber and do the unthinkable. To hate the Muggleborns so bad. Soon they will explain to you exactly how to do it. And you must never do it.”

Ominis did not know what to say, he felt shocked and confused more than anything else. But Aunt Noctua did not stop. With urgency she squeezed Ominis’ hand now, her forehead against him, whispering.

“Think about it. All of these beliefs … of pureblood superiority and Muggleborn inferiority are misplaced. Who are we to be proud of which family we are born into? We should be ashamed of what we had become. And I believe, even your parents and mine are wrong about all of this. I am quite sure Slytherin’s intention was more than just pure blood superiority.” Her voice is quite feverish now. “Tomorrow morning I will have to leave you to go back to Hogwarts. I still have one year left there, one last year to find out more about all of this. And I will prove that all of these are the madness that must be stopped.”

Ominis said nothing. At that moment, none of it made any sense to him. For many long years afterward, this conversation echoed in his mind as he thought about and relived this very moment. He regretted not pressing more about the matter, and that all he wanted was for her to stay by his side forever, to feel safe, to feel loved.

Somehow, he suddenly feared losing her forever.

“Do you truly have to leave tomorrow?” he asked in a small voice, feeling scared and alone.

Aunt Noctua sighed as if snapped out of her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said sadly. Quietly, she kissed his nephew’s forehead and held him in her arms, thoughts racing in her heads.

I am intent on finding and destroying that blasted chamber, and all other hidden secrets Slytherin left to stop all this madness. Curse his parents for refusing to tell me about the Chamber’s location. I think they somehow fear what I might do. But at least, I have some lead for the Scriptorium. I must do this and put an end to all this. For Ominis.

Oh Ominis, If all else fails, I will bring you to live with me as soon as I left Hogwarts. We might have to run away far from here. Probably somewhere far to the south. Far away from all this place. I will keep you safe. One more year for you to endure, Ominis. Wait for my return.

Without any word, Ominis fell asleep in her arms. Outside, the first ray of light had started to light the winter sky. Soon, she had to leave, and he would wake up alone in bed. However, for now, this very moment, she was with him and it was all that mattered to him.

[kookaburra1701]

WIP Wednesday - Wives of Shor II: Kaidan Peregrine

❤️❤️❤️tagged by @mareenavee and @archangelsunited ❤️❤️❤️ tagging @gilgamish @dirty-bosmer @thana-topsy @expended-sleeper @greyborn2

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Rating: T (entire fic is E) Category: M/M Pairing: Kaidan/Lucien Flavius Genre(s): Romance (bodice-rippers my beloveds), bildungsroman Other main characters: Inigo the Brave, she/her Breton LDB

Summary: Instead of actually working on the first fic in the series, I wrote the opening scene in the second fic bc I needed to do some snuggles. Lucien Flavius is by Joseph Russell, Kaidan is by Liv Templeton, and Inigo the Brave is by SmartBlueCat.

3rd First Seed, 4E 203 Kaidan tucked his toes around Fledge’s barrel, attempting in vain to shield them from the bitter cold. This far north there were no trees or even particularly tall shrubs to blunt the edge of the wind, and it found every gap in his fur cloak and hood, no matter how tightly Kaidan wrapped them around himself. Fledge’s head was bowed, following closely in Frost’s tracks as Inigo’s horse broke the trail in front of them. Kaidan still had no idea where on Nirn Inigo had found that horse, but Frost was well-named and seemed almost impervious to ice and snow, breaking a trail as easily as if they were on a pleasure hack in Riften.

The troll’s head behind Kaidan’s saddle was bleeding through the burlap sack, staining the white patches on Fledge’s flank and leaving a broken pink trail behind them. However, if the dark, towering clouds looming over the Sea of Ghosts was any indication it would be buried under snow in a few short hours.

Frost halted, and Fledge nearly ran into his haunches before Kaidan managed to pull him up short. He gave the horse an apologetic pat as he guided Fledge up next to Frost and leaned close to Inigo.

“This next stretch is not so deep, I think,” Inigo said, practically yelling to be heard over the howling wind and through the layers muffling both himself and Kaidan. “Take point to give Frost a rest and then we will push the rest of the way.”

Kaidan nodded in acknowledgment. He could feel Fledge heave a deep sigh as Kaidan urged him in front of Frost. Inigo was correct; for a few miles at least the road was partially protected by a finger of rock jutting out from the Anthor Range. To the North, the Statue of Azura loomed over the road, a constant landmark since midday yesterday.

Deep in his belt-pouch, Kaidan felt an insistent vibration.

Just a little longer, he thought. Lucien’s Dwemer sphere had been resonating at increasingly narrow intervals for the last few days, indicating Lucien was checking on their progress. Kaidan smiled to himself, and picked up his pace. After a weeks’ travel to Dawnstar and a week’s travel back (with a stop to take care of a particularly troublesome ice troll that had taken up residence in Wayward Pass) he was eager to be back in Winterhold.

Never thought I’d be yearning for a wizard’s town. Then again, Kaidan was not yearning for the town or mages in general - rather, a particular mage.

The dwemer sphere buzzed again, this time in three short bursts. A warmth that the cold could not touch swelled in Kaidan’s chest. Lucien was waiting and eager. Fledge snorted in protest as Kaidan pressed his heels into Fledge’s side, urging the horse into the wind, onwards to Winterhold.

Night had truly fallen by the time the College of Winterhold came into view, the queer blue light illuminating the Archmage’s tower piercing the darkness, seeming to float in mid-air over the sea, connected to land only by the string of mage lights illuminating the college bridge. Snowflakes were starting to fall, gathering on Kaidan’s eyelashes and Fledge’s mane.

The snow was cleared from the road, more likely from the howling wind driving it to pile up against the craggy faces of the mountains than by the order of Jarl Korir, but Kaidan would take it either way. He urged Fledge into an easy trot and behind him the chiming of Frost’s hoofbeats on the stone pavers told him Inigo was doing the same. Now that Fledge knew they were well and truly turned for a familiar stable, Kaidan had to hold him steady rather than let him take the bit and bolt towards a bucket of oats.

The large bulk of Masser was hidden from view by the clouds that were stooping over Winterhold when Kaidan and Inigo finally passed under what was left of the Winterhold gatehouse. A guard, unrecognizable with her face and head wrapped in furs, raised a torch to examine them, but waved them on before asking their business. Kaidan supposed he and Inigo, mounted on Fledge and Frost, bedraggled and weary from the road, were familiar to the guards by now. Despite the permission to proceed, Kaidan pulled Fledge up short. Fledge snorted in protest as Frost continued on without him.

He tugged the fur cowl away from his mouth and leaned down to where the guard was waiting expectantly, her own furs held away from her ear to hear him over the howling wind.

“I have the troll Steward Seloth put out that bounty on!” Kaidan gestured to the back of his saddle.

The guard looked at the bloody pack and nodded. “I can take that for you, sir!” She jerked her chin out to the east, into the wind. “Get you inside so you don’t have to deal with the messy thing, and mark you down for the bounty.”

Kaidan shook his head. “The college asked me to bring them as many parts as possible when I set out. Will just a hand do?”

The guard waved him off. “I’ll mark you and Inigo down for the bounty, no need for a trophy for proof. You’re known here.”

“Many thanks!” Kaidan touched his hood in a sketchy salute before turning Fledge towards the Frozen Hearth.

“We’re going to have snow taller than a spear by mid morning, mark my words!” she called after him.

Kaidan dismounted and stashed the pieces of troll in the ice shed behind the byre that was pressed up against the wall of the Frozen Hearth. If the guard’s prediction was correct, the snow would keep them well until he could bring them to Collette Marence.

The tiny stable was blessedly warm, though lit by only a small lantern. Kaidan could hear the sounds of the inn’s cows chewing their cud and grunting in the darkness. Inigo and Frost were illuminated by the small pool of light, and Inigo was just removing Frost’s saddle.

“Well?”

“The guard said she’d put us down for the bounty without any proof - that our word was good enough.”

Inigo grinned, his white teeth and yellow eyes seeming to glow in the shadows. “That is wonderful to hear, my friend! Look at us, making honorable names for ourselves!”

“It’s not something I’m quite used to,” Kaidan said as he tied Fledge to the stable wall in his usual spot. “but I think I could do.”

As he rubbed down Fledge, Kaidan tried to figure out how he felt about having stayed in one place for so long the guards accepted his word as bond when he reported fulfilling a bounty. When was the last time he’d stayed in any place long enough for the guards to know his name? It had to have been with Brynjar.

Kaidan braced himself for the twinge of pain deep in his chest whenever he thought of Brynjar, but he had to admit that the grief had been…fading. It had been all consuming when he had returned to Skyrim, everything reminding him of the stubborn old Nord. But gradually, as new memories replaced the old, a sense of peace had replaced the pain where Brynjar had been in his heart.

Inigo finished first, and brought fresh hay and water for the horses, along with their measure of oats from the feed bin, and he and Kaidan left them happily eating and snorting to themselves.

As soon as the door to the outside opened, the wind hit Kaidan like a giant’s club. It took his breath away as it blew past his face. The snow was so thick he could barely see in front of his face - the storm had well and truly arrived. Inigo placed a hand on his shoulder and they forced the byre door closed and shut the bolt fast. They exchanged no words as they made their way by feel around the outer wall of the inn, until Kaidan felt the familiar steps in front of his boots and he climbed up, finally finding the door.

A drift of snow and blast of cold air accompanied them inside, and Inigo shut the door firmly against the weather. Kaidan could tell it was warm, the central hearth was well-stoked, but his fingers and toes ached and burned with cold at the same time.

Haran looked up from where she was banking some embers around an iron cauldron.

“Welcome back, gentlemen, help yourself to the stew - Kraldar and Dagur went out and got a horker yesterday.”

“Thank you, Haran,” Inigo said, “May we trouble you for a drink as well? Today was long and cold.”

“Of course, of course - when we heard we should be expecting you Dagur pulled a bottle of that spiced wine you like. And there’s ale for you of course, Kaidan.”

“Many thanks,” Kaidan accepted the tankard a little clumsily with his gloves and bracers still on.

“How did you know we were due back today?” Inigo asked as Haran filled their bowls.

“Oh, your lad from the college stopped by. Got here with his arms full of books just before the wind really kicked up. He said you’d be arriving late tonight.”

Inigo elbowed Kaidan in the ribs and grinned impishly. Kaidan cuffed him on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Inigo rubbed his arm in mock pain. “I hope for Lucien’s sake you take your gauntlets off before-”

“And that,” Kaidan said, draining the last dregs of the stew from the bowl and handing it back to Haran, “is my cue to say goodnight.”

“Aye,” Haran had a glimmer in her eye and the corner of her mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Goodnight. I’m sure you’ll keep warm.”

Inigo sniggered, but Kaidan chose to ignore him and lit a rushlight from one of the embers in the hearth before grabbing his pack and making his way down to the cellar.

The cellar of the Frozen Hearth was almost as spacious as the ground level. In addition to a small common area, giant brewing vats, and the living area for the family, one section had been subdivided into smaller rooms meant for the servants, mercenaries, and others that often accompanied visitors to the college. Inigo and Kaidan were now semi-permanent residents of two.

Kaidan gently lifted the latch to his door - it was unlocked, and the door swung open.

In the dim glow from the rushlight Kaidan could just barely make out the hump of furs on the bed which he assumed to be Lucien. As quietly as he could he set the light on the small table, and positioned his body between it and Lucien, and tried to remove his armor as quietly as possible.

A wind gust howled outside the sturdy walls of the Frozen Hearth Inn; he and Inigo had outpaced the coming gale by mere minutes. The melting snow on his wolfskin mantle and hood lent it a faint canine smell. Kaidan cursed to himself as his numb fingers worked at the knots on the lacings of his cuirass; the Akaviri tradition of laces and knots instead of straps and buckles meant that he could fit his armor, heavy as it was, like a second skin. But now ice and snow had seized the careful knots along with his joints. It was only through sheer force of will and desire to not wake Lucien that Kaidan was able to grit his teeth and prevent them from chattering. He winced at how loud his clumsy footfalls sounded in the quiet of the room.

Finally, after seemingly endless patient work, Kaidan was able to release the hide laces and slip his armor over his head. Kaidan was aching with cold and weariness, and wanted nothing more than to slip under the furs Lucien had been warming, but he’d been a soldier for too long to neglect his gear. He carefully spread his armor out over the table and chair to drip dry, and wiped away as much of the melting snow as he could with a corner of his cloak. He could oil it in the morning: the storm that had nipped at his and Inigo’s heels all the way from Whistling Mine and would likely make travel impossible for a day or more, if he knew anything about Skyrim’s weather.

Kaidan shivered, finally removing his tunic, trews, and smallclothes - they were soaked through and icy cold.

At last Kaidan approached Lucien’s slumbering form; all that was visible above the fur coverlet was a mop of golden hair and a small sliver of forehead resting on the homespun linen of the bolster.

Holding himself back from diving into the warmth of the bed and disturbing Lucien, Kaidan extinguished the rushlight, carefully lifted up a corner of the nest Lucien had made, and slid under the furs. He meticulously avoided touching Lucien, and tried to keep his shaking under control as his fingers and toes slowly began to burn and prickle as blood returned to his extremities.

“Kaidan?” The sleepy mumble was muffled further by the layers of bedding it had to travel through, and Kaidan cursed to himself again.

“Go back to sleep, Lucien,” Kaidan answered in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mmm.”

Kaidan thought that was going to be Lucien’s only response before returning to sleep, but then -Mara bless him!- Lucien deliberately tangled his legs with Kaidan’s, placing his feet next to Kaidan’s and pushing back to press against what must have felt like the frost atronach that had just crawled into his bed.

Lucien’s body felt like it was burning him where skin touched skin, but Kaidan pressed eagerly into that warmth, now feeling as if there was a chance he might not be doomed to eternal chill.

As Kaidan wrapped his arms around Lucien, he could feel Lucien’s skin quiver at the shock of his cold touches, but instead of pulling away like any sensible person would do, Lucien held his arms and hands over Kaidan’s, gently guiding them to slip up under the hem of his tunic, and finally holding Kaidan’s hands close against the skin of his chest and stomach.

Kaidan tightened his embrace, burying his face into the back of Lucien’s neck and breathing deep - he could smell ink and cloves under the earthy, animal notes of the furs and woolen blankets covering them - the scent indelibly labeled Lucien in his mind.

As he placed a soft kiss into the hollow behind Lucien’s ear, the only response was an indistinct mutter and Lucien’s breathing returning to the deep, regular rhythm of sleep. Kaidan followed Lucien into slumber moments later.

[therooftopsofketterdam]

planed starter for @languageofsuffering

A deep breath filled her lungs with the cold, crisp air of winter. The skies were so clear out in the country of Kerch that it left Inej longing for the widened rodes of Ravka. The endless trails the Suli caravans that followed from town to city to the borders into Fjerda and Shu Han. Her hand wandered to the knife sheathed right over her heart, Sankt Petyr, the name left her lips, escaping from her lips as a whisp of smoke. Her first protector, the first knife she ever named... the knife Kaz gave her when he taught her to fight. Her hand held the leather wrapped handle gently as the steady thump of Kaz's cane interrupted the silence between them.

The ground around them was frozen as they made their way to the top of the hill, fields lay barren, the trees had shed their leaves and the Saints left the land to sleep and rest, awaiting the warmth of spring. Despite the sun and bright blue sky, it was freezing, tufts of snow and ice glittered with the sunlight while the silence continued to stretch on between them.

Inej had arrived in Ketterdam to deliver a pair of slavers to the Council to recieve their judgement when a message intercepted her departure. Written in the neat scrawl that belonged to Kaz Brekker, he'd ask for her help on a job. The Suli wasn't one to deny him, especially now that they tried to be whatever they were. It still felt vulnerable and new, but Inej was glad to be close to him again. That, however, didn't explain why they took a barge to Belent and then continued on foot and wagon ride until they reached a small settlement sorrounded by nothing but farmland.

As they reached the top of the hill Inej stopped next to Kaz, who seemed to be frozen. In front of them lay miles and miles of fields, unkempt and overgrown by straw like shrubs and bushes who seemed too stubborn to give into the cold onset of winter. Gnarled fruit trees seemed to form a small orchard around a modest farm house and a spacious barn, but the fence was old and broken in places as if this place had been left unattended for a long time.

Inej took a step closer towards Kaz, her shoulder nearly touching his and she could feel his warmth through the fabric of her dark teal cloak. "What are we really doing here, Kaz?" She asked, her voice was soft as to not startle him from his thoughts. Whatever this place was... it held the ghost of the past and Inej was not about to let Kaz get haunted by old fears again. They both still struggled enough with their demons as it were.

[thegreatstrongbow]

My @officialtolkiensecretsanta 2022 gift for @lycheesodas

FIRST OF ALL @/lycheesodas can I just say your taste in Beleg & Mablung hcs aligns with mine so perfectly, this was incredibly fun to write, and yes, they will live in my brain forever. Your mind is just so *chef’s kiss*. I really hope you enjoy this as much as I loved writing it and I hope you have a delightful winter season!

Rating: E Words: 3.3k Characters: Beleg Cúthalion, Mablung Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Mablung Read it on Ao3

Winter snows blanketed the forests. The trees bent under its weight, the leaves sparse, the shrubs bare. Shimmering crystals of ice formed out of the dew, glittering in the white starlight.  In these deep dark hours, the mist gave the woodland a dreamlike haze, curling around the bare feet of the two elves, but its chill did not disturb them.

The first elf was lithe and strong, his hair unbound and floating over his shoulders, his head back as he laughed at the words of his companion. His face was bright in the starlight, almost childlike in his wonder and joy, and though he had the form of a warrior, he seemed more like one of the trees than elf, half spirit, and half branch.

 His companion was even taller and even broader, his hair bound with leather ties in an elaborate braid. His face was stern and unlined, the only mark a scar along the arch of his right cheek. But his eyes were bright too, with love and joy, and he did not quite seem of the physical either, in this deep wood, touched by the ancient power of their Queen.

 They walked together in the quiet stillness, far from the dwellings of their kin. Nan Elmoth, they called this place, where once the Queen had enchanted their king. It was quiet now. Their people dwelt in hidden groves and tree hollows, spread far and wide, with their king by the river, and this pair – like their King and Queen before them – had wanted privacy, from the prying ears of their friends and of the trees that knew them. The trees of Nan Elmoth did not gossip.  

“I shall be Melian.” Beleg declared, his laughter still ringing in the trees as he danced lightly over the snow cloak of the earth, ahead of Mablung. He spiralled, twisting and turning, mimicking what he imagined would have been the dance of the Queen in the ancient days, when Thingol had come across her. “And you shall be Elwë.” He had a new name now, but Beleg had yet to grow used to it. “You are almost as tall as him.”

 Mablung rolled his eyes, but Beleg knew well enough the twitch of mirth in his face. Beleg continued his dance, singing to himself an old tune. Despite winter being in its peak, so cold that almost nothing grew, there were flowers in Nan Elmoth. A pale carpet of snowdrops, blood bright hellebore, climbing purple clematis. Beleg danced among them, the sweet scent stirring in the air. Mablung could not refuse to join in, his deep voice interrupting the song.

 “Fair creature!” he called, and Beleg halted his dance, his face curious but eyes sparkling with delight as his partner indulged him. Mablung continued. “Fair creature, O he who has walked in the youth of the world! Why do you come to my forest and dance with me, but always leave me alone and heartbroken?”

 His impression of Thingol was not very good. Beleg would not dare intimate the Queen; her power scared him and unlike the king, they did not have a long friendship that permitted such teasing. But he would play himself.

“I came to sing. Will you sing with me?”

“I will sing with you.”

Mablung joined in both song and dance. It was not rehearsed, but they both knew the steps, instinct and memory combined. They continued, though there was no sense of time in the starlight, sinking deeper and deeper into the woods, where the ages have left the trees twisted and gnarled – but beautiful still, ancient, wise and knowing. It was a comfort to them both.

 They came at last to the centre, a grove of the oldest trees, and Beleg halted in the snow.

“Now I must leave you, noble love, for my own kind. I am a spirit, and not of this world.” Some said that was true of him. Beleg disagreed. He was more of the world than anyone else; his flesh was as much like wood as his bow, his blood the rainwaters, his hair the fibres that the elves spun into clothes. Only Mablung could understand him, only Mablung knew how Beleg’s heart ached and longed for the world as it had once been for him.

 “I would have you be of my world.”

“Wed me, then, and keep me.” Beleg declared, and Mablung laughed, reaching for him, and kissing him, their heads resting together. They sank into the snow, untroubled by the cold, and held each other, resting, savouring.

“There is no one who could keep you, Beleg.”

 “I know. But I like the game. It amuses me to imagine.” Beleg said into the quiet, toying with the end of Mablung’s braid. Mablung was quiet, but that was not unusual. He was often quiet, letting Beleg talk, or share the silence with him. Long moments of silence passed, and then:

“Will you marry me, Cúthalion?”

 Beleg stared into his lover’s eyes, searching for the familiar signs of teasing. He found nothing, only hope and sincerity and love. His heart swelled, and almost at once emotion threatened to overcome him, to burst through his chest and swallow him whole. The world shrank to just him and Mablung.

“Yes.”

His answer was to cup Mablung’s face with his hands, drawing him close and kissing him. He tasted of pine and the clearest spring water Beleg had ever tasted. He kissed him, long and deep, the two of them entwined in the snow, hands grasping, hair tugged, eyes closed. Beleg could have kissed him forever, but eventually he pulled away, leaving a lingering final kiss on Mablung’s lips, and lay back in the soft snow.

 “I know you will want to do it as our people do.” Beleg spoke after his breath had returned to him. He thought of the engagements he had witnessed over these long years; it was not how he would have done it, but neither was it unappealing. He would happily wear Mablung’s ribbon in his hair for two seasons, and be wed in the third – summer, he mused, they could have so many flowers.  The king announcing their intention to wed to the entire court was less exciting, but he could bear the well-meant ribbing of his friends for Mablung. No one of them would be surprised, at any rate. Daeron insisted they were all but wed already. They certainly behaved as spouses. Was the ceremony necessary? No. But he was not the kind of elf that would refuse his friends a party.  

 “I do.” Mablung admitted, laying on his back in the snow and looking up at the canopy of stars and bare branches. “I have long pictured us drinking from the same cup – as they did in the old times – and binding our hands. But we do not have to do it entirely my way. Neither of us are the traditional kind, are we?”

 “No.” Beleg agreed. They had no family to exchange gifts with. Beleg had never had any. Mablung was an only child and his parents had gone with Olwë across the sea. Beleg was selfishly grateful for it. He had known Mablung’s parents, and to this day, he had no idea what he could have given them.

  But if they could not dip themselves in the waters of the Great Lake together as they might have done then, they could still share water together now – the Sindar had taken that custom, though at the wedding itself instead of before it – and Beleg still remembered the old words. Perhaps he could convince Mablung to let Thingol pour the blessed water over their heads instead, at the ceremony. In Cuiviénen, engagements were secret, only announced to a single witness at the drinking, and to the rest at exactly a season before the ceremony. Long engagements had been common, few willing to bind themselves so firmly in a haste. He would not want to wait so long for Mablung.

Beleg sat up and took his water flask from his belt.

 “Share the water with me, Captain Mablung.” He said, offering it to him, as he had done so many times before. Never like this.

 “We have no witness.” Mablung was not really arguing, though. He was smiling, letting his fingers rest over Beleg’s on the flask as he sipped from it, never breaking eye contact.

“We have the forest.” It had been the witness to so much of their lives. It was only right it was a witness to this.

Beleg guided the flask to Mablung’s lips, watching the drop of water left behind. Mablung pushed the flask back towards him, and with their fingers still interlaced, Beleg drank.

 “I love you.” He leaned in again, brushing his nose against Mablung’s, before kissing him, light as the leaves fall in the autumn.

 Beleg did not know how long they stayed there. It might have been forever. It would never be long enough. But eventually they parted, walking hand in hand back to the grove where their king kept his court.

 Elu Thingol sat on a carven throne of wood, winter berries in his hair. The Queen beside him sat, the infant princess sleeping in her lap. She smiled knowingly when she saw them. How did she always know?

 “You return to us at last, friends.” Thingol rose, bright and merry, “What news? To be gone so long, you must have found some great treasure.”

 Beleg felt his throat constrict, mouth suddenly dry. He looked around the clearing – Daeron sat with Oropher, half an eye on them as they compared notes on a harp. Nellas was braiding her hair with winter flowers, her piercing gaze on Beleg. Did she know? Why did it feel like she knew? Why was it so hard to speak – these were his friends, his companions, he knew they would be nothing but happy. And yet no sound left him.

 Thingol started to speak again when neither of them answered, but then Mablung found his deep well of courage.

 “We are engaged, Lord.”

 Thingol laughed, a bright, joyous sound, and raised a hand to call for the attention of the gathered elves. Beleg felt his face warm and laced his fingers with Mablung’s for comfort. Mablung squeezed his hand and Beleg smiled.

“This, my dear friends, brings us all great joy – and indeed surprise, since there are those among us who believed you already wed.” Thingol announced, teasing, and there was a cheer from their friends that made Beleg want to hide his face in Mablung’s shoulders. “We would all be honoured to share in your love – sit with us at the high table.”

There was much cheering and shouting as he followed Mablung’s lead to sit at the place of honour at the king’s table. Thingol pronounced more blessings upon them, and the Queen in her enigmatic way said she hoped they would have a long and bright future. The tiny child in her arms squirmed and babbled at them as the noise in the clearing grew louder and Beleg smiled, thanking the princess for her kind blessing.

 Elves scurried around them, a feast appearing before them – Beleg thought of the Queen’s smile, the looks Daeron and Oropher had given them, and wondered if they had prepared for this already. The wine was overflowing in their cups and before long he lost himself in the celebration, forgetting his bashfulness in the face of such fun.

 In a lull in the music, Nellas approached them shyly.

“Beleg, Mablung.” She began, haltingly, gaze darting nervously up to the King, awed in the presence of the King. She turned her attention back to them and smiled sweetly. “I have gifts for you.”

 A pair of crowns, branches of holly and mistletoe with bright leaves and red berries. Mablung reached and took the first from her, and instinctively, Beleg leaned forward to let him place it on his head, feeling more like a bride than a warrior. The image did not displease him; he resolved to share his imaginings with Mablung later. He crowned Mablung with the second crown and the beauty of him took Beleg’s breath from his chest. With the gentle starlight soothing his features, his braid loosened from their rolling in the snow, the rare smile on his face, he seemed more like a king of the Ainur than an elf of forest. Beleg raised his goblet in a grateful toast to Nellas.

 The celebration continued for many hours – the Sindar of Doriath needed little excuse to party, and the engagement of both of their captains was an extraordinary occasion. In their place at the honoured seat, Mablung seemed more like an imitation of Thingol than he had in forests, Nellas’ crown of branches in his hair, sitting tall and regal. He seemed calm, but Beleg could see even the most hidden emotion in him – there was a little clench to his jaw, his hands were too still, his grip on his goblet was too tight. He disliked being the centre of so much celebration and attention – even from their friends – almost as much as Beleg did. Mablung did not even celebrate his begetting day. He had once told Beleg that he had not wanted to since he had turned thirty and one of the few good parts of his parents leaving had been that no one else knew the day. Beleg did not even know it.

 Mablung was good at hiding the tension in him. He was talking to Oropher – Beleg’s thoughts were too loud, but he thought he heard him give his congratulations, and there might have been a joke in there, because Mablung was laughing.

“Do you want to step away, Beleg?” His voice was hushed in Beleg’s ear. Beleg glanced once more around the room and then nodded, rising from his seat without hesitation and slipping into the trees before anyone could stop him, relieved to be away from the attention and the noise. He kept walking, knowing Mablung would follow when he had made their excuses, until he could no longer hear Daeron’s harp.

“You are like a fleeing deer, Beleg.” Mablung’s voice reached him, and a moment later he appeared from between the trees, laughing. Beleg rushed to him, ready for the usual lecture on manners, but then Mablung kissed him, grasping him by the hips to pull him in.

 Beleg gently pushed him away, after too short a moment, and Mablung’s whine was half-complaint, half-need.

“In a moment,” he promised, seeing those pale eyes darkened with desire that made Beleg’s limbs feel weak. “I have something for you.”

 “I do not need a gift.”

“I want to give it to you. We will not wear rings. We would only lose them in the wilds. I will wear your ribbon and you mine – when I find it, that is. I promise I have not lost another one – it is with my bedroll, somewhere in the furs.” From the inside pocket of his tunic, he brought out a feather. He had been carrying it with him for half the season, waiting for the right moment to give it. Beleg had intended it only as a love token, a small gesture, not an engagement gift. But it was a good one, he decided. Dailir had to be re-fletched often. He sometimes turned the old feathers into charms. Mablung would look lovely with it wound in his hair, or at his throat, or dangling from his ear.

Mablung took it in his hands, cradled tenderly. “Beleg… I will make you something.” Beleg’s lips twitched in a smile – he had been the one to teach Mablung woodcraft, but the student had quickly exceeded the master, with a focus for it that Beleg lacked.

“I do not need it. I have you with me always. You are in the curve of Belthronding, in every tree and branch – I think of you always.”

The strength of his own words surprised him, but the effect they had on Mablung was clear. Beleg did not have a chance to speak before his lover pushed him to the ground, swallowing his gasp with a fierce kiss. Cushioned by snow, he laughed against his lips as he brought his hands up to tangle in Mablung’s hair, freeing it from the braid and running his fingers through it, tugging him up into another kiss.

Mablung’s hands, large and warm, made quick work of his clothes, Beleg as bare as the day he had woken against the snow. But he could not feel cold, not when desire and love, when need, burned so brightly within him. Mablung had a single-minded focus, it seemed, his kisses already trailing down Beleg’s jaw, to the spot on his throat that always made him keen and whine. But Beleg would not be outdone – this was a time for them, not just him, and for all Mablung claimed to take all his pleasure in giving, Beleg would not simply take.

His fingers were long and nimble, and the ties of Mablung’s tunic were not complicated. The greater difficulty was in convincing him to move away for long enough to get it off over his head. Finally victorious, Beleg’s fingers danced over the smooth expanse of muscle, tracing every scar and dip, knowing the contours of his body better than he knew his own. He wanted to know all of him and even that would not be enough. Mablung groaned against his skin as Beleg slipped his hand into his trousers to stroke him.

“You should not look so smug, Cúthalion.” He laughed, shuffling back to hook one of Beleg’s legs over his shoulder. Beleg’s eyes darkened and the fire in his belly roared, desire setting his bones alight. He had been too lost in his exploration of Mablung’s skin to see where he had gotten the oil from – Mablung was always prepared, for they rarely made it to their beds. Now slickened fingers teased him, and Beleg arched his body, head thrown back into the snow.

 Mablung was relentless, curling his fingers, adding a third as Beleg tried and failed to come up with something witty to say. Mablung was so good at this; he could always reduce proud Beleg to writhing and moaning in minutes and he took great pleasure in it, too, drawing it out until Beleg was almost moved to tears by overwhelming sensation.

 Here, overlooked by their beloved trees, under the white winter starlight, they had never loved each other more dearly. Finally unable to bear the waiting, Mablung removed his fingers, laughing softly as Beleg whined at the emptiness, desperate for the closeness that this brought them.

 “I have you, Beleg.” He promised as he pressed inside him. Beleg closed his eyes, tears pricking the corner of his eyes, murmuring softly – the old tongue, that few remembered now, whispered praise and confessions of love so raw he would never be able to say them in any other moment.

He could not have said how long it lasted, it might have been minutes, or hours, all Beleg knew was the building pressure in his gut and the feelings of Mablung’s hands on him, Mablung over him, Mablung in him. It reached a crescendo inside him and he spilled with a wail of his lover’s name that echoed through the woods. White light blinded him for a moment and he felt Mablung give one last deep rock of his hips before he came inside him, his face pressed into the crook of Beleg’s neck, panting.

 Stillness came over them. They laid that, together, for a long time, neither moving nor speaking. Their minds were one as they were, the deep connection of Quendi lovers. No words had to pass between them.

There was nothing but them and the wide open world and they were happy.

[fedonciadale]

I've often thought that for all that there's a certain 'dudebro' portion of the fanbase that squees over ASOIAF being 'grimdark' (i.e. 'realistic' because everything sucks and is awful and good guys 'always lose' and anyone can die, you have to be awful/amoral to 'survive' etc) and the like, the actual series feels far more hopepunk (i.e. fighting for a better world with morality in the face of things being bad). Your thoughts?

Hi there!

Exactly! How can you read passages like these:

Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." (AGOT, Eddard V)

or this:

Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either. (ACOK, Bran VII)

or this:

It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here.

Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. (ASOS, Sansa VII)

or this:

"I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning . . . burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?" The king moved, so his shadow fell upon King's Landing. "If Joffrey should die . . . what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?"

"Everything," said Davos, softly. (ASOS, Davos V)

Or this one:

"Be that as it may. My father sat where I sit now when Lord Eddard came to Sisterton. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' Our maester chuckled at me and told us that Prince Rhaegar was certain to defeat this rebel. That was when Stark said, 'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true … but what if we prevail?' My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,' he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.' " (ADWD, Davos I)

I think you have to be especially opinionated to read this and come to the conclusion that ASOIAF is a series that is grimdark and realistic and has no hope. Yes, everyone can die, yes, people are brutal, deaths are brutal, politicians do not care about the cost of lives. And I think ASOIAF will be "realistic" in that regard that some of the baddies might survive. Walder Frey might just die of old age in his bed, Tyrion might become hand, but the Lannister legacy will die and the Frey legacy as well with only the honourable Freys surviving.

In a way it's a 'realistic' hope, a hope against all odds, but that there is no point in hope is definitely not what GRRM wants to convey to his readers. Hope is difficult, it can be disappointed, but it is always the better option.

WHAT IF WE PREVAIL?

That is what drives the better characters. They want to try!

Thanks for the ask!

[reginarubie]

In reference to your post about Sansa restoring Winterfell. The entire scene in the Vale where she’s rebuilding her home in the snow. (I’m obsessed with it.) It’s romantic, soft, pure. But then there’s one line that I always take as a negative. “Dawn stole into her garden like a thief.” I always wonder if that hints at D@ny coming for Winterfell and the North, either destroying everything Sansa has restored or attempting to.

Here we have Barristan’s excerpt in TWoW:

“..Dawn will be on us soon.”

“A red dawn,” said Jokin of the Stormcrows.

A dragon dawn, thought Ser Barristan.

Hello!

I'm obsessed with that chapter as well, it just paints this amazing picture, and what more Sansa's own thought of a world cloaked in snow being a pure world she doesn't belong in anymore because of what she has seen and what has been done to her (beyond the mere physical meaning of it for a lady of her status) yet stepping out all the same, and rebuilding Winterfell (her House and its legacy) from ground up with snow no matter how difficult it is, is just so healing and foreshadowing both of Queen Sansa imo and of Jonsa.

Post being referenced to, this one.

Pertaining the quote you used «Dawn stole into her garden like a thief.» (Sansa VII, ASOS) I think we should see it with the few sentences that sandwiches it.

And all the while the snow kept falling, piling up in drifts around her buildings as fast as she raised them. She was patting down the pitched roof of the Great Hall when she heard a voice, and looked up to see her maid calling from her window. Was my lady well? Did she wish to break her fast? Sansa shook her head, and went back to shaping snow, adding a chimney to one end of the Great Hall, where the hearth would stand inside.

Dawn stole into her garden like a thief. The grey of the sky grew lighter still, and the trees and shrubs turned a dark green beneath their stoles of snow. A few servants came out and watched her for a time, but she paid them no mind and they soon went back inside where it was warmer. Sansa saw Lady Lysa gazing down from her balcony, wrapped up in a blue velvet robe trimmed with fox fur, but when she looked again her aunt was gone. Maester Colemon popped out of the rookery and peered down for a while, skinny and shivering but curious.

Her bridges kept falling down. There was a covered bridge between the armory and the main keep, and another that went from the fourth floor of the bell tower to the second floor of the rookery, but no matter how carefully she shaped them, they would not hold together. The third time one collapsed on her, she cursed aloud and sat back in helpless frustration.

Sansa VII, ASOS

Now this would seem to confirm your theory or feeling that that quote may be linked to Daenerys coming to Winterfell and destroying everything Sansa has fought so carefully to build back from scratch (from stone and snow, but I digress), but I actually think it's not. Let's dissect this passage to explain to you why I think this way.

The moment Sansa chooses to step out marks a circle for her, Sansa has been educated that her role as lady is that of being a mother and care for her keep and children, let her husband run the justice and their lands (kind of like she did when she tried not to antagonise too much Joffrey at the Trident and after when she is questioned by Robert and Cersei), what her journey will teach her, is to stand up and she already has started to done so (standing up to Joffrey on several occasions, even on threat of being humiliated and beaten, often for herself, but also to save others — the woman with the dead babe and ser Dontos are prime examples of her choosing to step up no matter how scary the situation or how dangerous it is for her — as well when she tells Olenna the truth, indirectly causing Joffrey's death) and now she's doing it on her own, building her home from the snow. She is to take responsibility both hands, like lord and lady alike (which circles back to her show counterpart telling Arya that listening to the lords grievances, even when they are preoccupying for the Starks, is her duty as the Lady of Winterfell) which foreshadows her role as ruling Queen imo.

Then as the snows kisses her cheeks and lips (yeah a big Jonsa foreshadowing, just like the placement of her flowering in between two Jon's chapter — the previous with Jon desperately asking himself "he was his father's son, wasn't he? wasn't he?"— Jon IV, ACOK) she starts to build a castle from the snow, which is Winterfell, the home she has lost and has not seen in years (also the very home she has been disinherited from by her older brother, not that she knows) the home she's meant to rebuild from snow.

But, as snow is the primary source to rebuild/build her castle the condition of it keep falling around her and piling up, causes her bridges to collapse on her, means in my opinion that the War for Dawn which will be fought and probably won at Winterfell will cause some destruction not only structural to the keep, but also to the metaphorical bridges Sansa might have build with other Houses of the North (like the Glovers staying in Deepwood Mot after Jon "bends" the knee), or that Jon Snow's act (because after he went undercover with the wildling I truly believe that if he ends up meeting Daenerys and pledging to her it would be a ruse to get her and the dragons North to fight the War of Dawn) will make those bridges they have rebuild by pleading House by House (as Jon suggests Stannis do) and slowly taking back the North inch by inch collapse on her, which will have her helplessly and frustrated watch as everything she's fought for and carefully built collapse (like it happened in s8), but after her bridges collapse on her, she keeps building:

"Pack the snow around a stick, Sansa."

She raised the walls of the glass gardens while Littlefinger roofed them over, and when they were done with that he helped her extend the walls and build the guardshall. When she used sticks for the covered bridges, they stood, just as he had said they would. The First Keep was simple enough, an old round drum tower, but Sansa was stymied again when it came to putting the gargoyles around the top.

Again he had the answer. "It's been snowing on your castle, my lady," he pointed out. "What do the gargoyles look like when they're covered with snow?" Sansa closed her eyes to see them in memory. "They're just white lumps."

Sansa VII, ASOS

Sansa uses LF's instructions and teachings to make the bridges stand — which foreshadows her using the lessons she has learnt South and from Littlefinger (A harp can be as dangerous as a sword, in the right hands. — Sansa VI, ASOS) to build bridges and keep rebuilding her home. And, I've added it more for my amusement than for its pertaining with your quote I hope you may forgive me, the "it's been snowing on your castle, my lady, what do the gargoyles look like when they're covered with snow?" — "just white lumps" foreshadows Sansa, in my opinion, bringing forth the demise of LF as he roofs like a giant over the glass gardens, and where are the gargoyles? (creatures very ugly but meant to protect the keep? — at least that is the connotation we give to them in Italy it may be different elsewhere so I won't digress too much on it now — which seems to be what LF is doing, protecting Sansa despite how ugly he actually is as a person and for his ugly motivations) on the roof. And with showJon giving LF the choke of death on Sansa' behalf in Winterfell' crypts? I refuse to think Jon Snow has nothing to do with it as well. But that may be just my interpretation.

Now, pertaining the Dawn stealing like a thief in her garden...hmm? Bael the Bard anyone? Like the wildling king who stole inside of Winterfell and requested the most beautiful rose of lord Stark's garden only to leave it on the bed of his daughter as he took her, made her his woman and sired a child from her? — and she must've loved him too to kill herself when their son returned with his head. — a child who would grow to be the next lord of Winterfell?

It sounds to me more about Jon and Sansa again, as Jon is heavily associated with Dawn (why by filtering the asoiaf research by Dawn and Jon's POV it comes up 47 times!, while it comes up by Dany's POV only 22 times) and its coming, he will probably end up leading the wildling (those who choose to follow him) back to Winterfell once he is returned from the dead (kind of like Bael did) and who will, most probably, take (steal the wildling way) the most beautiful rose of the garden of Winterfell (Sansa's garden, hence the "her garden") Sansa herself?, maybe siring a child from her who will be the next king/queen in the North and lord/lady of Winterfell?

I've honestly always read it that way, as another Jonsa foreshadowing though I may be wrong.

Also, a dragon dawn can be linked with Jon's true parentage too, since he is heavily linked with the coming of dawn. Though I had never actually considered Dawn stealing in her garden as a thief to be referred to Dany, so I may be wrong.

Also, the connotation of the dawn stealing in her garden like a thief isn't only linked to the wildling custom Jon has been exposed to (also notice Ygritte says she was convinced Jon would know for sure to plucker her after she recounted the story about Bael and the Stark girl) or to the fact Sansa as Alayne has been accused of being a thief of hearts. If we make a research by POV of the word thief it comes out never in Daenerys POV, yet comes out exactly 5 times by Jon POV and the other POVs it comes out less times, save for Arya in whose chapter it comes up 6 times...yet, you know how many times it comes up in Sansa's chapters?

Wanna guess?

No, I can't resist...exactly 5 times.

So I think we can rest safely that it may not be connected to Dany while more to Jon and Sansa or to Arya. Thinking a possible bookStark-blow may happen as Robb has disinherited Sansa but not Arya and a fake Arya is currently being fought for in the North, and once reunited the sisters will have to work through their grievances with one another during winter (with Jon probably stuck in the middle of their antics).

So, imo, it can either refer to Jon and Sansa (which is the theory I am inclined more toward) or to Arya, but not to Daenerys.

I feel more inclined toward the Jonsa-reading of this scene also because in Arya's chapter the word thief is usually referred to someone else, a him usually (either Lommy, or Little Narbo, or Arry — when they say that Arry has stolen Needle, though she automatically translate that on them calling Jon a thief, because Jon has been the one to give her Needle) and only once it is uttered/accused at her, in ADWD, when she is posing as the Little, Ugly girl.

I hope you enjoyed and thank you for the ask!, Hope you have an amazing day!

[stolen-pen-name23]

Oooooh, you're taking angst prompts??!! How about #2 for Obi-Wan and Mace?

Hi Siri!! Thank you for the prompt (and sorry about the delay!)

Prompts now closed.

Here ya go!

---

Outside, the snow quiets the world, but within the temple walls, the hum of so many Force presences living together in sweet harmony acts as white noise.

Through the windows, Mace can see snow swirl around and blanket everything in a white sheet. It is unusual, but not unheard of at this time of year for snow to fall on Coruscant.

Mace pulls his attention from the weather and returns it to the masters and padawans in the temple. Those who are not currently locked into a mission or campaign have effectively locked themselves in the temple. Everyone is inside, embracing the comfort of their fellow Jedi and the warmth within solid walls.

Everyone except one.

His presence is not difficult to miss. At least not to Mace, who has known that presence for three decades now. The soft glow of it always seems to stifle a quiet intensity — like a cat with retractable claws.

No, not difficult to miss at all. That is how Mace knows he is not here.

Mace delves into the Force and searches. He lets the Force guide his path — as he always does. It leads him down the winding halls and corridors and all the way to the back gardens. He steps outside and lets the biting winds nip at his skin.

The gardens, always a beautiful sight, take on a new kind of beauty in the snow — a beauty more crystalline and abstract. Shrubs and trees droop under the weight of the icy layer. Bootprints reveal stubborn blades of grass fighting for their lives. Mace follows the bootprints until he finds their owner sitting on a bench beside a frozen pond looking like the saddest Jedi in the order.

Maybe he is.

“Good evening, Obi-Wan,” Mace says gently.

Obi-Wan raises his eyes to look up at Mace. They appear bloodshot and irritated while his cheeks are rosy, though Mace suspects it is not entirely due to the cold.

“What are you doing out here?” Mace asks cautiously. “It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m sorry, Mace,” Obi-Wan says, and Mace has not the faintest what he could be apologizing for this time.

Mace gives Obi-Wan another once over. A thin cloak is the only protection he seems to have from the frigid air. “Obi-Wan, please come inside. You’re going to freeze out here.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Now, what are you doing out here?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Obi-Wan asks, ignoring the question altogether.

Mace senses he needs to tread carefully. “Tired of what?”

“The war. The fighting. The death. Losing everything all the time.”

Mace’s breath catches in his throat. “Of course I do, Obi-Wan,” he says slowly.

Mace takes a step closer. Garnering no reaction from Obi-Wan, he sits beside him on the bench. Obi-Wan doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to gaze at the frozen pond.

“Why can’t we stop it Mace? We’re supposed to stop it and it just keeps going. Endless as the galaxy, it just keeps going.”

Obi-Wan has begun shivering beside him. Mace takes off his thick outer coat and wraps it around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

Mace sighs. “If the Force wills it, we will stop it.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then it doesn’t.”

Obi-Wan shudders.

“Though,” Mace adds, “I do believe it is the will of the Force that we will see this through, one way or another.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t offer him a reaction.

“Why don’t you come inside with me, Obi-Wan?”

“I just want to be alone right now,” Obi-Wan says, turning away from Mace.

“Well,” Mace says. “I’ll let you be alone, but not out here.”

Obi-Wan’s nostrils flare and Mace senses the retractable claws fighting to be released. He almost wishes they would.

But as he always does, Obi-Wan calms himself and he locks his shields up tight. Mace stands up and stares Obi-Wan down until the younger Jedi relents. Snow crunches under their boots as they head back to the temple. At Mace’s command, the exterior doors slide open for them, welcoming them with a balm of warm air.

“Come on, I’ll make us some tea,” Mace says, knowing Obi-Wan never passes up a cup of warm tea, especially on a cold day.

“I thought you said you would let me be alone if I came inside,” Obi-Wan argues, even as he follows closely behind Mace.

“I lied.”

“I can’t believe they made you Master of the Order,” Obi-Wan says.

In the warmth of the temple, Mace sees some of Obi-Wan’s old spark come back. He smiles at that. If there was one thing he knew about Obi-Wan, it was that he was never knocked down for long.

Once they arrive at his quarters, Mace heads for the kitchen while the younger Jedi hovers awkwardly in the foyer, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Have a seat, Obi-Wan,” Mace says.

“I can help with—”

“I said, have a seat, Obi-Wan.” There is no room left for argument, and Obi-Wan does as he is told.

Mace sets some water to boil and busies himself in the kitchen. Obi-Wan remains silent, staring at his hands. He doesn’t speak and Mace doesn’t try to make him.

Minutes pass until the kettle wails its high-pitched cry. Obi-Wan jumps at the sudden outburst.

“You’re on edge, Kenobi,” Mace says.

“Very observant,” he replies dryly.

Mace chooses to ignore Obi-Wan’s particular brand of sarcasm for now.

“I’m worried about you.”

“I apologize. I did not mean to worry you. There’s no need for it.”

Mace tries not to huff in frustration. Instead, he responds diplomatically with “I will always worry about my friends.”

Obi-Wan’s throat bobs up and down as if fighting back tears. Mace’s heart breaks for him.

“May I ask what has brought all this on?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes darken. “My men… I—” Obi-Wan starts with a shaky voice. “I lost… I lost a lot of men this week. A lot. And Cody, he… they’re his brothers and he has to bury them. And you didn’t see… You didn’t see the look on his face or the… the dead. There were so many dead.”

Ah yes. Mace had read the reports of Obi-Wan’s ill-fated campaign in the outer rim. If the reports were accurate, and Obi-Wan’s reports were always accurate, it was a bloodbath, though Mace had found that the written word could hardly convey the horrors of war.

The campaign ended days ago, but time is only relative after tragedy.

“I failed them, Mace.”

“Maybe,” Mace says, and he does not miss the way Obi-Wan flinches. “Maybe you failed them. Maybe your orders led to their deaths and it’s truly all your fault.”

Obi-Wan nods in resignation.

“Or,” Mace begins, “maybe, just maybe, you and your men walked into a trap. I read the reports, Kenobi. There was no way you could have known about the minefield. The intelligence you were given was not accurate. Maybe you did the best you could with the information you had.”

“I should have seen it coming.”

“We are gifted, yes, but we are not omnipotent,” Mace says. “To think as much is arrogance. We must accept our mistakes for what they are and move on from them.”

Obi-Wan nods, even as he shrinks into himself.

“It’s not your fault, Obi-Wan.” Mace squeezes his shoulder and he can feel some of the tension loosen.

Obi-Wan takes a shuddering breath. “All right.”

Mace isn’t sure if he’s convinced him or if Obi-Wan is simply appeasing him. He worries it is the latter.

“I know it’s cold comfort, but if you ever want to talk about it, or anything else, my door is always open.”

“We’re talking now,” Obi-Wan says.

“Nothing has ever gotten past you, Kenobi.”

In spite of himself, Obi-Wan smiles behind the brim of his cup.

Good.

Obi-Wan is not so broken after all.

[jamaisjoons]

of oleanders & honeysuckle I ⤑ knj | m.

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 when one of your coven sisters, malise, had first mentioned your soulmate, you’d been young and unbothered - preferring to chase the elusive seduction of power. now, you’re twenty-five, and having established yourself as a powerful witch of the sisters of elysia, you've grown tired of the cold embrace of power. looking to settle down, you move to carelia in search of the one destined for you. within days, you come across the charmingly handsome apothecary owner, and warlock, kim namjoon. something about him magnetises you. but is he the one the universe has fated for you? 〞strangers to lovers au. supernatural au. witch/warlock au. soulmates au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: witch!reader x warlock!namjoon

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: angst ∝ fluff ∝ future smut

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 12k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: mentions of death, oc has a traumatic™ childhood, oc is also an orphan so mentions of parental death, brief mentions of religious persecution? (yn’s parent’s coven is destroyed by knights from a new religion), brief depictions of fighting/violence, there’s no smut in this part but namjoon is hot as fuck, namjoon in leather which needs a warning in itself, use of magic ofc, namjoon is I N S A N E and im simping for him

➵ 𝑎/𝑛: this was,,, supposed to be a oneshot but fneorifnge i’ve been so lazy and i haven’t been writing as much so in order to post something I’ve decided to split this into four parts! also sorry there’s no smut in this chapter but the next three parts all have smut yeehaw 🤩

⏤ beta read by the lovely @yeoldontknow, @nightshadevinter, @inthecrescentmoonight​ and @jjungkooksthighs​

⟴ Series Masterlist

It’s the dead of winter. Snow crunches under your soles; the muffled sounds of your footsteps intermingling with the odd cracking branch, and crinkling leaf-litter as you navigate through the Forest of Ingredeen. The sky above you is bleak: faint wisps of smoke-grey clouds obscuring the otherwise stark, white canvas; and the harsh light causes your eyes to squint in the slightest. The thick blanket of snow that surrounds you doesn’t help; the pristine-white coating only further reflecting the brightness. Despite the austereness of the sky, life continues thriving around you. Barren skeletons of deciduous trees are juxtaposed by evergreens of pine, fir, and yew – the latter of whose verdant branches still boast succulent needles of jade and viridian. Some of them, most notably the yew trees, still bear fruits: the scarlet berries adding a splash of colour to the contrary dreary scene.

Stillness befalls the entirety of the forest, and the eerie silence only amplifies the sounds of snow crunching under your feet. The air is equally stagnant, with not a single gust of a howling gale, nor a gentle wisp of a susurrus breeze, drifting through the atmosphere. Though, that's a small blessing you’re thankful for; because even with the absence of the wind, the frigid bite of the cold settles into your bones. As a matter of fact, you’re dressed in a thick-piled winter cloak - the black material lined with fur – as well as your woollen dress and leather boots. Yet, you still feel the brisk chill kiss your skin, the surface turning icy as it prickles with goosebumps.

Curling further into the warmth of your cloak, you pull the piled fabric further around your body and continue walking through the dense thicket of trees. The quiet is strange, and heavy, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think the woodland was devoid of all life. Nonetheless, every now and then, the shrubs around you move: their foliage rustling as hares and squirrels scuttle about, and wintertime birds flit through the canopy: sweet chirps of birdsong and languid flaps of wings resonating through the air. Albeit, they come infrequently, with long, gaping silences between. But they still come, and that settles the inkling of unease that flutters through your stomach.

You’ve only just moved into the large province of Carelia; the nation nestled between the much smaller territories of Alphana and Eyres; the latter of which had once been your previous home. Of course, in spite of Carelia being a large country – abundant with diverse wildlife and vast expanses of wilderness – the population of inhabitants itself was fairly small. In fact, throughout the entire country, there were only five human settlements; a significant decrease from the almost overpopulated country of Eyres. Naturally, that wasn’t the only difference. No, here, in Carelia, magic was bountiful – the very essence of life so palpable that you could feel it thrum in the air. Not that any of that was surprising by all means. No. After all, nature was plentiful here, and as a result, it meant that the innate magic of life was equally as powerful.

Taking a deep breath, you watch as your breath fogs in front of your face, causing your nose to scrunch at the sight. You had chosen to leave your previous coven, of your own volition. It had been a spur of the moment decision, after one of your past sisters, who’d specialised in oracles and premonitions, had suggested through thinly-veiled euphemisms that you’d find your destined soulmate here. When she’d first prophesied her vision, you’d been but a young wiccan, at the tender age of eighteen, a mere two years after your initiation into your coven, and you hadn’t cared too much. Back then, the idea of love, soulmates, and destiny had been far out of your mind. Rather, your entire being burned with the need to learn, to hone your magic and see just how far you could take it.

Your past coven had been a famous one, known by the entire world as the Sisters of Elysia. It had been an elusive coven, shrouded in mystery and repute, and one that was only open to the most powerful, or promising, female witches. In fact, it had been so exclusively prestigious, that it could only be joined by invitation from the High Priestess herself; a powerful seer with the ability to seek out the potential, innate magic of a witch or warlock. Though of course, the Sisters of Elysia had only been interested in an all-female coven, and even the most powerful warlocks had been turned away. Not that they’d even consider joining, though. No, they had their own coven for that – the Brotherhood of Requiem.

Being discovered by Mardella, the High Priestess, at the age of fifteen had been a blessing, and an honour; and having been told you’d had an incredible affinity for the Destructive Arts and Alchemical Restoration, two powerful schools of magic, had been even more of a privilege. As such, Mardella, and the rest of your sisters, had taken you under their wing, and taught you all about witchcraft for a year. And then, the very day you’d turned sixteen, you’d been formally initiated into the coven.

After that, you’d spent years upon years training your two schools of magic, honing them to the skill they are today. For the vast majority of your young adulthood, you’d chased the beguiling essence of magic – learning as much as you could about the two different archetypes – and soaking every ounce of the information into the very fibre of your skin. Power was a seductive thing, something far more enticing than the notion of love, and readily, you’d fallen into its clutches. Naturally, it was only made easier by being part of the Sister of Elysia.

You see, your previous coven had been a nomadic one – and its migratory nature had made learning all the more easier – especially since at the age of twenty-five now, you’ve traversed almost the entire world, and seen more things than an ordinary witch of your age would have. At first, the vagrancy of your previous home had been exciting. You’d loved travelling the globe, visiting different countries, and learning all types of cultures while simultaneously acuminating your magic. As a matter of fact, you had craved it – and wandering about the different kingdoms had whetted your own innate wanderlust; as well as the desire to learn as much as you could.

The Sister of Elysia had been your home, and you’d loved the family you’d created – after all, the blood of the covenant was thicker than the water of the womb. Or so, you’d been told all your life. Nevertheless, despite all your attachment and adoration for your coven – you couldn’t help but find that something was missing. You see, your blood-related family had been torn from you at the young age of ten, the coven of your parents razed to the ground by Knights of the Seven Lights: a new religion that had swept through Eyres, and in the bloodbath that had followed, you’d lost everything.

Orphaned from childhood, you’d spent the next five years living in the abandoned church that your parents’ coven, Mages of Mirror Lake, had occupied when they’d still been alive. Thankfully, the Kingdom of Eyres had a warm temperate, and winters were non-existent. Hence, even though you were essentially homeless, you’d somehow survived. By all means, you’d had to forage for scraps of food, clothing, or any other basic necessities – sometimes even needing to find a neighbouring human settlement and stealing whatever you could get your hands upon – but you’d survived. Moreover, you’d even continued sharpening your skills in witchcraft, using the ruined library of the church in order to continue your schooling.

For five years, you’d lived like that. Using the school of Destructive Arts, you’d kept those who would harm you, typically members of the Knights of the Seven Lights, at bay. And using the school of Alchemical Restoration, you’d heal and look after yourself; as well as the odd human who was desperate enough for a treatment to an ailment that they would turn away from their new religion and back towards the Magic of Old. Eventually, though, you’d met Mardella, who’d sought you out and brought you back to the Sisters of Elysia. And that was where you’d found your home, happiness, and solace.

That was, until now.

In the recent years, your magic had grown listless, and you, yourself, had grown restless – until eventually, you found yourself at an impasse.

You no longer found joy in travelling, and considering you’ve travelled everywhere there was little more you could learn that way, and even less that you could discover. You’ve reached the peak of your power. You’ve spent an entire decade garnering your knowledge, immersing yourself in the seductive lure of the Black Arts, only to hit a culmination. And now, there was nowhere else you could go except down. Of course, you could always consider learning a new school of magic if you so wished to continue chasing power. Except, lately, that deep, insatiable need for it had started diminishing; the searing fire dwindling until it was nothing more than weak flames licking at your being.

You still loved to practice your witchcraft, of course you did. You’d never really lose your love for power or magic. But your hunger for it had ebbed, its cold seduction releasing you from its tantalising embrace – and the moment that had disappeared, you’d found yourself lost. For the longest time, power had been your only vice, the only thing you had sought after, and cared for. But with that thirst gone, you had no idea what to do; or where to go anymore. More than that, you'd found yourself craving for some sense of home, of belonging. You had that with your coven, of course you did. But it just wasn’t the same.

A while now, there was a small, distant part of you that craved what had been stolen from you from a young age. A family. Love. You craved a sense of belonging; the affection of a lover, and the comfort and safety that they afforded. Something that was out of your reach with the Sisters of Elysia. By all means, it wasn’t as if there were rules that forbid romance. No, of course not. It was more, with how elusive the coven was, and with the doctrine that knowledge was power, and power was prestige; it meant that while romance wasn’t frowned upon, it just wasn’t something that was frequently entertained. Especially since the Sisters of Elysia had no room for men. Though, of course, if you fell for one of the sisters, that was a wholly different matter.

Which had all been well and good when you were younger. But now, you’re older, and you no longer covet power. Rather, you yearn for a sense of security, of home, of stability.

And thus, lately, you’ve found yourself going back to Malise’s oracle; the seer having foreseen of your soulmate almost a decade ago. You see, everyone in the world has someone fated for them – the knots of destiny tied by the Moirai long before even your own grandparents were born. Naturally, not everyone who was bound together actually found each other; after all, the world is large, and the universe was rarely ever so kind. No, more often than not, soulmates could be born miles apart, or even countries apart – and as a result – very few people found love with their soulmates. That is, of course, if you’re a human with no ties to the Magic of Old.

For witches and wizards, it was different.

The natural essence of the universe – the energy that made up the Magic of Old – was what guided practitioners of the Black Arts, and it was that very power that had bound the two beings together. And as such, for witches and warlocks, it was easier to find soulmates. Easier. Magic was mysterious, and the universe very scarcely answered definitively. Oracles were particularly attuned to the cosmos, hence their ability to catch glimpses of the future. But that’s all they were, mere glimpses and vague inklings. It was very rare for a seer to be able to clearly see the future – which is why Mardella was so powerful: she was particularly harmonious with the world.

However, Mardella very rarely involved herself with matters of the heart. As the High Priestess of the Sisters of Elysia, she embodied the fundamental teachings of knowledge and power; and as such her prophecies were seldom about the frivolities of romance or soulmates. Malise, however, was another matter. Frequently, the seer would have visions about soulmates, and she could even control them to a degree – having them at will. The first vision she’d had of you and your destined lover, had been involuntary; the fortune triggered randomly. She’d tried to speak to you about it, even offering to look further into it. However, you’d quickly dismissed her. After all, back then, you hadn’t cared.

Now, though, was a completely different matter.

Thus, a week ago, you’d sheepishly slunk into her chambers, and quietly asked if she’d be able to find out more about your soulmate. Her response had been eager, and she’d conducted her divination swiftly. As usual, her vision had been vague – veiled in euphemisms and cloaked with mysticism – the universe purposely responding to her questions with ambiguous answers. All she could say was that it was a man, a warlock to be specific, and that he lived in Carelia. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The idea of moving and settling down in Carelia – a kingdom so rich in nature and magic – immediately had excitement flourishing through you. Your earlier listlessness quickly faded, and with a new sense of purpose, you’d formally, and abruptly, left the Sisters of Elysia before you made your way to Carelia.

Naturally, there’s not much you know about your soulmate – because, really, living in Carelia and being a warlock was barely any information to go off of. Nevertheless, as mentioned before, despite how large of a country it is, Carelia only had a small population of humans inhabiting it. More than that, despite the abundance of magic, there was only one coven that was still prolific in the nation: Coven of the Evening Star. Moreover, out of curiosity, and before you had moved, you’d brewed the Essence of Venus; a potion that took on the scent of your destined lover. Each fragrance is wholly unique, customised purely for the individual, and completely memorable. In fact, you doubt you could ever forget the scent.

Thick notes of a pungent scent made up the bulk of your soulmate’s fragrance. Despite the sharpness of it, it was fruity and warm; with subtle hints of rich honey and ripe citrus. The fragrance was sharp, deeply intoxicating, and incredibly comforting. The telltale scent of honeysuckles in full bloom. Undercurrents of morning dew and fresh soil cut the effluvious aroma, adding a depth of light freshness and earthen musk to it that had your stomach flourishing with warmth. The first time you smelled it, you'd completely melted into the scent - something about it calling to the very recesses of your being, and soothing your soul - and you'd wanted nothing more than to sink into it.

After that, you'd immediately found yourself daydreaming about the mysterious warlock it belonged to. Lost in your fantasies, you wondered what his name was, what he looked like, and what he was like. You wondered what kind of magic he practised, and what he liked to do in his spare time. Moreover, you wonder just why he smells the way he does - and whether the scent of honeysuckle was wholly natural to him or artificial. Momentarily, you wonder where the fresh soil and morning dew comes from too. Mainly because, none of the notes that make up your soulmate's scents are common, or ordinary. Though, that's something you're thankful for, because hopefully, just hopefully, it would make finding him all that bit easier.

Distracted by your thoughts, you don't notice the dense thicket of woodland start to thin: the space between the trees growing further and further apart; until, all of a sudden, you're thrown out of your thoughts by the sight that greets you. Out of the blue, you find yourself in a large clearing. The glade is spacious, fringed by shrubs and bushes that make up the understory of the forest. Above you, the once thick canopy has cleared up, allowing dense beams of stark-white light to flood the ground: the sky's radiance bathing over the forest floor and casting its harsh brilliance over the structure that makes its home in the middle of the meadow.

When had you reached home?

Your cottage is moderately sized, and homely, but nevertheless, a sight to behold. The roof is gabled: made up of thin, multi-shaded hues of black slate, and the walls are smooth: made up of clay and stone of varied shades of beige. Flowering vines scale the exterior of your home, from the climbing roses that frame the oakwood entrance to your home, to the branches of clematis and moonflower that intertwine together over the side walls. Trumpet vine hangs over the edge of the roof, the lush foliage draping over the large windows that peek into your home. A wooden fence encloses your land, with the only entrance a small gate that breaks up the stakes. Bushes fill the space between your home and the timber barrier, however, being the dead of winter, only a few still bloom: the large shrub of daphne in the corner by the chimney, little clusters of violas nestled between clumps of cyclamen, and the vines of winter clematis that creep over the walls.

Carelia is large, and there are few settlements littered around the wild expanse of the wilderness. Nevertheless, your home is still secluded from even the nearest community - your new coven. Most people would be daunted by the fact that you're living alone in the woods. However, you? Not so much. After all, with your proficiency in the Destructive Arts, it would be hard for someone to get the best of you. Not to mention, that you had lived by yourself in the woods from the ages of ten to fifteen. No, to you, living alone in the forest, is somewhat comforting, and nostalgic.

At the comforting sight of your home, the corners of your lips curl into a slight smile, and you begin walking down the thin, winding dirt path that leads through the gate and to your home. Getting to the entrance to your cottage, though, you abruptly stop; the smile on your face falling. A small wicker basket sits on the shallow concrete step at the foot of your door. Curiosity colouring your being, you place your own basket of firewood and food down, before cautiously pulling back the soft linen cloth that covers the contents. Seeing the items inside, however, your curiosity is swiftly replaced by surprise.

A pot of lilac makes the centrepiece, the four-petaled flowers blooming in soft shades of periwinkle and blush despite the mid-winter atmosphere. Next to the pot lies a bundle of dried lavender, wrapped in a piece of plain brown parchment and tied with silk black ribbons. A few of the desiccated petals litter the base of the wicker basket, and in spite of its dryness, the thick, piney-floral scent of the bulbs intermingle with the cloying - almost sacchariferous - scent of lilac into a delicate floral aroma. The last items in the basket are three muslin sachets that contain a mix of rosemary, sage and cloves - the bag tied shut with red thread.

Thanks to your background in Alchemical Restoration, you’re well versed in the craft of herbalism, and from your extensive knowledge, you know that all the items signify protection. Lavender for purification and healing of the soul, lilac to banish malicious spirits or malevolent intentions, and the sachets to ward off negative energy. Having only moved into your new home yesterday, you haven't had a chance to properly ward off your property, and as such, the protective charms that keep you safe are basic and easily penetrable. Thus, the gift of the flowers and herbs is incredibly sweet. If a little strange, considering you have yet to meet any of your new coven members, or even announce your arrival. Nevertheless, you don't sense any negativity radiating off of the basket. In fact, if anything, you can feel a soft aura of safety enclosing the items - the gifter having clearly cast a few more wards of protection around them.

“Hello,” a voice suddenly speaks, and not expecting it, you immediately startle. Instantly, a rush of adrenaline surges through you, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on edge, and a swell of power to flood through your fingertips. Before you can even consider your actions, lightning begins crackling around your fingertips: small bolts of bright, purple-hued sparks arcing around the pads of your digits; your magic involuntarily manifesting itself in a bid to protect you.

Spinning on your heel, you thrust out your hand on instinct, causing a large bolt of lightning to appear out of thin air. The moment you turn around, however, your eyes blow wide and despair courses through you. The newcomers are dressed in two large cloaks, their coats effectively hiding their forms from you. However, from the design of the brooch that fastens their coverings - the emblem of an intricate silver star - you know that they’re members of your new coven; most likely coming to greet you. Nonetheless, the damage is already done - your magic having flooded out of you and into the air.

The lightning bolt surges towards the two and you watch as the female’s hands move in a flash, a spell immediately slipping from her lips as she erects a shield in front of her and her partner. It appears just in time - your own magic colliding directly into the middle of the barrier. To the witch’s credit, the shield manages to deflect your attack, and the force of the collision causes the lightning to bound into the stratosphere. A large flash of blue blazes through the sky, accompanied by the thunderous sound of lightning cracking, before your magic dissipates and ebbs back into the atmosphere; a terse silence once again shrouding the forest.

The moment it disperses, the aura of power around you fades away, and your shoulders immediately tense. Clambering to your feet, “Sweet Earth Mother, I am so sorry,” you quickly splutter. Adrenaline still coursing through you, your heart continues beating rapidly and your hands turn sweaty. Though, this time, rather than fear, it’s out of trepidation: a ripple of nervousness fluttering through you. This was not a good way to greet your new coven members.

The shorter of the two, the woman, pulls down her hood, and you’re met by mesmerising, cat-like eyes and a mischievous smile, “It’s okay. I kinda startled you on purpose,” comes her coy response. Nervousness replaced by confusion, your eyebrows furrow as you regard her in puzzlement. Beside her, the taller of the two lets out a little sigh and pulls down his own hood. The first thing you notice is that both of them have identical features: the same, sharp eyes; smooth, glass-like tanned skin, and small, pouty lips. Twins, no doubt.

“Yeah, and you almost had us killed. I told you not to startle her,” he chides, causing the woman’s cheeks to puff in a pout.

“Hey! I saved us, didn’t I? If it weren’t for my shield, we’d both be ash,” she backfires. The man simply scoffs and shakes his head.

“If you hadn’t scared her, we wouldn’t have needed the shield in the first place,” he retorts. The woman opens her mouth to retaliate, however, not having a comeback, she quickly closes it.

“Fair enough,” she concedes with a simple shrug of her shoulders.

“Purpose? Test?” you reiterate softly, breaking their little spat.

“Well, yes, of course. Your reputation precedes you, ____. I just had to see if the famed Witch of Ruin was truly as powerful as the rumours made you out to be,” the woman replies. Hearing her words, you let out an awkward chuckle.

Witch of Ruin.

Gods, you hadn’t heard that in a while.

You’d first gained the epithet during your years in Eyres, after you’d single handedly defeated a small group of the Knights of the Seven Lights, who’d come to ‘purge’ you of evil. After that one event, you’d gained infamy as the Witch of Ruin; rumours of a child born of chaos, lightning and fire, spreading through the country. As a result, more and more groups of the Knights would come looking for you, and one by one, they would fall at your hand. By all means, it had all stopped once you’d been rescued by Mardella. Nonetheless, being initiated into the Sisters of Elysia, of all covens, had only caused your fame to grow. After all, it was a coven that prized themselves on power.

Still, you haven’t heard that epithet in a while; having stayed your lust for power a while ago, and falling more into your love of Alchemical Restoration in the recent years. In fact, if you were being completely honest, you’d tried your hardest to put the nickname, Witch of Ruin, behind you. Mainly due to the fact that it had been born out of your need for survival. Not to mention, your anger, and what could only be considered ‘teenage angst’, over your circumstances from when you were an adolescent.

The man in front of you bows, the movement breaking you out of your reverie abruptly. “I’m sorry about my sister. I’m Min Yoongi, and this is Yoonji. We’re here to welcomeyou to the coven,” he apologises. Then, straightening out his back, he glares at his twin pointedly through the corner of his eyes, “Welcome. Not test,” he mutters. His words cause Yoonji to pout and stick her tongue out.

Eyes blowing out, you quickly shake your head while waving your hands dismissively. “No, no. It’s okay! Would you like to come in?” you ask as you gesture towards your home. This time, it’s Yoonji who shakes her head.

“Usually, we’d love to. But we don’t have long today. We need to get back to prepare for the coven meeting tomorrow,” she replies, her mischievous smile curling into an apologetic one. “We’re only here to drop off your initiation robes, as well as let you know that your formal induction into the coven will take place tomorrow, at evening’s twilight, in the Lunar Grove,” she continues.

Eyebrows knitting together, you cock your head to the side, “Lunar Grove?” you repeat, causing Yoongi to smile at you kindly.

“Someone will come collect you around dusk and bring you to the meeting spot,” he supplies, and you nod in understanding.

“Do we not have a building to convene in, or…?” you find yourself asking before you can stop.

A tinkling laugh slipping from her lips, Yoonji shakes her head. “The Coven of the Evening Star reveres nature first and foremost. We feel that buildings impair our ability to connect with both nature and the universe. So, while we aren’t a nomadic coven, we do not have an official church building to worship in either,” she explains. Mouth forming a little ‘o’, a ripple of sheepishness washes through you. You remember Malise telling you something about that, however, in your excitement to move and settle down, you hadn’t completely researched your new coven; a blight on your part.

Sensing your mortification, “Don’t worry about it too much. Our coven is very different from your old one, so I’m sure it’ll take you a while to get used to everything anyway. In the meantime, we’re here to help you with whatever you need,” Yoongi speaks, his voice low and comforting. A grateful smile curls onto your face as you thank him.

“Not to mention, everyone is excited to meet you. It’s all anyone can talk about lately. About how we’re not only going to meet a previous member of the Sisters of Elysia, but that she’s also joining our new coven. Not only that, but she’s also the fabled Witch of Ruin… I can assure you, that almost every member of the coven will travel to view your initiation tomorrow,” Yoonji chuckles lightly. The moment her words slip out her mouth, you let out an awkward laugh, and hearing the sound, Yoongi rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that daunting, don’t worry. And Yoonji is exaggerating, I doubt that many people will turn up,” he says while pointedly glaring at his sister through the corner of his eyes. Before she can say anything, however, he’s cutting her off, “We really must get going now, though. We still need to complete preparations for your initiation,” he continues before thrusting a neatly wrapped bundle of fabric towards you. “These are your Initiation Robes for the ceremony tomorrow. We look forward to having you join us,” he finishes.

Taking the bundled material from him, you smile at him once again, “I’m looking forward to joining,” comes your reply. With their business complete, the two of them turn on their heels and begin walking away. All of a sudden, however, a thought springs to mind, and you quickly call out to them. Immediately, they stop and turn back towards you, a look of interest on their face. With a wave of your hand, you gesture towards the wicker basket still laying on the porch of your door. “Did you send me this, by any chance?” you ask as you point towards your gift.

The twins glance at each other, a knowing glint flashing in their eyes as they silently communicate amongst one another. Simply watching them, you await their response. You don’t have to wait long, however, because a few short moments later, they’re both turning back to look at you; their heads moving eerily in sync - almost as if they’d planned it.

“It’s not from us, no. It’ll be from Namjoon,” Yoonji explains.

“Namjoon?” you dumbly repeat.

“Mhm. Kim Namjoon. He’s a warlock in our coven. He specialises in Herbalism, and he runs the apothecary that supplies us with the ingredients we need for our rituals, spells or potions. It’s probably a gift welcoming you to the neighbourhood,” she explains. For the umpteenth time today, confusion colours your face.

“Neighbourhood...? I didn’t think I had any neighbours,” comes your response. The land you own now, once belonged to the human settlement that borders the Forest of Ingredeen. When you’d purchased this area of land from the chief, he’d tried to explain that it was a secluded property and that a powerful coven lived in the Forest - and one that could take offense to a strange witch moving into their territory. Of course, once you’d explained that you were soon to join the coven yourself, you’d assuaged his fears and he’d easily bequeathed the land to you.

“Oh, theoretically, you don’t. But Namjoon’s home is the closest to you; he’s about a ten, maybe fifteen minute walk north-west from here. The rest of us live deeper in the forest,” Yoongi explains, his hand lifting as he points towards the general direction of Namjoon’s home. Eyebrows quirking, you turn your gaze back down to the gift as you look at it in interest.

“It’s a wonderful gift,” you mutter under your breath. Despite it being the middle of winter, the pot of lilacs are in full bloom: the velour petals still brightly coloured despite their pastel hue; the leaves still succulent, and a vivid shade of pine-green. Not to mention that the quality of the dried lavender is some of the best you’ve ever seen. Fully dessicated lavender usually tends to lose some of it’s scent, and with the deep, dusky-mauve shading, you know they’ve had all the moisture removed from them. Nevertheless, the camphorous scent of it is still strong; wafting into the atmosphere in soft waves.

“He’s incredibly skilled in what he does,” Yoongi responds, his voice laced with pride. Then, after a short pause, he continues, “He’s similar to you. He was raised by the Brotherhood of Requiem, but moved here and joined the coven, hmm… maybe two and a half years ago?”

Stilling at his words, your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline. If he was part of the Brotherhood of Requiem, he’d have to be incredibly skilled as a warlock; not to mention powerful. Mind casting back to Malise’s oracle, your heart flutters at the discovery. Could Namjoon be the one you’re destined for? Suddenly, you find yourself itching to go look for him. Though, of course, you wouldn’t know unless you smelled him. And it’d be a bit odd to walk up to a stranger and simply sniff him. Especially if it turned out he was not your soulmate. Still, his gift was sweet, and generous, and that in itself is enough of a reason for you to go meet him.

“If that’s all?” Yoonji asks, her words cutting you out of your thoughts. Startled by her voice, you snap your head back up and grace them both with a sheepish smile.

Scratching the back of your head, “Yes! Sorry to keep you,” you quickly respond. Neither of them say anything. Rather, they smile kindly before once again turning around and walking away. You watch their backs retreat, until their figures disappear into the dense woods that surround your home. Once they’re no longer in sight, you bend over and pick up both your gift, as well as your basket of firewood and food, before entering your home.

As soon as you’re inside the warm comfort of your cottage, you let out a soft sigh. Considering you’re about to leave soon, in order to go thank Namjoon for his gift, you leave on your heavy cloak. Instead, you pad further into your home - dragging in the snow on your boots with you - and into the kitchen. With a casual wave of your hand, the two baskets begin floating in the air before following your figure, and with another flick of your wrist, the firewood sails through the air and towards the fireplace; your food sorting itself out into the pantry and fridge.

Left with only the gift, you carefully place the basket onto the wooden counter of your kitchen island. Gently, you pick up the lilac pot, and the moment you touch the ceramic vase, your eyes widen. A soft thrum of magical essence flitters through your fingertips - travelling from your extremities and down your limbs, only to settle into your core. A sensation of comfort fills you, as well as a spark of energy, and immediately, you know that both spells of protection, and vitality, have been cast upon the pot. The former is obvious - the protection wards boosting the natural magical essence of the lilacs. The latter, however, probably explains just why the lilacs are still in bloom; their life force is most likely supported by the magic cast into it.

Thoughtlessly, your fingertips graze up the side of the vase, along a plump leaf, and towards a supple petal. Another spark of magic jolts through you, and as the calming sensation washes over you, a smile unknowingly curls on your face. It wasn’t often that witches and wizards could imbue feelings into an object; and even less often into a living organism. He really must be a powerful wizard. As you place the vase onto your windowsill, a small frown mars your lips. How are you going to pay him back?

Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind. Swiftly, albeit carefully, you empty out his wicker basket and once it’s empty, you wave your hand; summoning small empty mason jars and your own blend of different tea leaves. The items soar towards you, and with another wave of your hand, they precisely land onto your kitchen counter. Eyes flicking over the different tea leaves, you promptly decide on three different blends - your most favourite ones. In the first one, you scoop in your special blend of cardamom, nutmeg and cinnamon: the laden scent of aromatic spices diffusing into the air and flooding your senses as you fill the jar. The second one, you fill with a blend of chamomile and jasmine; a soft aroma of a floral fragrance replacing the previous, headier one.

With the first two done, you turn your attention to the third, and final one. A mischievous glint flashes in your eyes. Lavender and oolong. A fine homage to his own gift. Opening up the last container, you fill up the last mason jar: the delicate, fresh scent of the lavender intermingling with the sweet, elegant one of oolong. When you’re done, you quickly shut all three jars, wrapping the neck of the containers in a satin ribbon, before attaching a manila label to them. Summoning a pen from one of your drawers, you quickly scrawl on the names of the teas in blue ink.

Once your thank you present has been packed, you cover them with the cloth and grab the handle of the basket, before making your way back out. As you step into the cold once more, the gelid air kisses your skin, causing a soft shiver to run down your spine. Huddling further into your fur coat, you begin walking in the general direction of Namjoon’s home. You’ve no idea what it looks like, or how far it realistically is. Yoongi had mentioned a ten, perhaps fifteen minute walk, but considering you didn’t know the forest very well yet, you weren’t sure how long it would take. You hope it really is a ten to fifteen minute journey. And, of course, that you don’t get lost.

Thankfully, after faithfully sticking north-west, it’s not long before you happen upon what you believe to be Namjoon’s home. The glade of the property is similar to yours: the dense woodland clearing up into an open expanse. In the middle, and a little towards the left, sits a quaint little cottage; with a gambrel roof made of dark brown wood shake, and stone walls of greyed-white to match. Unlike your home, this one has large square windows around the entire property, allowing thick shafts of light to filter through. Yet, despite the panes of glass, you can’t see into the building: the thick cotton curtains blinding your view of the interior.

The area surrounding the cottage is wild, and almost overgrown - in a strange, coordinated way. An organised mess if you would. Small trees skirt the property, growing near the moss-clad, brick fence that separates the forest from Namjoon’s own land, while smaller brushes and shrubs litter the spaces between. One section is covered in flowering perennials, another with potted plants and herbs, and the last third with low growing blossoms. Eyes widening at the sight, you take in a deep breath, only to be filled with a renewed sense of vigour.

Breath hitching in the middle of your throat, you look at the property in surprise. The magic in the air is thick; so palpable that you feel the very cells of your being begin to vibrate with power. Not only is it potent, however, but also pure - the quality of life’s essence so refined that it’s almost suffocating. In fact, you have to physically keep your magic in check, lest it fritz and grow out of your control. Taking a deep breath, you purposely subdue your inner magical core - dulling it towards the vigor of the energy in the air.

Fingers clenching around the woven handle of the basket, you grip it tighter as you step onto the property, a faint ripple of nervousness fluttering through you. With the potency of magic in the air, you desperately hope you don’t trigger any protective wards surrounding the land. When you safely cross the boundary between the forest and Namjoon’s home, your shoulders tense and you immediately come to a halt. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, and a nervous edge tinges at the corners of your being as you wait for something to happen.

After a few moments of silence, you let out a relieved breath. The wards, if there are any, have accepted you. With that knowledge, you begin your descent down the brick path, from the outskirts of the property and towards the arched front door. Stopping by the dark wood entrance, you lift your hand and gently rap your knuckles on the surface, before stepping away as you wait for an answer. Long, drawn out moments pass, and when you get no response half a minute later, a frown descends upon your lips.

Is he not home?

Lifting your fist, you knock once again; and just like before, you don’t get an answer. Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you shuffle to the side and towards a window. Then, stepping onto the tips of your toes, you attempt to peek into Namjoon’s home; looking for any signs of life. However, with the curtains drawn shut - only a sliver of an opening between the two, thick pieces of fabric - you barely have a sufficient view of the inside. Shoulders drooping, you let out a deep exhale and flick your gaze down to the wicker basket in your grasp. If he’s not home, there’s nothing you can do about it.

Disappointment settles into your bones, and for a moment, you consider abandoning your gift on his front porch - just like he’d left his. The thought only lasts a brief moment, however, because suddenly, you hear a small commotion from the back of his home. Startling at the muffled cluttering noise, you raise your eyebrow. Maybe he ishome. Intrigued by the noise, you follow after the sound. It leads you around the perimeter of his home, and getting towards the back, surprise colours your face as you see another building behind his cottage.

The emporium is fairly small, almost the size of a large shed, and made of a beautifully preserved walnut: the timber panelling still ripe with its rich colouring. Walking further towards the building, and to the front, you come to a halt at the entrance. Large panes of glass fill up the front wall, but in spite of the glass, your view of the interior is partially obscured: the dark-tinted, translucent surface preventing your complete view into the shop. Two large pots of firs sit on either side of the door, and just above the tips of the tree, hangs a banner made of dark linoleum. ‘The Blackthorne Codex’ it reads; the letters gleaming in burnished shades of bronze under the stark brightness of the sky.

Steadily, you approach the shop, and placing your hand on the brass handle, you push it open. The tinkle of a bell chimes through the air, and the moment you enter, you're assaulted by an onslaught of sensations. A balmy heat greets you immediately, the warm air rushing past your face and immediately heating up your numb skin. Following the heat is a sacchariferous fragrance: notes of a fruity tartness flooding your senses. Currents of a warm, woody scent coalesce with the stronger aroma; the piquant spiciness of what you know to be cloves weaving with that of dried black cherries into an amalgamation of intoxicating aromas. The incense is strong - almost overpowering - and wholly unique: perhaps a blend of his own concoction. It's so potent in fact, that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue: tinges of a pungent sweetness dyeing your tongue and causing you to salivate.

"Sorry, I'll be with you in a moment." The deep voice comes out of nowhere, the sound breaking the silence and causing you to jump.

Taking heed of the voice, however, you walk further into the shop, simultaneously letting go of the door handle and allowing it to shut behind you. Once you're into the heart of the shop, prickles of heat sting at your skin, the chilled surface quickly warming up - and from the magic charged in the air, you have no doubt it's thanks to some warming enchantment. Carefully placing your woven basket onto a table near you, you unclasp the heavy cloak around your shoulders before quickly shrugging it off and draping it over your arm. With the thick material off of your body, you let out a sigh of relief - your body quickly cooling down.

More comfortable with the temperature, and with the man - who you assume to be Namjoon - still keeping you waiting, you take a moment to look around the shop. Neatly stacked shelves of mahogany line the entire perimeter of the shop, the surfaces chipped and faded with age. Nonetheless, despite their worn appearance, they're not decrepit. Rather, they're antique - with a rustic feel to them. Glass containers of all sizes line the shelves: large jars of preserved tree barks and animal products occupy the top shelves, smaller sized flasks of various herbs, botanics and minerals fill the next few ledges; and little vials and ampoules of oils, extracts and essences litter the final racks. Each one is faithfully marked with a black label, the nature of their contents scrawled in gold ink.

Hand sketched drawings are strewn across the very tops of the walls, the drawings depicting a variety of beautifully illustrated, and incredibly detailed, plants and flowers. Looking closer at them, you can even spot labels, along with scrawled annotations, pointing out to different parts of the plants. They’re vivid, and colourful: the dazzling hues contrasting with the darker shades of the interior. Turning your gaze, you carefully peer at the counter that separates you from the back of the shop.

Similar to the rest of the store, it's made up of wood, with a white marble tabletop that offsets the walnut wood of everything else. One half of the wall behind is filled with a stack of drawers, each one labelled in black ink; the other half holding a door that undoubtedly leads to the back. A cash register sits in the left corner; the till glinting in polished shades of murky gold and varnished oak. On the opposite side, sits a small book rack stacked with aged tomes and grimoires. Next to it, are a few pestles and mortars, some made of marble while others are made of stone - each one with its own specific purpose.

As you’re admiring the interior, a man suddenly slips out from the back. He appears out of nowhere, causing you to jump. The moment you spot him, however, you freeze. He’s tall. Incredibly so. And his size is only emphasised by the corded, bulging muscles that fill his frame. He’s dressed in black leather trousers - the tight material clinging to his full thighs - and with each step he takes, you could swear the material threatens to tear. Moreover, the snugness of his trousers only emphasise the length of his legs: the toned limbs seemingly going on forever. His top is simple, a plain white t-shirt. Yet, despite the simplicity of it, you find yourself swallowing thickly.

Similar to his trousers, the cotton fabric of his shirt clings to his broad chest, highlighting the smooth, yet prominent, outline of his pecs. From how taut the material is, the garment straining against his upper body, you can spot the faintest hint of his dark nipples - the sight of them causing your cheeks to tinge with specks of heat. A simple leather apron is tied around his hips; the hide straps emphasising his trim waist and slender hips. Gaze travelling further up his body, your eyes lock onto his, and this time, you gulp audibly.

He is, perhaps, the most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.

And you’ve traversed the world.

Tanned skin - as smooth and delectable as dulce de leche - glows under the ivory light filtering through the window. It casts a halo of argentate around him - the silvery hue juxtaposing his delicious, honey-kissed skin in the most enchanting way. Dark locks of silk, as black as coal, fall in choppy waves around his face, the front tips kissing his eyelids, and the back ends grazing the nape of his neck. They frame his face, accentuating the elegant slant of his cheekbones, the gentle slope of his nose, and the angled definition of his jaw. His eyes are hooded, and heavy, with a deep-set crease at the inner corners that only highlight the sharpness of them.

Irises of obsidian peek from between his keen eyes, the inky depths freckled with specks of silver and jade that only add to his allure. Eyes glimmering, he radiates an air of power: waves of soft, yet dominant, energy seeping off of his being. If you didn’t know better, you would say his aura practically thrummed with the same lively essence of the very forest itself. Sucking in a sharp breath, the cloying scent of black cherries and cloves floods your senses as you lock eyes, and effortlessly, you sink into his dark gaze.

A look of surprise paints his features, and in a once over, his stare sweeps over you. In one, long glance, he takes you in in your entirety, from the very tips of your boots, to the top of your head, and then back onto your face. His features are carefully stoic as he observes you - his eyes giving nothing away. But then, all of a sudden, it changes. A strong, thick eyebrow rises, and sensual, voluptuous lips pull into an impish, lop-sided grin. It’s wolfish, practically predatory, and almost as if he could devour you whole with a single look.

In two, swift strides, he moves closer, and pressing both hands onto the edge of the marble counter, he grins at you. The movement draws your attention, and your gaze immediately flicks from his eyes and towards his sinewy arms. So enamoured by his handsomeness earlier on, you hadn’t noticed the identical tattoos that brand each of his biceps. Three bands make up each tattoo. The outer ones are simple - embellished with geometric patterns and alchemical runes - and made up of the blackest ink; the colour so rich, it soaks up the light into its ebon void. Framed by the two simplistic bands, however, is an inner one - this tattoo more intricate, and vibrant. Thick, unassuming vines of pine-green form the bulk of the design, with supple foliage of fern-green and moss engraved between.

“Hello. Welcome to The Blackthorne Codex. I’m Kim Namjoon.” The man greets. His voice breaks you out of your trance, and instantly, your eyes lock back onto his. Then, features twisting into one of apology, “Sorry about the wait. I had a slight issue with some stock in the back. How can I help you?” he asks.

For a moment, you simply stare at him, your mind completely blank, and your face effectively illustrating it’s emptiness. His voice is low, and baritone, with a mellifluous undertow that threatens to drag you under and drown you in its beguile. Of course, the enchanting lure of his magic does nothing to help. Neither of you say anything, Namjoon waiting for you to reply, and you waiting for your mind to process the Adonis-like man in front of you. Eventually, and once you realise he’s staring at you, your brain finally kicks itself into gear.

“Oh. Oh!” you quickly splutter out, your cheeks tinging with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t… expect you to be so young,” comes your reply.

Arching an eyebrow, “Young? I’m twenty-eight years old,” he replies, a playful inflexion to his voice as his smirk deepens. Finally getting a hold of yourself, you simply roll your eyes, a coy smile curling onto your own lips.

“Hmmm. Well, when I heard about the man who lived in the forest, and was dropping off welcome gifts at my house, I couldn’t help but assume he was an old man,” you counter. That has Namjoon pausing.

“Wait. You’re ____? The Witch of Ruin?” he asks, his strong eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as he gazes at you in incredulity.

Taken aback by his surprise, you cock your head to the side, “Is that such a surprise?” you ask while lightly waving him off. Scoffing in response, he simply shrugs.

“I just expected you to be…” he begins, only to halt as he ponders his next words. After a short pause, “More menacing,” he finishes.

Once again, you roll your eyes, before waving your hand dismissively, “Well, I guess we both had incorrect assumptions about each other.”

“Touche,” Namjoon laughs. “So, what brings you to my humble apothecary? Need ingredients so soon, already?”

Placing your basket onto the counter, you slide your present over to him. “Hmmm, no. I come bearing a thank you gift,” you reply. Namjoon chuckles, and for a moment, you feel your abdomen stir with a fuzzy warmth. The sound of his laughter is enchanting: deep, rich, and thick like honey as it drips from his mouth like viscous ambrosia. His eyes flash with mirth, and he angles his head down to look at you through his sharp, hooded eyes.

“A thank you gift in response to my ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ one? Your parents must have raised you right,” he jokes. His tone is light, and airy, and you know he means well - realistically knowing nothing of your past. Yet, you still find yourself gracing him with a rueful smile. Though, there’s only a faintest hint of bitterness laced through it.

“They did. Up until their final moments,” you respond. At your words, Namjoon immediately halts, and visibly, you watch every single one of his muscles locking; the corner of his jaw simultaneously twitching.

Face immediately dropping, Namjoon glances at you for a moment - his eyes carefully guarded, and giving away none of his inner thoughts. Unconsciously, you bristle; in preparation for his pity, and the meaningless words that tend to fall out of people’s mouth when you speak of your traumatic childhood. They mean well. You know they do. But it’s been close to sixteen years. And you’re tired of the constant condolences and well wishes. Tired of the way they walk on glass around the issue of your parents. After all, you’ve long since come to terms with it.

To your utter surprise, however, Namjoon’s face immediately relaxes, and his - what you assume to be trademark at this point - wolfish grin once again creeps onto his pillowy lips. “Well, then I’m sure they’re happy you’ve retained your manners then. Or they’d probably rise from their graves and haunt you,” comes his breezy response. That’s it. No ‘I’m sorry’s’ or sympathetic looks, or that tone people take when they find out you’re an orphan. Just a lighthearted joke. Perhaps, to someone else, he may seem insensitive. Perhaps, someone else would be offended. But you? You appreciate it more than he could, or would, ever know.

“Hmmm. Considering my mother was a necromancer… you’re right. She’d definitely be the type to raise herself from the dead just to lecture me on societal etiquette,” you deadpan - your voice purposely flat as you retort. Eyes bugging wide, Namjoon splutters as he chokes on his own spit.

“A necromancer? Please tell me you’re joking,” he replies, a look of bewilderment colouring his visage. Features twisted almost comically, it’s all you can do to laugh.

“Of course, I’m joking! What do you take my mother for? She birthed the Witch of Ruin. There’s no way she’d be foolish enough to practice necromancy,” you laugh in response. Hearing your reply, Namjoon immediately relaxes, and seeing the relief on his face, you can’t help but laugh harder. Necromancy was a false school of witchcraft, one only perpetrated by humans who wished they could practice magic. However, they had one thing wrong. There was no magic that could raise the dead. None.

After all, magic came from nature, and the cosmos, and life itself. It’s why most, if not all, witches and warlocks worship some aspect of the natural universe. Some worship the sky, others the sea, a few the mountains, and many the earth and forests. But no self-respecting practitioner of the Magic of Old, would ever worship the dead. Or even consider bringing the dead back to life. Mostly because it was an impossible feat.

Once a living creature reaches the end of its life, the magic that sustains it fades away. Instead, it returns back to the universe, only to be rebirthed into a new form of life. Sometimes that’s in humans - the species having faint tethers to the universe - or what they’d call their ‘souls’. Sometimes, it’s in witches and warlocks - a child born particularly talented in an archetype of magic. More often than not, though, it’s into the very cosmos, as the sea, or the plants, or the stars. Or really, any component of life, or power, that makes up the universe.

“You have me there,” Namjoon concedes with a chuckle. Then, turning his attention to your gift, he gestures towards it. “So, what do we have here?”

Cheeks flushing with heat, you pull your lower lip between your teeth and begin to chew on it while Namjoon unravels the cloth from the wicker basket. When he spots the three, neatly wrapped jars, he flicks his gaze to you in surprise. Suddenly feeling far too self-conscious - was the gift too much? - you suppress an awkward smile. “I don’t know if you drink tea… but these are some of my own special blends,” you explain, your voice a few decibels above a whisper, and laced with your unsureness.

You watch as Namjoon picks up one of the jars, only to open the lid and take in a deep breath of the aromatic fragrance. “God… that smells good. Is that lavender… and oolong?” he asks, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

Floored by his deduction, “How did you even… you can barely even smell the oolong,” you point out. You’re not lying. The scent of lavender is always strong - and overpowering - and no matter what ratios you blend of the two ingredients, you can’t seem to find a way to bring out the oolong. At your obvious shock, Namjoon laughs.

“I spent my day tending plants, or selling them, ____. I know what most of them look, and smell, like. Even if it’s subtle,” he replies.

Intrigued by his words, you look at him curiously. “If you don’t mind me asking… what school of witchcraft do you practice?”

Snapping the lid back onto the jar, he places it back into the basket. Then, eyes flashing mischievously, his lips curl into a teasing smirk. Gazing at you with his smouldering eyes, “How can you not tell? Weren’t you raised by the Sisters of Elysia? I thought they were supposed to be incredibly knowledgeable. Or perhaps… they don’t hold a candle to the Brotherhood of Requiem,” he provokes. Jaw dropping in surprise, you instantly bristle.

“W-What’s that supposed to mean?” you splutter in indignation. “The Brotherhood of Requiem is not better than the Sisters of Elysia,” you continue with a hiss.

“Hmmm… not if you can’t guess what my magic is,” he backfires easily. Huffing at his response, you roll your eyes. Though, there’s no real ire to it.

“Well it’s obvious you practice Herbalism. But with the potency of the magic surrounding you, that can’t be all you practice,” you reply smartly.

Laughing, “I guess you’re right. Botanic Arts. I also practice the Botanic Arts,” he explains. Ah. That would explain the aura of life that surrounds him.

Contrary to your Destructive Arts - a discipline that was focused on elements of chaos, such as lightning or fire, in order to bring about calamity; the Botanic Arts was a discipline focused around the elements of life, such as earth and nature, in order to bring about life. Nonetheless, even with their juxtaposing natures, they were both two incredibly powerful schools of witchcraft, and if used correctly, even the Botanic Arts could be wielded as a cataclysmic magic. A notion only emphasised by his incredibly imposing presence; as well as his sheer confidence.

“How about you?” he asks, his words breaking you out of your thoughts.

Lips twisting into a wry smirk, “How can you not tell? Weren’t you raised by the Brotherhood of Requiem?” you mock, throwing back his own words at him.

With a snort, Namjoon looks at you pointedly. “Well, everything I know about you is from rumours. The witch of ruin, a child of chaos, birthed from lightning and fire. So… I’m assuming you’re proficient in the Destructive Arts. But… considering you just brought me tea leaves I doubt it’s just that,” he says, imitating your own sentiments. Tongue poking out, you swipe it across your lips as you feel the corners of your lips twitching.

“Alchemical Restoration. The teas have healing properties,” you reply as you try to suppress your grin.

You can’t help it.

Namjoon is unlike any other witch or warlock you’ve ever met. In your life, you’ve travelled the world, and you’ve met many of your kind; from all different walks of life. As such, you’re not new to a little flirtatious banter, nor were you unknown to the pleasures of sex, or a budding romance. Nonetheless, it was rare for it to go past that. The moment they found out who you were, who you truly were, they would immediately lose interest in you - either by their own jealousy, or intimidation, or insecurities that you were most likely better, and more powerful, than them.

However, here was a man, who knew who you were, and still continued showing an interest. Or well, at least what you hoped was interest. Though, with the way his eyes subtly roam over your figure every now and then, and with how he keeps his attention focused on you, and only you, you doubt you’re wrong. Namjoon is different. Because even knowing who you are, and knowing about your past, his demeanour hasn’t changed. He’s not the least bit intimidated, nor insecure, or resentful. If anything, you have a feeling you’ve only stoked his interest. And that has a fuzzy warmth blooming within the pits of your stomach.

“A remedial discipline? Didn’t take you for the type,” comes his immediate answer. Then, eyes flashing in mirth, “Though… I can’t say I’m mad. I don’t even want to thinkabout what your gift would be if you just practiced the Destructive Arts… perhaps you’d set my apothecary on fire for daring to intrude on your property?” he teases, and as the words slip out of his mouth, you can’t help but hear the flirtatious intonation.

Your conversation is ordinary, and full of pleasant niceties. Yet, buried between both your tones, is a touch of something deeper; something heavier. Perhaps it’s the playfulness of his entire demeanour, or the coquettish nature of your own replies. But no matter what it is, you can’t help but feel the spark between the two of you. You don’t know where it’s come from, or why. After all, you’re both strangers, and this is your first time meeting. Nevertheless, you can’t help but feel drawn to him - a baser need, something more corporeal pulling you towards him. A flutter of excitement flits through you,

In response to his words, you childishly stick your tongue out. Then, “Yes, well, as much as I adore the Destructive Arts and the power trip that comes with it… I’ve just… somewhat grown tired of it,” you find yourself confessing - the words falling from your lips before you can even stop them. That has Namjoon’s devilish disposition dropping, his features twisting into one of inquisitiveness.

“Oh? Why is that?” he asks.

Once again, and before you even realise what you’re saying, you find yourself shrugging. “Honestly? I don’t know if I ever really even wanted to learn the Destructive Arts. But after my parent’s coven was destroyed, and once the Knights of the Seven Lights began hunting me… I had no other choice, you know? I learnt it because I had to. Because I needed to survive. It was born out of my need to prove something… that I could endure everything, and that I would still come out on top,” you confess. All of a sudden, you pause.

Eyelids widening in the slightest, you quickly halt your tongue as you realise what you’d just blurted out. It’s not often that you talk about your past. You’re over it. Or well, you’re more numb to it. But it wasn’t often that you brought it up - wanting to leave the past… well, in the past. Hell, the only reason the Sisters of Elysia had known, was because they’d saved you from that life. But you never spoke about it. At least, not of your own accord. And certainly not to a random stranger you’d just met. So really, you’re not sure why you’d suddenly, and completely out of the blue, truthfully spoken about your past. Especially in a casual meeting like this.

Nonetheless, something about him calls to you. You don’t know what it is, and you can’t accurately place it. But there’s something about him that you find reassuring. He’s a stranger, and realistically, you know nothing about him. Yet, still, you can’t help but trust him. There’s an air of power around him, yes. It pulses around him in an enticing fashion: a refined aura of magic that is both completely sensual, and commanding. However, woven between that presence, is a sense of solace. The kind that’s filled with a promise of safety, and home. The kind you’ve been desperately searching for all your life. It beckons to you, and effortlessly, you find yourself magnetised to him.

Momentarily, Malise’s words echo in the back of your mind. About how you’d find your soulmate here, and fleetingly, you wonder if it’s him. A part of you is desperate for him to be. For him to be the one you call your home. Yet, even with that yearning that tingles through you, you can’t bring yourself to put any real hope on it. He’s enchanting, and you’re completely enamoured by him. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s your one. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, and seldom did it ever play to one’s hand. Soulmates aren’t perfect. And just because you’re fated for someone, doesn’t mean that you’d work out. Love wasn’t that simple. Thus, with the attraction that you do feel for him already, a weird, twisted part of you doesn’t wantto know. Just in case, he’s not the one destined for you.

A heavy air befalls the two of you; the tension intensifying until it’s so thick that you almost suffocate within its hold. Jittery under the sudden pressure, your hands turn clammy as you begin shuffling from foot to foot. You want to say something, to make a casual joke and immediately diffuse the stiffness in the atmosphere. Nonetheless, your throat is tight, and your mouth dry, and you simply can’t bring yourself to force the words out. Sensing your awkwardness, however, Namjoon quickly comes to your aid. The corners of his lips tugs, and the plush petals of his mouth pull into an easy smile as he points back towards your gift.

“Well, they seem really well-made, and I can already tell just how high quality these are. I’m looking forward to trying them,” comes his airy response. Then, after a brief pause, an impish smirk teases at his lips. “... And giving you my honest opinion,” he taunts. A sense of relief washing over you at the return of his playful demeanour, and with the tension quickly diffusing, you grace him with your own coy grin.

“I’m sure you’ll find them to your standards. It’s not like I could give you something subpar after your lavish present, after all,” you counter. Eyes lighting up suddenly, “Which, speaking of high quality, the lilacs and lavender… where did you get them?” you question. A deep, throaty chuckle emanates from the middle of Namjoon’s chest, and you watch his speckled onyx eyes glint in amusement.

“I didn’t get them anywhere. I grew them myself,” he responds. Taken aback by his answer, you blink at him owlishly. He’d… grown them himself? Well. You hadn’t been expecting that. Though, now that you think about it, it makes sense. Initially, you’d thought that perhaps he’d only enchanted the lilacs, in order to keep them blooming. However, with the sheer life imbued into them, you realise that for that level of magic, he’d probably have to grow them himself. Which, with his mastery in the Botanic Arts, paired with his expertise of Herbalism, would be a feat easier said than done.

With a fleeting glance, you flick your gaze around his shop, only to catch his eye once again. “Do you grow most of your stock?” you ask, astonishment evident in your voice. Once again, Namjoon chuckles, before nodding easily.

“A lot of it, yes. If not most. The things I can’t grow, I have to source from the human settlements. Though, it’s mostly animal products or minerals,” he begins, a look of thought crossing his face. “The minerals, because I don’t have time to go mine for that… Nor do I want to,” he laughs. “And I can’t bring myself to hunt for animal products myself because everytime I do, I end up not wanting to hurt them and letting them go. So I rely on humans a lot for those kinds of things. It’s why, unlike the rest of the coven who lives deeper into the forest, I live closer towards the edge… and also why I’m your only neighbour,” he continues his explanation.

Mouth forming an ‘o’, “That makes sense,” you reply.

“Why do you live so close to the edge? I’m sure High Priest Torin would have offered you a home in the coven’s territory?” Namjoon questions.

With a nonchalant shrug, “I just needed a change I guess. With the Sisters of Elysia being nomadic, we never had an actual home. And so we’d always live in temporary homes while sharing living spaces. Moving here, I knew I kinda just wanted some more privacy, you know?” comes your answer. Once again, there’s nothing but truth in it, and internally, you wonder just what kind of bewitchment he’s cast on you, for you to be so honest. Though, it’s probably just his natural charm.

“Plus, I’m focusing more on my Alchemical Restoration, and I want to be able to help as many people as I can. Both, our coven, and the humans in the country,” you continue. Then, letting out a sigh, “Except… I’m still new to the area and the Forest of Ingredeen is huge and I have no idea where the human settlements are,” you finish. Then, after a small pause for thought, “Other than the Sundale settlement, that is,” you ponder out loud.

“Oh. There are a total of five in the entire country, and they all border the Forest of Ingredeen since it’s the oldest and most ancient woodland,” Namjoon points out. Taking his hands off of the counter, he shuffles towards the book rack on the tabletop, and pulling out a large scroll from the corner, he unravels it flat onto the surface. A large map greets you; the parchment yellowed and the ink faded with time. Still, you can make out all the details of the cartograph. It’s of Carelia, you note, with the human settlements clearly illustrated, as well as the paths to them.

“These are the general routes that you can traverse. Though, not all of them are in use anymore. And newer ones have been created. There’s also no real roads to follow,” Namjoon explains, a small frown marring his lips. Then, flicking his gaze towards you, he looks at you through hooded eyes. “If you’re free tomorrow, I can show you around? I doubt anyone knows these woods as well as me” he boasts.

Lips pulling into a flirtatious smile, you loll your head to the side before cocking your eyebrow. “Like a date?” comes your glib suggestion. Your voice is light, and airy, and your tone completely casual. And of course, you don’t expect him to actually agree. Still, to your complete disappointment, Namjoon shakes his head

“Not like a date,” comes his quick response, his voice causing ripples of devastation to tinge at your being. However, “A date,” he continues. Instantly, your disappointment is replaced with delight, and your heart simultaneously flutters.

Pulling your lower lip between your teeth, you chew on the soft petal in a bid to suppress your grin. “I’ll look forward to it.”

a/n: SCREAM god fneorngeoirgnoeig i dont know why that was so long when absolutely nothing happened but  i hope y’all liked it ahhh 🥺👉🏼👈🏼 i’m hoping to get the next part up next weekend but jfneronorign no promises rip ♡

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[butterflies-dragons]

There was quote by Theon regarding snowflakes falling on his face like a kiss. Somewhat similar to snowflakes falling on Sansa face like a kiss. Do you think the quotes in both characters arc are contrasting?

Her maid rolled herself more tightly in her blanket as the snow began to drift in the window. Sansa eased open the door, and made her way down the winding stair. When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. All color had fled the world outside. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here.

Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

Outside the snow was coming down so heavily that Theon could not see more than three feet ahead of him. He found himself alone in a white wilderness, walls of snow looming up to either side of him chest high. When he raised his head, the snowflakes brushed his cheeks like cold soft kisses. He could hear the sound of music from the hall behind him. A soft song now, and sad. For a moment he felt almost at peace.

Farther on, he came upon a man striding in the opposite direction, a hooded cloak flapping behind him. When they found themselves face-to-face their eyes met briefly. The man put a hand on his dagger. "Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer."

—A Dance with Dragons - A Ghost in Winterfell

Despite the similar wording and even similar circumstances, the contrasts between those two passage are bigger and more important.

Sansa's passage happens at dawn and it's full of longing of Winterfell, her home, very romantic like poetry, and positive, at some point even triumphant.

On the other hand, Theon's passage is a metaphor of his death (he was A Ghost in Winterfell). I find it similar to Sam's passage when he was about to die while running away from the Others during a heavy snow storm (For a moment he felt almost at peace. / I just need to rest, that's all, to rest and sleep some, and maybe die a little. & "Just let me die").

[sunlydevotion]

in the withered garden, a man kneels

the umbrella he once held flying in the wind

the storm surrounding him picking up

as the rain pounds against his back

and the wind frosts his nose

the man lifts his head, eyes fluttering

as the rain lands on his cheeks

blood smears into his skin as he picks off the remains of concrete littering his palms

his knees are raw and just as bloody as his palms, from where he skid across pavement,

his slacks ripped and torn from impact,

in a last attempt to preserve his life,

the man throws himself against a tree

the withered branches doing nothing

to protect him from the rain

which slowly turns to sleet as it gets colder

there the man sits, shivering

as he attempts to conserve his warmth

by cradling his knees and tucking his head

in fetal position he sits, teeth clattering

as he loses himself to the cold

his fingertips turn blue,

stiff from the freeze of the snowy night

his ears are no better, bright pink blood is lost

through the blurriness of his tears,

the man catches sight of a cloaked figure,

that lingers in the haze of darkness

where the wilted roses used to grow.

all that is left is the decayed shrubs,

which no longer show of their blooming buds

every instinct in the man tell him to run,

to unlock his clenches fists and take off in a sprint, despite the pain in his shins

however, something causes the man to freeze

—not in fear, but in awe

for the cloaked figure’s haunting gaze

was impenetrable, as half his face was skull

a single eye socket visible,

paired with an iris so purple

his cheekbones, were slightly pink—

as pink as a skeleton’s blush could be

his gentle smile, with lips so soft,

faded into jagged teeth and sharp jawbones

—yet, he was beautiful

in a withered garden, a man danced with Death

under the bare oak tree as the world snowed-in

as the man froze from the blistering weather,

he clung onto Death,

even as Death laid him to rest

[grapenamjams]

Summer Festival

Genre: Fluff of course XD 

Characters: Muriel from the arcana and my apprentice Eliza

A/N:  And this concludes my Arcana writing spurt that I had last month XD .  if you have read my past posts thank you so much and if this is the first post you read of mine thank you! it means so much to me and i hope my story/ stories help you escape for a little while, :) I hope you all have a nice day/night 

a little bit about my MC

Her name is Eliza (she/her. Female.) She is 5′2 has brown wavy hair, brown eyes (with specks of green) she also has adorable freckles across her nose. lastly she has a artic fox, named Nell as a familiar who is enchanted to keep cold during the summer and whenever Nell walks she leaves behind snow prints on the ground (think of what Olaf from frozen has lol) 

The shop was packed as it always was during the summer festival. travelers from all regions coming to celebrate the end of summer in vesuvia made for new eager clients to purchase ingredients, potions and of course getting their readings done. This year Asra let Eliza be in charge of the readings, while he took care of the shop. Asra had said that she was ready to handle the Arcana on her own but as what felt like her 100th customer leave through the curtains. she was beginning to feel the toll of using the cards for so long, she could even feel Nell beginning to tire as the fox laid down underneath her seat. however the cards themselves seemed to be mocking her as they Pulsed with energy at being used so much.

She sighed closing her eyes for a second until she heard footsteps approach, she sat up quickly ready to attend another client But familiar fluffy white curls poked through the curtain, Asra entered the space giving her a warm smile “how are you holding up?” Eliza slouches back into her seat and lets out a breath “I don’t know how you did it all these years, I’m so tired I fear I might fall asleep on the next customer” she looks at Asra and he lets out a soft laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, the cards love attention and can take a toll on the reader, but you are doing well containing them, I’m proud” Eliza can’t help but blush at his compliment. “Thanks” she gives him a small smile as she shuffles the cards in front of her.

“Lets call it a night on the readings hm? Why don’t you go out and enjoy the festival?” Eliza looks at him “and leave you to run the shop by yourself when it’s like this?” Asra shrugs his shoulders “you know I don’t mind, besides you take care of the shop the most through out the year. So let me have tonight as a way to make up for the missed hours.” Eliza thinks for a moment “but still I feel bad leaving you while I go out to the festival. I’ll just go later when we close up shop for the speech” Asra frowns “but the best parts of the festival will be over by then” he looks to the side to where the back room is, then to her quickly. “I insist, go enjoy. Don’t worry about me” living with Asra for years has made Eliza know every facial expression he has and the one he is trying to hide right now tells her he knows something. She raises an eyebrow at him “are you sure? I-“ he cuts her off waving one hand “yup I’m sure! Go right ahead.” He turns around to leave “Before you go however check the back door there’s a package out there for you” before she can protest any further Asra leaves a confused Eliza behind, his voice rings out through the shop as he announces that there will be no more readings for tonight.

After Asra’s adamant requests for her to go she had no choice but to or she felt that he would literally push her out the door. Grabbing her bag she bounded down the steps waving good bye to Asra who was at the counter, he looks at her and smiles. She opens the back door and the enjoyable warmth of the night greets her, sounds of the festival already reaching her ears, although she is happy to go see it Eliza cant help but feel sad, like something is missing. Going alone isn’t the same as having someone else there to enjoy the festivities with. 

Eliza looks down and to the sides of the door steps trying to find the package Asra mentioned but finds nothing. Giving up, she turns to go back inside but stops when she hears something rustle amongst the shrubs at the edge of the forest. Eliza takes a step back cautiously, but then suddenly a huge smile breaks across her face when she sees a large green eyed man come from the trees.

 When his eyes land on hers he gives a small smile “hello Eliza.” And just like that all feelings of tiredness and loneliness that were inside her vanished as she runs towards Muriel giving him a hug around his waist. “Muriel!” The big man Stiffens at her sudden reaction but just as quickly relaxes. he takes a step back steading himself from her crashing into him, he lets out a small “oof” and chuckles at her small frame hugging is large one.

 “What are you doing here?” Eliza asks stepping back a little to look up at him but still holding him. He’s wearing his hair half up with a green ribbon, his usual cloak and his green scarf she got for him. He places a hand on her head moving it down, she leans Into his touch. “Today is the summer festival right?” Eliza eyes widen “yeah it is!” She sees Muriel Avert his eyes “I thought it was something you would like to go to...and” his cheeks grow slightly pink “I want to go see it with you” he looks back at her seeing her face practically glowing from happiness making his ears go red “that is...if you want to go with me...” 

Eliza’s stomach fills with butterflies at Muriel asking her to go with him. she had been so busy with organizing the shop for this day that she had forgotten to tell him about it. Usually Eliza and Asra go to the Closing speech only, staying at the shop the whole night, that’s why it was weird for him to ask her to go out and enjoy the night but know she obviously knows why. Eliza giggles she grabs his hand that was on her head and kisses his knuckle before she places her hand into his.

 “I would love to go with you, thank you for asking me” Muriel sticks his bottom lip out and mumbles “who else would I have asked?” Eliza hums and bumps into his side teasingly “I dunno maybe Asra?” He frowns shaking his head “I want to go with you” he states plainly making Eliza laugh “well then, let’s get going!” She tugs at his arm, before looking back to the doorway to see Faust sitting on top of Nell seeing them off “have fun!” The both say and Eliza smiles.

 they round the shop to get to the street but before they do, under a string of colorful lights that are hanged above them, connecting from the shop to other next door, Muriel stops. Eliza looks up at him “something wrong?” She asks moving in front of him to see his face, slightly worrying that he had changed his mind. 

his eyes are lowered but he’s blushing. “No. I made you something” he lets go of her hand and reaches inside his cloak, his hand comes out holding a flower crown made with different forest flowers all around. their natural colors vibrant. On one side there is a piece of green tulle tied onto it. “I remembered that wearing one is common at the festival... so I made you one” Eliza reaches out and delicately holds it in her hands, admiring it. “Muriel... I.. this is Beautiful thank you!” She goes on her toes and kisses his cheek when she goes back down she holds the shimmery green tulle “I love it! Where did you get this fabric?” Muriel has a small smile on his face happy that she loves it so much. “A few days ago at the market. Traded some protective charms for it”

 Eliza’s heart swells ”Muriel.” He shrugs “it was okay” her cheeks hurt from smiling so much and their night only had just begun. She puts the crown on her head and does a spin “sooo how do I look?” She asks Muriel eyes widen and he reddens even more. She looks at him tilting her head slightly smiling at him. he averts his eyes “pretty.” He says and Eliza’s face warms as her whole body flutters at his compliment. Muriel looks to her taking her in again. He grabs her hand in his and presses his lips to her cheek. “Very pretty” he says trying to hide his face as he leads a flustered Eliza down the street.

They walk towards the city’s market place where the main attractions were. However music played through out all of Vesuvia, kids ran around them laughing one little girl pointed out Eliza’s crown calling it pretty making Muriel blush when Eliza told the little girl he had made it for her. Conversations amongst friends and new acquaintances filled around them as they made there way through.

  When they neared the center the sound of music increased and the aroma of spices, desserts and cooking meats passed underneath their noses as vendors called out trying to get customers to try their new specials. Eliza’s mouth began to water at all the food in front of her, she looked at Muriel and found him staring at a meat stand where they were cooking smoked eel, his favorite. Of course Muriel wouldn’t voice that he wanted some. “Are you hungry?” She asks, Muriel’s eyes leave the stand to focus on her “um. Are you?” Eliza smiles “with all this food? How can I not ?” He laughs softly “then let’s go eat.” she leads him to the meat stand “couldn’t have said it better myself!”

She gets Muriel his eel skewers and she gets her own beef ones. Muriel bites Into his food and his mouth waters with the flavor, he takes small bites enjoying it fully. He looks to Eliza who’s close to finishing her first. He chuckles softly. It might be weird but Muriel likes watching her eat, in fact he likes watching her do anything because that means she is there with him. But when she eats something good she closes her eyes and hums, moving her body side to side clearly enjoying her food. 

Before he meet her before she showed him at the masquerade that food can be something that holds flavor and it can be enjoyed and appreciated. He had looked at food as something his body needed to survive to last another day it didn’t matter if it tasted good or not. But now with Eliza he enjoyed eating, he still became amazed at how many different combinations there are, he liked tasting different flavors. And that they did, after finishing their skewers they went onto different stands tasting a variety of dishes.

* * * 

After participating in some games like archery and cards Muriel and Eliza With their desserts in hand found a table, near the dance square . They ate their desserts together while watching the festivities go on in full swing around them.

 People eating near  stands, others bargaining for the best price at shops and kids running around with sticks that sparkle. Eliza feeds some of her dessert to Muriel which he excepts but quickly lets out a low grumble “too sweet” he states making Eliza laugh knowing he wouldn’t really like it. “You really like sweet stuff” she hums as she takes another bite of her pastry “mmhmm pure sweet goodness is the best” Eliza swallows. Muriel picks up his own pastry out for her to take a bite, Eliza takes a small one and she scrunches her face “and you really like sour stuff” she swallows but taking another bite of her own to cover the taste. 

Muriel let’s out a chuckle “sour goodness is the best” he repeats her words. Eliza grins feeling playful, from the sugar in her. “sweet” she challenges, he pouts “sour” she leans towards him “sweet” Eliza repeats before she kisses him on the lips. She feels the tangy sourness on his lips and he feels the sugary powder on hers and he can’t help but to like the taste of the Flavor more this way. She pulls away from him seeing the tint of pink on his cheeks that matches her own, his eyes are lidded looking down at her lips like he wants more, “sweet” he whispers, making Eliza smirk “I win” his eyes come to focus looking at her. He averts his eyes and frowns “you cheated” the brown haired girl laughs taking in his adorable pout. She loops her arm through his “awww” she leans into him resting her chin on his shoulder “alright both flavors are good in their own way, how about that?” She looks up at muriel, eyes looking out away from her, but she can see a smile “hm, agreed” he mumbles. Eliza grins and kisses his shoulder before resting her head on it.

They stay in this position for a few minutes until Eliza hears the first chord of a new song and knows exactly what is going to happen next. The band starts playing a slow beat letting people who want to join the dance come take a place in the middle of the dance square.

 Eliza heads pokes up seeing men, women and children being lead to the center by the music. Then little by little the tempo picks up, Eliza’s heart quickens excited to see the dance that is was going to take place. She didn’t know that she was sitting all the way up leaning towards the music until she heard Muriel. “You should go dance” she jumps a little not expecting him to say that “w-what? Oh. No. I’m fine, I like watching” she says but she feels her body telling her to go join the forming crowd. “And you like to dance too. Go ahead.” She turns back to him looking at his smile on his face. 

She would ask him to come with but she knows that group dances arnt his thing. “A-are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone” Muriel gives her hand a squeeze “Don’t worry about me.” She sees him press his lips into a line and shifts his gaze down “I want you to enjoy yourself too, not just be stuck with me” Eliza shifts back in her seat. “I am enjoying myself” she smiles at him “ I like being stuck with you” Muriel lets out a huff and gives her a playful glare. Making Eliza laugh “alright alright I’ll go just for you okay?” She stands up and kisses his cheek before going, Leaving behind a happy blushing Muriel. 

Out of all the many things he liked seeing her do, dancing was one of his favorites. He would catch her humming and dancing around the hut and sometimes she would bring a music box so they both could dance together. He smiles at the memory as he watches her leave to join the crowd, the music picking up starting the dance. He wishes he could join her, he really did. he would love to be able to do everything with her, experience everything that she wanted to do. but he wasn’t there yet, maybe one day he will get there. but he knows for certain that with her light guiding him and being patient with him he knows he could do it.

But for tonight Muriel spots her in the crowd two lines had formed and both moved side to side hopping to the beat. then both lines go towards each other and when they meet, one person holds out their hand and spins the other around then they continue on through changing spots, once they get to the other side they clap and do the whole steps again just changing the person who spins in the middle. The tempo quickens gradually and becomes a dance of who can last to the end of the song. He sees her laugh as she feels the shift in rhythm trying to not trip and a determined look on her face to last the whole song. Occasionally she looks over at him and smiles making his body warm up, even when she’s enjoying herself she looks after him. He loved seeing the way her face lights up, and her skirt flowing around her. she always danced like no one was watching, just enjoying the moment.

 Eliza takes in a big breath and laughs with the rest of the participants that lasted till the end of the song alongside her. hugs were given out and cheers were heard from the others that had stepped out. She catches her breath and looks at Muriel still sitting at the table looking at her with a wide smile, her heart flutters at knowing that he saw her dance. 

She puts her hands to her cheeks knowing how red she must look and can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed but that feeling dosnt last long as another song starts and she’s pulled into another group dance, this one at a medium tempo. Two small circles are created as they skip to the beat going right all around then left, then they all go to the middle clapping twice before going back out again. She feels the music course through her and gets lost in it loving the feeling. The tone of the violin making her movements flow and the beats of the drums making her steps firm against the ground. By the end of the song they had made a big circle trading partners. 

Eliza compliments the little girl she ended up with and goes to the barrel of water that they put out for the dancers at the corner of the raised stage, serving herself. When she throws away the cup a song danced usually by couples starts to play. She looks to the square,  men are taking their partners to dance, she even spots some fathers taking their young daughters making her smile. Eliza makes her way around the crowd towards Muriel whose on the other side, but suddenly feels a sweaty hand clamp over her wrist making her turn around to face the person who’s grabbing her.

 It was a man not much older than her but by his grin and the way he wavered a bit she knew that he was down a few salty bitters. “What is a pretty girl like yourself doing alone during this dance?” The man slurs Eliza tries not to scoff at him as she moves her arm away but he tightness his grip “that’s none of your concern, now please let me go” she steps back but he quickly wraps an arm around her waist pulling her towards him and spinning them around “oh come on sweetheart, a cute thing like you shouldn’t be alone tonight” he grins looking her up and down. Eliza tries to step away pushing at his shoulder but he dosnt budge “you’re mistaken I’m not alone. Let me go” the mans eyebrows shoot up “oh?” He looks around behind her searching, his gaze going back to hers “I don’t see them, maybe they left you for another, what a shame.” The man snickers leaning in closer.

“He didn’t.” A deep serious voice is heard. Eliza’s head looks up to see Muriel towering behind the man with a threatening glare. The man rolls his eyes “then you shouldn’t have left her, sorry finders keepers” the man turns his head still having a grin on his face but it quickly falls as his eyes meet Muriel’s chest, his eyes climb, craning his neck up until he is looking at Muriel death glare. She could hear the man gulp, “she told you she wasn’t alone didn’t she?”

 The man just nodes still looking at Muriel with shock and fear “then let her go.” The mans eyes go wide and he quickly lets go of Eliza, hands up in surrender stammering “S-So sorry. T-this was just a m-misunderstanding! YES! A misunderstanding that’s all Y-You know how it is with a few salty bitters right?” He laughs nervously as he gulps again. Muriel’s glare stays unmoving he steps forward and the man yelps stepping back “leave.” Muriel almost growls out. 

The man  frantically steps back almost tripping “right! Leaving now, right now” and with that he scrambles away from them. Eliza looks at the direction the man left relived that he was finally gone. “Are you alright?” She hears Muriel’s soft voice in front of her ask, making her look up at him, his face expressing worry, his gaze quickly softening as he takes her in his hands grabbing her wrist the man had held looking for any marks, then bringing his hands to cup her face. 

“Did he hurt you?” His gaze starting to harden but she quickly places her own hands on his giving him a smile “I’m fine. he didn’t hurt me” Muriel sighs, relief washing over him. he presses his lips to her forehead “good” she sees his face fall lightly “I’m sorry. I wasn’t with you, if I was this wouldn’t have ha-.” Eliza cuts him off by placing a finger to his lips “I won’t let you say those words” she takes his hands away from her face and holds them “you’re here with me now aren't you?” She smiles up at him “you’re always with me Muriel, always” his green eyes soften, gratefulness filling inside them.

 “Come on let’s go sit down” she says starting to walk towards their table but Muriel doesn't budge. She looks back at him in question, “you like this song.” He states Eliza looks around to the couples dancing. “Yeah, it’s nice” she smiles fondly and starts walking again. “I don’t want the song to be ruined for you” he mumbles. Eliza turns towards him surprised, her body warming up at his words. 

“what do you mean? The song isn’t ruined” Muriel pauses for a second and looks around, they were standing on the the outside of the dance square, most of the people still in the center. Eliza is about to ask him what is wrong when he pulls away his hand from hers, she looks down confused at this action. Eliza hears him take in a deep breath her eyes moving back to his seeing a dust of pink on his cheeks also making an appearance going down his neck.

 He straightens up and puts a hand out towards Eliza and as if he practiced countless times before “can I have this dance?” Eliza’s mind stops working for a second as she looks up at the man before her who just asked her to dance so she would have happy memories, to the man that would only dance with her inside of his own hut, to the man who would do anything to make her smile. 

Eliza’s whole body feels weightless as she takes his rough hand, “you can” she states. Muriel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as if he wasn’t expecting her to say yes to him making Eliza let out a small laugh. He becomes red, his hands gently find their places on her body, he bites his lip and looks down to their feet nervous to start leading. Eliza can’t stop her heart from swelling at how adorable he looks, she hears the music and counts for him like she usually does when they dance together.

 “And a one, two. three. And a one.” She feels Muriel step forward and she follows him, she still counts until she knows he feels the music and lets him lead her. She is smiling up at him encouraging him, he looks down at her with a embarrassed smile. Eliza rests her head on his chest and lets the gentle music flow through them.

In that moment Muriel would do anything to make time stop. The feeling of the music mixed with her in his arms giving him full trust to lead her made his whole body warm. She had said that he was always with her but she was just the same, she was always with him. 

she was in his every thought, in every word he said, the feeling of her on his skin was constant, she was what made his heart beat even so frantically like it was now. Her entire self had already made an impact inside him that even if he tried to forget her something would always appear to make him remember. he was and forever will  be surrounded by her. 

For an instant the world around them faded away, they weren’t dancing at the festival anymore they just were, they were just there in that moment in each other’s presence. It wasn’t until the music stopped that pulled both lovers back to reality. Muriel still kept Eliza close as they both looked onto the stage. A person goes on to the side, announcing “presenting the countess Nadia giving the closing speech!” A cheer breaks out as Nadia climbs taking center stage.

 Eliza claps along with the others, smiling up at her friend. Nadia inclines her head to the announcer in thanks and looks out to the crowd “thank you everyone, this years summer festival was a successful one because of all of you and Your hard work. As the people of Vesuvia know and those who have traveled far to come here, This festival is meant to say farewell to the summer season. Farewell to long days and short nights, to hot mornings  which we had a few of, didn’t we?” The crowd laughs and murmurs in agreement remembering the heat wave that passed. 

“But with that we also say farewell to cold desserts, to time at the beach in the warm sand and time to visit friends and family. But although we say farewell to all of these things and many more that come with summer we welcome the new experiences that come our way. Farewells are not always meant to be wrapped in a sense of sadness, some farewells are just endings to certain parts of our lives. where one thing ends something new always begins, I look forward to sharing those new experiences with you all. So for this festival, for this summer let’s close it with a happy ending shall we?” The crowd cheers once again and those cheers turn to gasps and aws as various colors light up the night sky.

 Muriel looks up to the sky taking in the sight of the fireworks , hearing the music start up again. He hears Eliza’s aw’s at the blasts of light over the buildings, she looks up at him, a content expression on her face. He takes her hand and spins her in front of him taking her all in, Eliza laughs and when she stops she rests her hands on his chest. Muriel searches her face, eyes roaming the face he has come to memorize. The colors above bloom across her features highlighting the pink on her cheeks and making her freckles shine like the constellations that were above them. 

She was breathtakingly beautiful to him in every way and in that moment he knew he never wanted to be parted from her ever again, he couldn’t see a life without her. All the endings he would have in his life he wanted to experience them with her at his side. 

Muriel leans his forehead against her own, “here’s to happy endings, Eliza” he says Her eyes flicker with emotion “to happy endings” she repeats and Before he can let his mind stop him Muriel picks her up in his arms and spins them both a laugh coming out of him, he looks up to see her laughing to. She looks down onto him and brings her hands to cup his cheeks. They both gaze into each other’s eyes sharing emotions that they only understand. The two lovers both tilt their heads towards each other and when their lips met it feels like a blast of colorful light shines against the night sky.

[jesatria]

Fic: Simple Pleasures, Chap 8

Title: Simple Pleasures Fandom: Kushiel’s Legacy Characters: Isidore d’Aiglemort, Anne Livet Pairings: Isidore/Anne Word Count: 4,888 Rating: NC-17 Summary: The story of Isidore d’Aiglemort & the gardener’s daughter of Lombelon. WIP. Disclaimer: I do not own Kushiel’s Legacy. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it.

Previous Chapters:

1. The Visit

2. Desire

3. The Harvest Festival

4. Triumph

5. Gifts

6. The Eagle Unbound

7. Lighting the Candle

Chapter 8: The Longest NIght

           Winter came early and hard. The snows fell earlier in the City than they were usually wont to do and fever soon broke out. It made me glad that I was not planning to pass the Longest Night there. Poets soon took to calling it the Bitterest Winter. Mayhap others felt the bitterness; I did not. Quite the opposite. Things were proceeding according to my plan. Yes, the King had rejected my bid for Ysandre’s hand and Ysandre herself refused to speak against her grandfather’s decision. It was a setback, but not a serious one. I had other plans.

           I was in high spirits when I arrived at Lombelon a few days before the Longest Night. In truth I’d been flying high since Baudoin’s death, as if a weight had been lifted from me. That combined with Anne’s agreement to become my consort, sufficed to keep me in a fine mood since the summer. Then there was her unexpected revelation that she’d lit the candle to Eisheth. I soon realized, however, that I liked the idea of having a child with her. I was past thirty now—it was high time I got myself an heir. Whether I ever married or not, children born of an officially-recognized consort were counted as legitimate.

           A fresh dusting of snow covered the ground when I arrived at Lombelon. Anne stood in her usual place of greeting outside the door, the fur-lined cloak I’d given her wrapped tightly around her. As I rode closer, I could see she was positively glowing with excitement. I all but leapt off my horse and rushed over to her. “I’ve some wonderful news,” she said after we exchanged the usual greetings, “I’m with child.”

           My eyes went wide. “You’re certain?”

           “Quite certain.”

           I swept her into my arms and kissed her fervently. “That is wonderful news indeed!” Somehow the possibility of fatherhood had failed to register with me yet; this brought the reality home. I was going to be a father. Anne and I were going to have a child. It was happening, truly happening. The prospect was intimidating, yes, but only a little. The entirely foreign territory of parenthood was not such a wild land when I had Anne to travel it beside me.

           “Would you carry me over the threshold as if I were your wife?” Anne’s teasing voice jolted me out of my thoughts. I did as she suggested and set her down just inside the doorway. It was only a casual remark, but it got me thinking, imagining myself as King with Anne and our child beside me. The thought of tossing all political considerations aside to follow Blessed Elua’s precepts was a very appealing one. I resolved to think on it again later, once I had the prize I sought. For now, I would continue with my plan to name Anne my official consort. ‘Twas a pity it would have to wait until I had the throne. I simply did not have the time to see to it before then, not when I had so many other preparations to make.

           It was immediately apparent that the Longest Night was nigh upon us. The great hall was decorated with wreaths and evergreen boughs, embellished here and there with red, white, and silver ribbons. Such decorations were common for the Longest Night, but I could see how they would have a particular significance in L’Agnace as a reminder that there was life yet in the earth and green things would return. “I see you’ve noticed the decorations,” Anne remarked, drawing my attention back to her.

           “Yes. They’re quite festive. Your doing?”

           “Oh no, we always decorate the great hall like this for the Longest Night,” she explained. “I like the greenery. I’d keep it there all winter if I could.”

           “How very L’Agnacite of you.”

           “Seeing evergreens always cheers me in winter,” she replied. Anne hated winter, a sentiment which seemed rather common in L’Agnace. I recalled hearing Ghislain de Somerville complain about it while attending winter functions at the Palace. I found it hard to relate, as winter has always been my favorite season. Still, I did the best I could to comfort Anne when the cold weather began to wear on her. I’d have my work cut out for me convincing her to ever spend the winter with me in Camlach. She wouldn’t like the cold, but she was L’Agnacite and would see the beauty of the land.

           “I’ll need to take you to the Midwinter Masque at the Palace sometime,” I said. “It’s somewhat to see at least once.”

           She smiled. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

           “The decorations are always quite stunning, the food excellent, the costumes beautiful. The only spectacle I can think of to match it would be the Midwinter Masque at the Night Court.”

           Anne’s eyebrows rose. “The Night Court has its own masque?”

           I nodded. “Cereus House hosts it every year, and all thirteen houses attend. It’s harder to get an invitation there than to the Palace masque.”

           “Have you ever been?”

           “Twice, both with Prince Baudoin.” The first time had been the year he played the Sun Prince. None of us had known about that beforehand, only that Baudoin had a surprise he couldn’t wait to share. In retrospect I’m surprised he did not just tell us, considering how he boasted of his mother’s plans so carelessly. Parts of that night are somewhat of a blur in my memory, as I’d been more than a little drunk, though not as drunk as Baudoin. I’d been stuck holding him as he staggered into Cereus House, so drunk he could barely walk. That was somewhat I didn’t miss in the least, carting Baudoin around when he was blind, stinking drunk.

           “When was that?” Anne asked.

           “The first was around ten years ago. I was just shy of turning twenty.” It seemed longer ago than that. “Baudoin and I were still good friends then.” The thought didn’t sting as much as it might have months ago.

           She was silent for a moment and I thought she might ask me about Baudoin, but she didn’t. “Which of the two masques do you prefer?”

           That was somewhat I never considered before; I had to think on it. “Well, it’s difficult to match the sheer decadence and debauchery of the Night Court. You can certainly get it at the Palace too, but no one does debauchery quite like the Night Court does. Their masque has a tendency to turn into an orgy before the night is over.”

           Anne giggled. “Decadent indeed. I imagine the Palace masque is more restrained.”

           “Yes, to a certain extent. I’ve never seen it become an orgy, but that isn’t to say there aren’t plenty of couples carrying on in semi-private niches.”

           She laid a hand on my arm. “Those are fêtes worth attending, it seems.”

           “Next year you’ll attend the Palace masque with me.” Next year I’d be King of Terre d’Ange if all went according to plan.

           “I would like that very much.”

           The days leading up to the Longest Night passed quickly, as all days spent with Anne had an unfortunate tendency to do. It snowed a handful of times, ensuring the grounds were covered in a blanket of white for the Longest Night. I’ve always felt the day lacks a certain something when there is no snow on the ground. Once the pathways were cleared, Anne and I spent some time walking outside. The air was brisk with winter’s chill, but not so cold as to be frigid. I was pleased to see Anne wearing the fur-lined cloak I’d given her, along with a new pair of sturdy boots and warm gloves.

           “It really is beautiful, the snow,” she commented as we walked through the gardens. The snow had rendered them a foreign landscape, with the only points of familiarity being the evergreen trees and shrubs. “For all that I complain about it, it is beautiful.”

           “It is. I’ve always thought there was somewhat peaceful about it when everything is covered in white after a storm, like a blanket for the sleeping land,” I said, feeling unusually poetic. I suppose my contentment in the moment brought it on.

           “My father used to say somewhat similar. When I’d feel sad because all the plants died as the seasons changed, he’d tell me that many of them were only sleeping in the earth and would return again in the spring,” said Anne. I was glad to see her speaking of her father with no trace of sadness in her voice. It was nearly a year since his death and she’d seen fit to confide in me whenever the grief was especially strong. I wished I’d known Gerard Livet better so I could share her grief. My own father had died not so very long ago, and it had been a sudden thing. He’d neglected to call for a chirurgeon after being wounded in a border skirmish and the wound took septic. Maslin d’Aiglemort was nothing if not stubborn to a fault. I’d been with him when it happened and was not expecting to find myself as Duc d’Aiglemort before I was thirty.

           I took her gloved hand in mine and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you think your father would approve of what has passed between us?”

           She grinned. “If you mean would he approve of me getting with child by you, he would. He knew how happy you make me and so he approved of us.”

           “I do wish he was here to see the birth of his grandchild. He and your mother both,” I said gently.

           “So do I. What of your family? What will they think of us and our child?”

           “Well their opinions hardly matter, not when I am the head of the House. I doubt any of my cousins will say a word against you.” A small smile came to my lips. “My father, were he here, would doubtless be pleased I fathered a child.”

           “Indeed.”

           “Are you concerned my family will not be welcoming to you?” I inquired.

           “The thought crossed my mind once or twice.”

           “You shouldn’t trouble yourself over it. I don’t expect you’ll need to see them often.”

           Her hand relaxed a little in mine. “I know I’ve been worrying about all of this too much, it’s only that… I fear I won’t fit into your world,” she admitted. At my confused expression, she added, “The parts of your life without me in them.”

           I was silent for a moment, taken aback by her words. I’d never thought of it that way, at least not consciously, but it was true enough. There were things Anne did not know and could not know. If things went wrong and my plans were exposed, suspicion might fall on her. That could not happen. By keeping her ignorant of my plans, I protected her. She would not end up like Marc and Bernadette de Trevalion, exiled for their knowledge of Lyonette’s plot. Still, it hurt to keep these secrets from Anne. “That distinction won’t matter once you’re my consort, Anne. You will learn to feel at home in my ‘world’ as you put it over time.”

           “I do hope you’re right.” She squeezed my hand. “To think next year we might attend the Palace’s Midwinter Masque together.”

           Next year she’d be consort to the King of Terre d’Ange if my plan succeeded. “Indeed we will.”

 **

           The Longest Night dawned clear and cold, just the sort of weather I liked. Since Anne and I would be counted as a household once she was my consort, we thought to dress according to a theme for the masque. I would be attired as winter while Anne would be summer. It was her idea and I had to own it was a good one. She had some specific ideas for the costumes, which I relayed to my tailor and seamstress. That surprised me a bit, for I’d never seen Anne to express much in the way of opinions on clothing. I hardly ever gave much thought to it myself, so I was glad to have someone else take charge of it.

           We were both quite satisfied with the end results. For my part, I wore a deep forest green doublet and breeches, the shade of pine trees in the depths of winter, accented with silver. My first inclination was to wear all white, but Anne quipped that I was like to blend in with the snow given my coloring. The forest green brocade with silver embroidery was meant to evoke a pine tree with snow in its branches. To complete the costume, I wore a crown fashioned of pine boughs accented here and there with red berries.

           Anne loved her costume. “I’ve never worn anything so fine,” she said, running her hands over the silk of her gown. It was the color of honey, with a pattern of fruit and flowers on the bodice and along the hem. Her crown was of flowers and green leaves fashioned from silk. Doubtless she could name all of them; I couldn’t.

           I secured a cloak of white velvet around my shoulders with a silver pin. Anne left off admiring her gown to look me over. “You look like a winter spirit come from the heart of the forest. The dark green really does suit your coloring.”

           “I didn’t know you paid attention to such things,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

           “Neither did I. I never had much cause to pay attention to such things until now.”

           Our costumes were complete with domino masks, mine silver and hers gold. Once they were in place, I held out an arm. Anne took it and together we made our way down to the great hall. Most of the household was already there and they stopped what they were doing to watch us walk down the stairs together, Anne’s hand on my arm. Gasps and whispers could be heard here and there—I daresay we made an impressive pair. “Do they know you’re with child?” I inquired.

           “Yes, I imagine so. Word spreads quickly at a small estate such as this.” It was a bit uncomfortable that the household knew, if not exactly surprising. No doubt it was a thrilling bit of gossip.

           The decorations I’d noted when I arrived were only the beginning. More had been added since then and the great hall looked entirely unlike I’d ever seen it before. I’d attended several celebrations at Lombelon over the last few years, but none of them had taken place in the great hall. L’Agnacites loved the land and with it came a fondness for outdoor celebrations. But not even they would pass the Longest Night outside. A pair of long tables had been set up on opposite sides of the hall, with ample space in between them for dancing. A fire roared in the large fireplace, keeping the room pleasantly warm. As Anne and I approached the table nearer the fireplace, folk in the crowd paused to bow or curtsy. I knew nearly all of them by name now. There was Thèrese, the head of the kitchen who’d made Camaeline dishes for me. There was Marcel, Anne’s friend and lover before—and also a bit after—she met me. If he had any lingering resentment toward me, he didn’t show it. My men were there as well, casually mingling with the residents of Lombelon. Those among them who regularly accompanied me on my visits had gotten to know the folk of Lombelon and felt at ease attending a fête such as this.

           Anne and I took our seats at the center of the table nearest the fireplace. There was nothing like a formal seating arrangement—the higher-ranked members of the household sat closest to us while the rest took what seats were available. The table was laden with a fine selection of dishes. Anne took the time to point out a few of note. “I made sure some of your Camaeline dishes were included,” she informed me.

           “Let us see if the other cooks did as good a job preparing them as you did,” I replied as I helped myself to slices of quiche and tarte flambée.

           What followed was a Midwinter Masque quite unlike any I’d ever attended. To compare it to the masques at the Palace or Cereus House was as pointless as comparing a rabbit to a swan. They were entirely different experiences, for all that they are both Midwinter Masques. Suffice it to say that the food was quite delicious and I enjoyed the company greatly. Joie flowed freely, along with L’Agnacite wine and the pear brandy no visit to Lombelon would be complete without. I drank a bit more than was my usual want. Anne on the other hand contented herself with a single glass of joie owing to her condition.

           When the meal was over, instruments were fetched and several folk left their seats to begin playing. Others moved to the open space between the tables and began to dance. Anne and I watched in comfortable silence for a few minutes. These were not the formal court dances I knew. No, they were the same sort of country dances I’d seen at other celebrations I’d attended at Lombelon. In all likelihood they were traditional L’Agnacite country dances. Each province had its own traditional dances entirely separate from the formal dances found at court. I was well-versed in the Camaeline ones and had more than a passing acquaintance with the Kusheline ones as well. Eventually the lively music gave way to a slower tune. I looked at Anne. “Would you care for a dance?”

           “Dance? With you?”

           “Of course.”

           She blushed a little. “I don’t know anything of formal court dances.”

           “Then we’ll start with somewhat simple.” I stood and offered her an arm. “I’ll lead and all you need do is follow.”

           She laid a hesitant hand on my arm. “As you wish.”

           Together we walked out to the center of the room. Several of the other dancers halted what they were doing to stare at us. Those nearest us moved out of the way to give us space. I took Anne’s hand in mine and laid a hand on her waist. “Put your other hand on my arm,” I instructed, “and try your best to follow me and not step on my feet.”

           She smiled. “I think I can manage that.” The musicians took up their instruments and our dance began. I kept it simple, leading Anne across the floor. She was able to keep pace with me without any difficulties. It made me think of how well-matched we were in bed, how attuned we were to each other. As we danced, the crowd around us seemed to disappear until Anne might’ve been the only one there. Her mask completely failed to hide the love that was plain on her face. I could lose myself in the depths of those hazel eyes.

           “You’re a good dancer,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

           I raised an eyebrow. “Not even with all those times you’ve watched my sword practice?”

           “Well, that isn’t dancing exactly.”

           “It’s not so very different from it. The footwork is important.” It wasn’t the first time someone had complemented my dancing. The Shahrizai were surprised to find me a passing good dancer when I arrived to foster among them. More recently Ysandre de la Courcel had praised my dancing skills while dancing with me at a fête. Anne and I danced to several more songs until the hour grew late. “That’s certainly a good start,” I remarked once we’d returned to our seats. “It shouldn’t take you long to learn courtly dances.”

           “I suspect not with such a good teacher.”

           We were interrupted by the doors of the great hall opening wide to admit the Winter Queen. She looked much the same as other Winter Queens I’d seen, dressed as she was in a ragged cloak and hobbling along with her staff. “Our Winter Queen wears the same costume every year,” Anne remarked. “Same thing with the Sun Prince. All we do is make alterations as needed.”

           The lights were extinguished. The doors opened once again to admit the Sun Prince. He tapped the Winter Queen on the shoulder with his spear. She cast off her cloak and the lights were restored. The new year had begun. “Were you ever the Winter Queen?”

           “Yes. More than once. What about you? Were you the Sun Prince?”

           “Of course. Once the year before I went to the Shahrizai and once the year after.”

           Anne lifted a hand to stroke my hair gently. “You must’ve made a fine Sun Prince with your beautiful hair.”

           Elua, I loved it when she called my hair beautiful. It was my one vanity. I avoided tying it back specifically so I could show it to its best advantage. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

           After the appearance of the Sun Prince, the celebration began to wind down. Many people left the hall to retire for the night. We had no obligation to stay for the rest of the masque and thus made our exit. With the whole staff enjoying the masque, a fire hadn’t already been laid in my bedchamber. I saw to it quickly, then removed my mask and crown. After wearing them for hours, it was a relief to take them off. Anne did the same with hers and a moment later we sat together on the bed. A bottle of joie and two glasses stood on the bedside table. I hadn’t requested it. “Your doing?”

           Anne nodded. “I thought we might enjoy some in private.” She uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses. “Joy to you on the Longest Night, Isidore.”

           I raised the glass. “All the same to you, Anne. Joy.” I drained the glass in one go. Never let it be said I didn’t learn anything during my association with Prince Baudoin. I took a brief moment to savior the icy bite of the joie. I would easily name it my favorite liqueur if asked. There’s somewhat in it that always reminds me of Camlach, as if it retained some memory of the high places where the snowdrops grew. I set the glass on the table and looked at Anne. She sipped the last of the joie and placed her empty glass beside mine. I kissed her then, tasting the joie on her lips. She returned the kiss with equal ardor and we drank deeply from each other. Our costumes were soon a pile on the floor.

           We savored each other that night. I must’ve kissed and stroked every part of her and she did the same to me. Somewhat about the simple fact that she was carrying my child made me even more aroused that I usually was. She was not showing yet—it was too early for that—but I couldn’t help stroking her stomach more than was my usual wont. Anne told me she’d already spoken with the local priestess of Eisheth, who guessed our child would be born in early summer. With luck the impending Skaldi invasion would be over by then and I could return to Lombelon to attend the birth.

           I pulled her closer to me until I could feel the entirety of her pressed tight against me. She had exactly the sort of richly-curved figure prized in Camlach for the promise of warmth on the coldest winter nights. I laid a hand on her arse and buried another in her hair as if I could keep her from harm if I held her close enough. My mind was too active from the excitement of the day for me to fall asleep easily. Even after Anne fell asleep I lay awake, my thoughts turning to our child. I tried to imagine what the mingling of my blood with Anne’s would produce. Would our child be more Camaeline or L’Agnacite? Camaeline, I was fairly certain. I was of one of the purest Camaeline bloodlines, after all. But mayhap there’d be a love for gardens in there. A son with my hair and somewhat of Anne in his face. Or mayhap a daughter, but in truth I was more excited by the idea of a son. It made no practical difference—a daughter could inherit as well as a son. We are a civilized people, after all. A son, though—a son I could teach to wield a sword, draw a bow, lead the Allies of Camlach in battle, as my father had taught me the entirety of Camael’s Arts.

           With that pleasant thought, I finally drifted off to sleep.

 **

           With the Longest Night now passed, my natality was soon upon us. I did not generally want a big fuss made of it, a preference formed after years of the Shahrizai and Baudoin insisting on throwing fêtes for the occasion. This year I was determined to spend the day with Anne. The only thing that disrupted our time together was a message from Melisande, and I quickly dispatched several of my men-at-arms to carry out her request. I had to wonder if she knew about Anne and me. All the local folk did. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Melisande did as well.

           When the day of my natality came, thoughts of Melisande’s request vanished entirely from my mind at the prospect of spending the day with Anne. She insisted on marking the occasion, and I was happy to go along with it. She spent a portion of her time in the kitchen, preparing a special dinner. It consisted of Camaeline dishes, some which I specifically requested. To be able to enjoy some comforts of home while also spending time with Anne was the best birthday gift I could’ve hoped for.

           Anne had other gifts for me. “You really did not need to do this,” I said as I followed her into the bedchamber.

           “I know. But I wanted to anyway.” She gestured to one of the armchairs by the fireplace, where she’d laid out my gifts. A pair of shirts were draped over the arms of the chair, with a smaller square of cloth resting between them.

           “You made me shirts. But how…?”

           “I might’ve… borrowed one of your shirts while you were last here so I could get your measurements,” she admitted. “I know they’re not as fine as what you usually wear…”

           “They’re just perfect. Thank you, Anne.” The shirts were fairly plain, with little in the way of embellishment on the collars and cuffs. Not that I don’t wear shirts with lace trim on occasion, but it is not my preference. My eyes then shifted to the square of cloth lying on the seat of the chair. It was a handkerchief. A closer look revealed she’d embroidered it. That took me aback for a moment—I hadn’t known Anne had such skill in embroidery. She’d stitched a pair of silver eagles in opposite corners, with pear blossoms at their feet.

           “I copied them from the eagles on your standard,” said Anne.

           “It’s quite a good likeness.”

           “I wanted to give you a lover’s token you might take with you when you ride off to war again.”

           Her words fell heavily between us. I’d not spoken of the coming Skaldi invasion to her at all during this visit. Better not to speak of it at all than dwell on what I had to keep hidden from her. I steered the conversation away from the impending invasion. “A very thoughtful gift. I’ll be sure to keep it with me.”

           “I’m so pleased you like it.” Anne smiled. “I’ve been quite busy with sewing lately, for I mean to make a quilt for our child.”

           “Really? I’ve not seen you doing anything of that sort since I’ve been here.”

           “That’s because I’ve been too busy spending time with you.”

           I sat on the bed. “Well, you can rest assured our child will have all the blankets he could possibly want.”

           She raised an eyebrow. “He?”

           “Or she,” I added. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to have a son. The idea of teaching him to wield a sword really appeals to me.”

           “Could you not teach a daughter?”

           I considered her question a moment before answering. “I could, yes. Camaeline women are taught to defend themselves should they be attacked, but they don’t fight on the battlefield.” I met Anne’s eyes. “You know I wouldn’t love any daughter of ours any less.”

           “I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, amused, “and in case you were wondering I have no particular preference for a son or daughter.”

 **

           I spent most of the winter at Lombelon. Business did call me away from time-to-time, but for the most part I was able to spend much of my time with Anne. There was a sense of urgency in it as winter began to loosen its icy grip on the land. When the days grew warm enough that I judged the nearest pass to be open, I left for Camlach.

           It was a difficult parting, the most difficult we’d had thus far.

           Soon I would be at war.

 Notes

I’ve been writing Kushielfic for 10 years, & this is the 1st time I’ve actually managed to post a Longest Night scene on the Longest Night. Enjoy, & joy to you on this Longest Night!

[ian-the-existential-crisis]

Coffin Kisses (It's MY Soul that Misses Yours) Long Preview

There was something about the breeze that caught her attention. It had a sweet smell to it as it brushed past her. She didn't even think about it as she pulled her grey cloak tighter around her. Why would the night air smell so sweet? Where was this smell coming from?

Those were questions she probably should have been asking in the back of her mind. But she didn't. She simply flicked her black hair back, making tracks as she went about her night.

Why was she out at night? That was easy. Less people. Her head was so full of thoughts, magic, and inventions that having others around her was just an inconvenience. She couldn't keep her ideas inside if she constantly had someone drawing her attention away.

Natalie sucked in a deep breath of the cool night air. It was cold. She suspected that any moment a flurry of white would descend from the sky and overtake the small clearing in a blanket of frosted flakes. But the forest thicket was just beyond the clearing. That was her true goal and no amount of snow could stop her.

The forest was peaceful. She could mix her magic with machines in the heart of the forest where nobody would ever find her. She was free to experiment and play with her creations.

She could hear the others of her village, not so far away from the thicket, mocking her. Magic and machines didn't belong together. They opposed each other, constantly fighting for control.

But why did it have to be like that? She had an able mind for the machinery that was forbidden in her land. People she couldn't understand, words never clicked in her mind. But mech she knew. The machines never lied to her. They never insulted her; they never told her what she could and couldn't do.

And her magic only improved her ability to make such things. Her way with electricity was beyond even her parents understanding. They had both dabbled in magic, neither being too adept or amazing. At least that was what she was told. Her mother died shortly after birth and her father vanished years ago.

The grass under her soft sole shoes crunched as it hardened in the night air. She reached out with her pale hand, grabbing the bark of the tree as she stumbled on the aerial roots.

Her skin prickled as she pulled away from the thick trunk. If only the residents of her village understood that machines were nothing to be afraid of, maybe then she wouldn't be an outcast. She wouldn't have to slip out of her foster father's home in the dead of night to be herself in the dark and dank woods.

"If I were a normal mage I wouldn't be out here." She whispered to herself. There was nobody there to talk to. There was no reason to voice her deepest wants allowed. But still, saying them, putting them out there into the world that didn't understand her helped.

Did she want to be normal? Was that really her deepest darkest secret? Her magic had never failed her like people did. Her machines never left her behind like humans did. Yet, even though she didn't understand them, she craved another person to understand her. To finally reach out to her, but not stop her.

If someone like that didn't already exist in her world, she would just have to make them.

Roots and shrubs overtook the land beyond the clearing. The dense trees and heavy air often kept people away. But tonight that air smelled of honied tea and sweet sugar cookies.

One of the nearby shrubs rustled with movement, startling her. Natalie turned, short black hair falling back into her ruby eyes, to glance behind her. Was she followed? Nobody should be awake at this hour.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Hello friend." A robotic voice called out into the night air.

"Oh goddess." Natalie jumped, her wool cloak flying open as she clutched her chest. Her wide eyes softened as she stared after the voice. "Marvin, you scared me senseless. How many times have I told you to say something?"

"I'm sorry friend. I already greeted one friend tonight. I didn't know I had to greet you too." The robot said, stand up, towering over her.

"Oh, baby." She said, a tight smile graced her panicked features. Marvin was her child. She created him with a mixture of her magic and modern technology. In many ways, he was just as much an abomination as she was. "You made a new friend? Where are they? Is it another bunny?"

"No, no. I took my new friend home because he fell in the woods. He wasn't moving at all and I was coming to find you."

"Oh? You took him to the cabin?" The small red bricked cabin was her safe place. A place no other human was allowed, or at least should never be allowed. She created Marvin there, she created many things there that would have her executed because of her vivid mind and morbid curiosity. It was their home, her workshop. It wasn't like she didn't live in the village, she did. But that place would never be home to her. Home was where Marvin treated her happily, telling her about the bunnies and squirrels he followed and befriended in the brush, home was where she didn't have to be afraid to be herself. She was creating the future, it was just nobody could see it yet. Home, right now, was where Marvin had taken a stranger that she couldn't trust. "Is he okay?"

"He is breathing." The tall robot informed her.

"Well, take me to him." She frowned,closing her red cloak in on herself again. Had he really found an unconscious person in the woods?

She let Marvin lead her to the cabin. He loved showing her through the twists and turns of the underbrush. She knew the way by heart, but she swore that each time she let him lead the way home he was one step closer to becoming human. He felt more human than the people of the village.

_-_

His blue eyes were wide open and staring at her as she entered her second home.

Her cabin wasn't huge. There were two bedrooms, one for her when she stayed so late in the night that Marvin would find her asleep at her desk, and Marvin had his own room, though he didn't need to sleep, he was still her only child and she spoiled him. The living room and kitchen were only separated by the bar-like counter and her desk was crammed into a corner of the living room far from the couch and fireplace.

"Oh?" Natalie accidently let out a small gasp seeing him. He was pale, deathly so. No wonder Marvin had brought him home. He was barely sitting up-right on the couch. "Are you okay?"

She wanted to be gentle with the stranger. He already wasn't supposed to be here, he wasn't supposed to know about Marvin, and he definitely wasn't meant to see her here, as he could easily expose her to the village for practicing the taboo. Yet, she hadn't seen him before, he wasn't from around these parts. The slant of his blue eyes reminded her of the clans to the south, but the blue of his eyes made her think of the bigger cities building in the east. Still, she knew she had to be weary of him just like everyone else.

He blinked at her for a long moment, as if he hadn't realized she had come in. His blue eyes glazed over, chest rattling with each breath.

"I'm fine…" His voice was barely a whisper, but the confusion rang clear. "I am… where am I?"

Natalie lost her words before they could roll off her tongue. Looking at this person, really looking at him, she wondered how long it had been since he had seen the inside of a house. He couldn't be much older than her, probably just barely hitting the age where he could start calling himself a man, but he looked so tired. There were dark bags under his eyes making the blue stand out brighter and his hair, which was mostly black, was ruffled and wild. She wouldn't even doubt it if Marvin claimed to pick twigs out of his hair on their journey to the cabin. And his paling skin was littered with traces of dirt and scratches from the ticket.

He looked like an abandoned puppy.

[buttsonthebeach]

Lost Horizon, Pt. 4

And here is our conclusion - for now! Once again my deepest gratitude to @scharoux for entrusting me with this story and these characters, and for being such a lovely friend and writing buddy <3

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (New slots with discounted prices opening on Friday March 20th!)

Part One of Lost Horizon can be found here

Part Two of Lost Horizon can be found here

Other pieces about Rhaella I have written include:

1. All Things Green and Growing

2. The Long Road Back

3. The Turning of the Year

3. The Same Kind of Scar (contains explicit content)

4. World Without End (contains explicit content)

5. The Last Game Pt. 1, the Last Game Pt. 2, and the Last Game Pt. 3 (contains explicit content), and the Last Game Pt. 4

Pairing: Rhaella x Solas, Post-Trespasser

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Other parts of the series contain directly referenced character death for a character from DAI, implied character death for characters from DA2, and general references to death and destruction. They also contain descriptions of childbirth and breastfeeding.

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They had to move quickly.

Rhaella wasn’t even sure what she was grabbing or where she was stowing it. She was just picking up everything she could get her hands on and shoving it into a bag or a basket. Her daughters were crying, quiet and fussy, and every fiber of her being wanted to go to them, an ache so powerful it felt real, physical, but she knew that the best way to protect them was to keep going, keeping flinging the little life she’d built in two weeks into bags and knapsacks and baskets. Keep pushing past the pain in her body. A mage’s healing could only do so much for a newly delivered mother. It could heal the worst of the damage and dull the pain, but it was safest to let the rest of nature take its course.

So while Rhaella knew she should be lying down, resting, or caring for her daughters if they needed her, she also knew that she had to push through her discomfort, the same way she’d pushed through her agony after the fall of Haven, walking miles and miles in the driving snow. It would be even easier this time. She was doing it for them.

Cole reappeared at her side.

“Distracted and confused - they will wander for some time. There is a window, thin as spider-silk. We can escape. We must go now.”

Merrill rushed over. “Then we will. Here, Rhaella.” She held up a makeshift sling with ragged edges, clearly made from a torn up blanket. “For the babies.”

Rhaella felt a rush of joy and love that overpowered her fear and pain temporarily. My babies.

As quick and haphazard as she had been packing up their supplies, she was careful and gentle as she got them each into the sling and bound them tight against her chest. They were warm and heavy against her body and she wanted to stop and stare at them, to touch the soft down on their heads. Being swaddled so tightly against her seemed to soothe them at once, and that eased some of Rhaella’s own fear. She’d need to nurse them soon, she knew. She hoped they would not start to cry until they got somewhere else safe.

She hoped this would not be the life they led. Always running.

No, she didn’t just hope that - she would make sure of it.

Looking down at them, she knew she would always make sure that they were safe, that they had what they needed and wanted. She would move mountains to be sure of it.

Was that how Solas felt when he ripped out the Veil? So certain of himself, so certain that it was worth breaking the world in the name of his convictions?

The thought pressed against her breastbone, wormed towards her heart. She decided to ignore it.

“Here,” Cole said after she’d mounted Thistle with assistance from both of them. He was holding something red in his hands. “He would have liked the idea of keeping you warm and safe.”

It was Cullen’s cloak.

Rhaella took it from Cole, pretending her hands didn’t tremble as she did so.

“Perfect,” Merrill said, coming to rest beside Rhaella on her own mount. “It conceals the babies and it will keep all three of you warm. We’re lucky we found it at Skyhold.”

Rhaella could only manage a nod in reply. Lucky. That was not how she felt with that cloak wrapped around her. She did feel it when she glanced beneath it at the two tiny babies sleeping there - luck as incandescent as the sun. She would push through her pain, emotional and otherwise, for their sake.

And there was pain. Her body was not ready to ride and they both knew it. But she gritted her teeth and focused on nearby landmarks as they rode. I can make it as far as that next tree. As far as that next bend in the stream. I can do this.

All the while, she and Merrill were both glancing over their shoulders and off to the sides. Cole was flitting in and out of visibility as he went to check their surroundings in a wider perimeter, but neither of them could resist the urge to do the same. How narrow had their escape been? Was it possible that Solas and his men were following them in the shadows, waiting to close in? Every breeze in the trees, every flickering shadow, the very mist that snaked around the trees and shrubs and rocks, seemed to say so.

Rhaella just gritted her teeth harder and kept going. Her magic roiled within her blood - hot fire and the snap of lightning, ice so cold that it too would burn. She had not cast anything in weeks. If he came - she would stop him.

(But then she remembered his face - the naked despair - when he heard the sound of the babies crying in the Fade. He would never harm her or the girls. Would she really harm him?)

I can make it as far as that next tree.

Eventually, the mist began to dissipate. Thin grey light seeped through the trees. Not starlight anymore. Dawn. The girls began to wriggle and fuss against her chest - hungry no doubt. Rhaella realized that she wasn’t entirely sure if they’d been born before or after midnight. She’d have to ask Merrill if she kept any type of track. There was a new date to add to her calendar now, after all. A date to celebrate.

That, and not the pain, was what finally made her tug back on Thistle’s reigns. The awe those two tiny people filled her with. She deserved to stop and bask in it.

“I think I need to stop,” she called out quietly to Merrill. “They’re hungry.”

Merrill nodded.

“We’ve made excellent time away from the grotto. Cole, can you keep a lookout?”

Cole nodded, and disappeared in a wisp of purple smoke.

Merrill helped Rhaella down and together they led their mounts away from the path they’d been following and into the dense trees, until they found a suitable hollow in an old, gnarled oak where Rhaella could sit and be mostly concealed. Relief flowed through her instantly as she did so, aided by the magic that Merrill wove through her body at the same time, and then by the frantic mouths of her twins at her breasts. There was a little pain there, too, and she had to readjust one of them to ease it, but mostly there was just the wonder again. So small and so perfect as they nursed. Their little down-turned eyes, their pointed chin. Their reddish hair.

They looked so much like him.

She loved them so much already that it paralyzed her.

“They are lovely little things, aren’t they?” Merrill said softly at her side. “Have you thought of names yet?”

“Honestly? No,” Rhaella laughed. “I thought I was carrying a boy, so I didn’t choose any girl names - let alone two. Well - I had thought of Elera for a girl, just in case.”

She looked down at the two girls again. The elder of the two was on her left breast, and the younger on the right. Elera. She rolled the sound around in her mind.

“Yes. Elera for the eldest. But for this little one, I’m just not sure.”

Little was a relative term. Her younger daughter was actually quite plump, and apparently determined to become plumper based on the strength of her latch. Elera kept kicking and wiggling and making tiny sounds of distress while she ate, but her younger sister was content as could be.

“What about Siona?” Merrill asked. “Your younger girl seems as sweet as can be.”

Siona. It did indeed mean sweet. Rhaella studied the younger girl’s face, turning the name over in her mind the way she had for her older sister.

“Siona. Yes, I do like that. Elera and Siona.”

A rush of tears pricked her eyes suddenly, as if naming them made all of this even more real than birthing or nursing them had. These were the names she would say with tender affection and with irritation for the rest of her life. The names their friends would call them. Elera and Siona.

Eventually the two of them had drunk their fill and been burped, and then Rhaella had to lay them out on a blanket and change them. She took a quick moment to rub an elfroot salve onto her aching nipples and to slip away to change the dressing she’d tucked into her smallclothes, and then it was time to put them into their slings, put on Cullen’s cloak, and keep moving. She wanted so, so badly to just sleep. But she picked herself up, got back on the horse, and chose another distant tree to aim towards, reassuring herself that she could sleep when she got there if she still truly needed to.

Of course, once she reached that tree, she picked a new one, and told herself the same soothing lie.

Cole reappeared at their side, his long legs eating up the distance as he kept pace alongside their mounts.

“I have led them astray,” he said. “They have turned back the other way, walking away from us, back towards Kirkwall, but they do not know it yet.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough, Cole,” Rhaella said.

“Of course you can,” Cole said, smiling his odd, charming smile. “Gratitude is always enough. You don’t measure it in numbers.” He looked to the road ahead. “I’ll go this way now, and start looking for somewhere new to camp. I’ll tell the spirits not to share our secrets like I did before.”

He was gone again.

The mist had mostly faded by that time thanks to the warming of the morning sun. Rhaella found that the increasing light didn’t come with as much relief from her paranoia as she might have hoped. Every lingering shadow might still hide Solas, or his men. 

Or someone else who wished her harm.

She wondered how much truth there was to what he’d said in the Fade, and how much of it was a ploy to get her to return to him. Was she really being hunted by the Evanuris? Had he really failed to contain them? She wished he had not broken her trust so utterly, that she at least had some sense from him of what was truth and what was lies.

(But then there was a part of her that remembered that he very rarely lied, when you drilled down to the bedrock of the matter. That wondered if it was really just her grieving heart that was broken, that was clouding her judgment of the situation.)

In any case, all she had to do right now was keep half her senses on the babies, ensuring that they were comfortable and fed and dry, and the other half on keeping herself on Thistle’s back. Nothing else mattered.

An hour or so later, they reached a fork in the road. The right hand path led up over an exposed crest of hill, and the left led along the side of the hill, and seemed to drop lower still. It remained between the trees, and the last of the night’s mist lingered in its hollows.

“We would have a good vantage point from up there,” Merrill said, gesturing to the exposed path. “We could see everything around us, perhaps pick a good place to set up a new camp.”

Rhaella shook her head. The thought of being high up, exposed, made her skin crawl in a visceral way she couldn’t quite account for. She was instinctively touching each of her daughters at the thought.

“I agree, sadly,” Merrill said, sighing. “As much as it would be nice to be in the sunshine. If we can see everything, everything can see us. Let’s take the low road.”

Of course, what they didn’t realize about the low road was that it led through a ravine with sides of high stone, gray and mottled with dark green moss. Two primeval walls that rose like bones of the earth, and only narrowed the further into it they went. If pursuit came towards them, they would barely have room to turn around - and even if they did turn around, there was only one direction in which they could flee.

Rhaella’s chest tightened as the walls did. She looked to Merrill and saw the same blanched look of fear on her face. They shared a small nod, and both clicked to their mounts to move a little faster. The sound of hooves echoed through the ravine, bouncing from stone wall to stone wall, and then seemed to bounce around inside Rhaella’s own skull, and then seemed to burrow down into her heart, making it pound faster.

They made it out of the ravine.

It spilled them out onto a flat, open area ringed by a few trees, and low enough down below the ridgeline they could have climbed that even more of the morning mist lingered here. Rhaella’s mana surged inside her one final time, longing to send out feelers, to sense if anything was nearby them, a feeling nearly as strong as her urge to push had been a few short hours before. She tamped it down.

She didn’t need her magic in the end. Her eyes spotted the shapes in the mist moving towards them, and her ears caught the sound of hooves once more, and then the sun highlighted the golden greaves and flashing pauldrons of Sentinel armor. A large group of them, moving directly towards their position.

Rhaella and Merrill had time for one more frantic glance. Rhaella pulled on the hood she wore beneath Cullen’s cloak and ducked her head, and saw Merrill do the same out of the corner of her eye. Her whole body was full of another frantic impulse now - run - but she knew it would be too obvious if they did. They’d spent the last two weeks hearing plenty of other elves passing through, passing by. It wasn’t as if they were the only two female elves in the Emerald Graves. They had to simply ride past the Sentinels as if nothing was amiss, and hope that Elera and Siona didn’t make a sound, that Cullen’s cloak concealed Rhaella’s still-swollen belly well enough to avoid suspicion.

The two parties drew closer to each other. Rhaella could see them now when she glanced out beneath her hood, and her heart sank. It was a group of Solas’s men. She recognized them. More importantly, she recognized Abelas at the front of their party.

He was already looking at the two of them intently.

Rhaella kept her head down. That was all she could do. They would both keep their heads down and quietly ride past. They tried to do it. Merrill was on Rhaella’s left, and Rhaella was closest to the Sentinels. So, of course, it was Rhaella that Abelas approached.

“Hail and well met, traveler,” he said, his Elvhen melodious and formal as always. He was riding a horse, not a hart. Thistle was a little taller and Rhaella herself sat up taller than him as a result. She ducked her head just a little more, hoping he had not already seen under her hood, hoping that Elera and Siona would remain quiet and asleep against her chest, that they would not move or fuss.

“Hail and well met,” Rhaella replied in Elvhen, deepening her voice ever so slightly. Not quite a man’s voice - she was not skilled enough for that - but certainly not her own. Hopefully between that and the Elvhen, which Abelas had rarely heard her speak, he would not be suspicious.

“Have you encountered any trouble in this area?” Abelas asked. “We are tasked with keeping the peace as well as we can.”

So he wasn’t looking for her?

“We have not,” Rhaella said. “We are just passing through. We have an urgent appointment to keep. If you could excuse us -”

But she had already said too many words, fumbled one or two conjugations, and Abelas’s green eyes were narrowing.

“I do not recognize your accent, traveler. Where are you from?”

Rhaella did not answer. She shifted Thistle closer to Abelas’s horse, away from Merrill. She knew in her heart what would come next, and her heart did not lie.

Abelas reached out and pushed back her hood. He smiled a warm, welcoming smile.

“Lethallan,” he said, sounding relieved.

Lethallan. She was not his sister, his friend. She was not even one of his countrymen.

Rhaella turned towards Merrill and drew on all that magic energy that had been seething, snapping, roiling inside of her for weeks, and she called for fire.

The flames exploded upward from the ground and reached immediately for the sky, white hot, burning blue in places, stretching far to the left and far to the right. Heat rolled off of the towering wall in waves, bringing sweat to Rhaella’s brow immediately. She could just see Merrill through the flames.

Run, she thought with all her mind, all her heart, remembering every kindness Merrill had done her since they left Kirkwall, hoping she did see her friend again someday. Hoping that someday, somehow, there would be a way she could repay her beyond this desperate act.

Merrill’s horse reared, whinnying, and then Merrill took off at a gallop.

“Follow her,” Abelas said, confirming what Rhaella feared. Solas would never hurt her or their children. She knew that. But she did not know how he would see Merrill’s betrayal in all of this. She had given her friend the only thing that was in her power to give. Time.

The Sentinels tried at once to douse the flames, to find an easy way around them, but Rhaella had blocked the only path available to them. The flames ended on one side in solid rock, and on the other in a dense tangle of jungle that they struggled to cut through or burn themselves. And the flames themselves burned so high, so hot - so full of Rhaella’s desperation and her weeks of avoiding magic and the untamed energy that ran through all the world now that the Veil was gone - that they could not douse them.

Rhaella herself did not run. She knew it would not work, that she could not move quickly in her state, that she had to be careful to protect her girls, who were already squirming and stirring because of the heat of the nearby flames. She waited.

“Enough,” Abelas called to his soldiers finally. “She has escaped.” He turned to Rhaella, a little irritation showing on his usually impassive face. “That was unnecessary. Merrill was in no danger from us.”

“No physical danger, maybe. But she deserves the chance to live life on her own terms. I think she made it clear when she left that she doesn’t want any part of what you and the Dread Wolf stand for any more.”

Abelas sighed. “You know so much and understand so little, quickling child.”

Rhaella’s anger burned hotter within her chest again, and the flames responded, leaping higher once more. Siona squawked finally at Rhaella’s breast, and Rhaella turned and moved Thistle far enough away from the flames that they could no longer feel the heat. She pulled back the cloak just far enough to look down at her daughter and make soft, hushing sounds, putting her hand on her back.

Abelas’s eyes followed her.

“The child -” he said as he turned his own mount towards her and moved closer to her.

“Children,” Rhaella corrected, not meeting his eyes. She did not pull back the cloak or reveal her daughters. Not yet. She would give him information one drop at a time, and only when she chose.

His eyes widened a little - she could see that much out of the corner of her vision - but he did not respond immediately.

“So you will come with us willingly,” he said. “Back to our camp. To Solas.”

The name, as it always did, filled Rhaella with too many emotions to categorize. It was like trying to separate every color of sunset. Excitement. Dread. Anger. Hope. They all swirled together within her. She imagined him holding their daughters. She imagined him standing at the crest of Sundermount, tearing the world apart.

“Yes. For their sake,” she said. “They haven’t even lived a day in this world, and already their father is putting them in danger if I don’t follow you.”

Abelas shook his head.

“Their father will be relieved that we have found you. Now that he will know that you - all three of you - are safe, he can focus on the real danger.”

Rhaella thought back to Solas in the Fade. His frustration that she would not believe him when he said there were things loose in the world now that she could not protect herself from, however capable she was. Her own disbelief at his words, her immediate assumption that it was simply a ploy to convince her to return.

“What real danger?” she asked.

Abelas looked away from her.

“The wolf is being hunted once again,” was all he said.

And this time, Rhaella felt the animal terror those words evoked. It crawled up her spine and into her hair and made her whole body prickle. She followed Abelas’s gaze. He was looking towards the ravine, and even though she herself had passed through it, it was an alien place now - a slice of lingering night, cutting through the day, refusing to acknowledge the sun. Terrifying as the things that hunted the man who broke the world - the man she loved - ancient and unknowable as the depths of the sea.

It was the darkness Rhaella would have to walk into now. She had no choice. So she turned to follow Abelas as he rode back towards his men. She held her babies close. And she pretended she did not know fear.