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damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iii)

a/n: on today's episode of Stark Fluff, resident kook Claere visits the Wall and witnesses Northern justice, and lovestruck Cregan tries to learn Valyrian and gets jealous of the Crows

Summer snow in the heart of the North was a season of unyielding cold, where the land itself seemed to freeze beneath a heavy mantle of snow. The sky hung low and grey, reluctant to grant even a sliver of sun, while the wind howled through the stone walls of Winterfell, a biting reminder that the North held no mercy. Amidst the deepening frost, something warmer had begun to take root between Cregan and Claere Stark—an affection borne not of grand gestures, but of small, intimate exchanges that spoke louder than words.

For all her quietude and mystery, the Lady of Winterfell was in no way lacking in depth when it came to reciprocating care for her husband. She offered him a token of her trust, a fragment of her homeland—an elegant Valyrian steel dagger, its hilt wrapped in dragonhide, studded in jade, smelted from the ancient jewellery passed down from her grandsire, the king. She placed it into his hands one evening, her eyes averted, as though the act was more personal than she could bear.

"For your protection," she had said to him.

Concealing his astonishment, Cregan weighed the weapon between his hands and gave the dagger a twirl, deliberately exaggerated, flipping it neatly in the air and catching it with ease.

"A fine gift, princess. For my protection, is it?" Cregan asked, letting his tone take on a mischievous lilt. “But what if I prick my finger on it? Will that not cut me down faster than any enemy blade?"

Her eyes barely twitched, the ghost of a smile, though she quickly composed herself. "'Tis a poor fate to befell the Warden of the North."

Cregan grinned, clearly not deterred. "Ah, but think of it, princess. The songs they’d sing. The tales they'd spread. ‘Here lies Cregan Stark—felled not by sword or spear, but by his own sweet wife’s kindness.’"

He flourished the dagger once more, this time pretending to struggle with the spin, catching it just before it slipped from his hand. Claere’s eyes flickered, the faintest hint of something like amusement crossing her face, though it vanished almost as quickly as it came.

Cregan's grin widened as he gave the dagger one final twirl, his eyes sparkling with mischief. In a sudden, fluid motion, using her distraction as his upper hand, he reached out, grabbing Claere by the waist. Before she could react, he spun her around with stunning grace, pulling her close and setting the blade gently against her side.

Claere's violet eyes widened, not in fear, but in something far more difficult to decipher—curiosity, perhaps, or a faint tremor of excitement. The blade hovered against her ribs, cool and sharp, though Cregan wielded it with such care it felt more like a caress than a threat. The space between them had all but disappeared, the heat of his body pressing against hers.

“If anyone here requires protection,” he teasingly murmured, his breath warm against her ear, “it’s you. Not me.”

Her gaze stayed steady, unfazed, though the faintest flutter in her breath betrayed her. He never realized that her silvern hair was perfumed, a sweetness he could not pinpoint, maddening. Her posture remained unmoving and composed, slender hands grasping at his blade-bearing forearm.

“You think me vulnerable when I command the greatest strength in Westeros,” she finally said, her voice as calm as ever, though there was a hint of challenge beneath her tone.

He leaned in closer, the edge of the dagger still digging into her snug bodice. “Unless you mean to run to your dragon like a scalded little cat, princess. You cannot always hide behind your beast.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words seemed to catch in her throat, her breath shallowing in the shared tension of the moment. The fire crackled softly in the background, the room growing still as Cregan’s grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. How he was sorely tempted to close the last of the stretch between hem, to let his lips brush against the softness of hers until the cold North cannot separate them.

“And what of you, my lord?” she asked.

"What of me?" he breathed out.

"Can I run to you instead?"

His breath caught, and for a moment, the bravado melted away. He lifted the dagger, its hilt resting gently beneath her chin as he tilted her face to meet his gaze. His eyes, so often hard and stern, softened as he took in the sight of her, so close, so strangely unknowable.

“Always,” he promised, his voice barely audible.

It was said that the dagger gleamed proudly upon his sword belt the very next day, brandishing his gilded Valyrian glory like the dragonlords themselves had left their mark on him—no less intriguing than the woman he had married. It was a turn for the better in the northern lord. A man once shaped by duty and honour, hardened by the unforgiving land he ruled, Cregan knew how to lead, how to fight, how to protect. But Claere, with her violet eyes and sweet secrets, had changed him in ways not easily seen. She hadn’t softened him or drawn him from his duties—no, she had subtly unravelled him, like a thread pulled from tightly woven cloth.

Where once his thoughts had been consumed by Winterfell and its people, now they often lingered on her. And in thinking of her, he had begun to find a balance—between the weight of his responsibilities and the stirrings of something far more dangerous: the pull of his heart.

One cold morning, Cregan was in the yard, overseeing the training of new recruits, the frost-covered ground crunching underfoot, when the call came from a council member.

"A raven from Castle Black, my lord," the maester said, holding out the sealed scroll.

His brows were drawn in concern, and that alone set Cregan’s teeth on edge. Taking the letter, he broke the black wax seal with the direwolf sigil, his eyes scanning the missive. He read swiftly, his face hardening with each line.

"A matter concerning the Lord Commander?" He folded the letter and faced the concerned maester. "A dispute among the men, perhaps. He says something is amiss."

"Might you take Lady Stark with you to the Wall?" the maester suggested, hesitant.

"To the Wall..." he muttered, his thoughts reeling.

The idea of taking Claere to such a desolate, dangerous place—so far removed from Winterfell, from everything familiar—felt like madness. He couldn't picture her, with her quiet reserve and mysterious nature, fitting in among the men of the Night's Watch.

His jaw tensed further. His tone was sharp, almost defensive. "What use would she have there?"

But the maester held firm. "Lady Stark has already decided to fly her dragon beyond the Wall to hunt," he said, his voice measured, though a hint of concern lingered. "It may be wise for you to accompany her. The timing is fortuitous, my lord."

Cregan sighed, his chest tight. He had known for days now that this moment was coming, that Claere’s choice was set in stone. That beast had been restless for weeks. And Claere herself was determined to venture north, beyond the Wall, to hunt in the frozen wastes.

"It is inevitable," Cregan said quietly, more to himself than the maester.

His eyes darkened as the dragon's immense shadow soared above their heads just then, buffeting out a terrible gust over the castle, Claere riding high on Luna's back, disappearing into the clouds. He didn’t have a choice. This was unavoidable.

"Then we shall go together," he relented at last, his voice low.

The wind was biting as they rode north on their harrowing three-week journey to the Wall, their hot breaths visible in the morning air. Cregan rode beside Claere, their horses galloping in sync while the guards followed at a deferent distance. She had abandoned any appeals to ride in the warmth of a wheelhouse or even take to the skies on her dragon and fly ahead, preferring instead the unforgiving saddle at his side, in the cold. Though no one had questioned it, Cregan alone understood the motive behind her choice.

She wanted to be here—with him. The stillness between them was comfortable, the cold air nipping at their faces, only broken by the rhythmic sound of hooves crunching through the frozen ground. Cregan’s heart warmed beneath his layers of fur, his eyes briefly catching hers before returning to the path ahead. She wouldn’t ask for more, but in choosing the saddle, she had said enough.

It was not something Claere would ever say aloud, nor would she offer explanations, but he knew. Subtly her gaze lingered on him longer than necessary or the way she matched his horse's trot, never too far ahead or behind—there was charming purpose.

Claere tilted her head, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You’re pronouncing it wrong again," she murmured, her tone soft but teasing.

"It was practically an echo," he defended.

"Say it again."

Cregan huffed, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he tried to repeat the phrase she had just taught him. Never in his life did he imagine he’d be learning High Valyrian on the way to Castle Black.

"Ānogar hen... zouldrīzes," he said, his Northern accent weighing down the syllables.

"Gentler. High Valyrian is spoken like silk, not iron. Here—" Her voice dipped into that fluid, irresistible cadence as she repeated the word. "Zaldrīzes."

He looked at her, taking in the way her wind-tousled hair framed her face, the subtle curve of her lips as they formed words from a language older than his line. She was still a mystery to him, but moments like this—when her guard was down, and they shared something as simple as language—felt like a step closer to understanding her.

"Ānogar hen zaldrīzes," he repeated, mimicking her softer tone this time, coming closer to her lilting precision.

"Much better," she nodded, her lips curving ever so slightly, the closest thing to a laugh he had coaxed from her in days. She had a way of teaching him that made it feel like time slowed, patient and unhurried, as though there were no wars, no winters to come.

Cregan shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "What the hell am I even saying?"

"Blood of the dragon," she replied simply.

He leaned in closer, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Go on. Teach me something more than that, something to certainly impress my fussy lady wife."

Claere’s cheeks pinkened slightly, though whether from his words or the cold he couldn’t tell. Her gaze lingered on his, the briefest flicker of mischief in those violet eyes as she seemed to consider his request.

"Sōnar māzis," she said at last.

"Sōnar māzis," he repeated, his Northern tongue struggling with the softer syllables, but he managed it with a proud grin. "And what might that mean, then? Did you just tell me to fuck off?"

Her faint smile deepened, her eyes glinting as she glanced at him beneath her hood. "Winter is coming."

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a hearty laugh bubbling out of him. "Impudence. So you’re teaching me my own words now?"

Her lips twitched, her gaze betraying a rare hint of humour. "I am only fulfilling my lord husband’s request."

"Well, your lord valzȳrys appreciates your patience," he said, the High Valyrian word for ‘husband’ falling from his lips with surprising ease.

Claere’s eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as she looked down, biting the inside of her cheek, though the smile lingered.

Cregan couldn't help but feel lighter. Even in the gruelling cold, the relentless wind cutting at their faces, there was a gaiety to these moments with her that made the journey easier to bear.

The road stretched endlessly before them, each night colder than the last. They stayed in small inns along the way as shelter—meagre tents were no place for a princess to stay in—tough dwellings where the air reeked of smoke and old ale, where the beds were too hard, and the cold seemed to seep into the shallow bones despite the hearths. Cregan had taken to having his men lock their chambers from the outside, an order issued firmly. It was not the home Claere knew, not Winterfell, not the strange, lonely halls where she roamed at night without restraint, eyes glazed, her body moving with a will of its own as if pulled by unseen strings.

And tonight was no different.

Cregan awoke to the soft thud of her knuckles rapping against the door, over and over again. The sound was soft at first, a gentle request. Please. He opened his eyes to the dim glow of the dying fire in the hearth, the familiar chill pressing against his skin despite the furs piled atop him. Please go. The knocking continued, persistent but hollow, as if she was beckoning something beyond the wood.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Claere stood at the door, her silver hair tangled and tousled, her form almost wraithlike in the half-light of the room. She knocked again, her hand trembling. Please.

“Claere,” Cregan’s voice was hoarse from sleep as he swung his legs out of bed and rose to his feet. Again, and again, he thought in exhaustion.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge him. She was lost in a dream. Her other hand rested on the door, her body swaying slightly as she mumbled something beneath her breath. It was a strange, disjointed whisper—words too faint for him to catch fully but they held an omen, a warning. He heard fragments.

The long night… shadows in the woods… they're coming...

His heart clenched, pity creeping up his spine. He hated to see her like this, trapped in some half-waking nightmare, her mind far away from him, from this place.

“Claere, come back to bed,” he called again, his voice softer as he crossed the room. When he reached her, he gently took hold of her hand, guiding it away from the door. She didn’t resist, but her eyes never fully opened, her lips still moving with broken words.

“It's coming for us, the cold dark,” she hummed a dire tune beneath her breath. “There is no light to flee to, no light.” Her voice trailed off, then her head lolled against his shoulder. "I need to see..."

Cregan’s grip on her tightened, his breath catching in his throat. There was always a touch of the uncanny about her, her Valyrian blood threading through her dreams like unclear rivers. The North held many ancient stories, and none of them were comforting. He feared these dreams were more than just the ramblings of a disturbed mind, feared she spoke of things deeper, older than he could understand. But he couldn’t let her drift further into the dream’s grip. Not here. Not now.

“Come, love,” he murmured, pulling her gently from the door and leading her back to the bed. His voice was calm, though his heart was pounding. “You’re safe here. There's no darkness. You're with me."

She didn’t oppose but obeyed him, her feet dragging slightly on the wooden floor as he guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. Her hands still trembled, her gaze distant as she continued to hum to herself.

“Winter takes them all. Ice… shadows in the snow… a frozen fire…”

Cregan sat beside her, his hands brushing the wild hair from her face. He forced a smile, blowing into her cold hands to warm them up between his. “The Long Night is far from us. You’ll see no shadows here. Only me.”

She was still caught in the web of her dreams, but his voice seemed to calm her. Slowly, her murmurs quieted, her head dipping forward into his chest as fatigue took hold. Cregan coaxed her softly, laying her back against the furs, tucking her in as if she were a child, her slender body looking far too fragile against the rails of the hard bed.

He sat there for a moment longer, watching her sleep, her breathing finally steadying. The firelight flickered nearby, casting long shadows over her pale face. His mind was far from at ease. Claere was no stranger to abnormal dreams, \but the words words she had spoken rattled him, more than he wanted to admit. It was as if the North itself whispered through her, the gravity of ancient things pressing down on her small frame.

Cregan ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. He despised this; containing her whims. But this was not home, these were unfamiliar lands, and the cold could swallow her whole if she were not mindful.

“Dreamy girl,” he whispered through a grin, though she was fast asleep. Wielding her languor, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, feeling the coldness of her smooth skin seep into his lips. He didn't want to pull away.

As they pressed on toward Castle Black, the weather only worsened—snow thickening, the path harder to tread. Their cloaks grew heavy with frost, and the icy air stung their skin. Yet through it all, Luna soared overhead, a silver cloud against the wintry sky, watchful and protective of her rider, as though even the beast understood that this journey required more than just fire and flight.

They rode side by side, close enough that their knees sometimes brushed, the subtle connection grounding Cregan as the world grew ever colder around them. Claere’s quiet presence had a way of making the stinging chill seem less wild, the wind less cruel.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity of braving the elements, the morbid outline of the Wall's ghost castles loomed ahead, the long gears of steel clanks running along the centre of the Wall that gleamed blue and crystalline in the sunlight. The miles-long, forbidding structure stood in stark contrast to the frozen wilderness, and Cregan felt a sense of grim duty settling over him once more. This was truly the edge of the world, and the sharp air seemed to echo that truth.

As they entered the courtyard through the hoisted gates, the Lord Commander, a grizzled, weathered man with a face lined by years of winter and duty, stepped off the barracks to greet them. His eyes landed on Cregan first, but they quickly shifted to Claere, widening in surprise. He had not expected to see her here. A Targaryen princess at the Wall was a rare enough sight, one they had not welcomed for ages, let alone the Lady of Winterfell. The presence of a woman, especially one so reserved and strange, stirred an undercurrent of whispers among the black-clad men watching from the shadows of the courtyard.

"Lord Stark," the Lord Commander greeted, his voice rough with age and the weight of command. His eyes darted again to Claere, his brows furrowing. "Princess… a surprise, indeed. Welcome to Castle Black."

"It's Lady Stark," Cregan corrected forthwith.

Claere remained the epitome of composure, her expression abstruse as ever, her violet eyes scanning the walls, the men, and the bleak surroundings. She was more out of place here than at Winterfell—there were no other women, and the Night’s Watch had not hosted nobility in quite some time, especially not one so mysterious, so… unflinchingly Targaryen.

Cregan alighted his horse, extending his hands to her waist in support, though Claere barely needed it. Her movements were nimble and deliberate. She landed beside him in a sweep of skirts, her gaze lingering on the Lord Commander for a moment before she offered him a slight curtsey.

"She is here to hunt beyond the Wall," Cregan explained, his tone casual though there was an unmistakable note of pride in his voice. "Her dragon will keep us company until our stay has ended."

The Lord Commander's lips tightened, his gaze flicking uneasily from Claere to the sky, where Luna circled like a silvern omen, roaring out deafening growls.

His gruff voice followed soon. "Aye, quite the companion. But, Lord Stark..." He hesitated, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, careful to keep out of Claere's earshot. "Taking a lady beyond the Wall, especially one unversed in the perils—it’s no place for her. Even my rangers can’t ensure her safety, with or without us. The risk is too great."

Cregan caught the underlying doubt, the old-fashioned notion that a woman, no matter her bloodline, had no business in the wilds. His jaw tightened, his grey eyes hard.

"My lady wife's mount is the White Dread," Cregan said evenly. "A dragon nigh as fierce as the one who scorched Harrenhal. Tell me again if you think she needs your rangers to protect her."

He stepped closer, his voice low and steady, but with the authority of the King in the North. "The decision is made. The Night's Watch may govern its own, but remember—these are Stark lands. These are my people. And my house honours the strength of all its kin."

The Lord Commander bristled but said nothing, merely nodding curtly. He understood the threatening significance of Cregan’s words—that the authority of House Stark in the North was conclusive, and any further protest would be taken as a challenge.

Cregan held his steely gaze for a beat longer before turning back to Claere, his hand relaxing protectively on the hilt of his sword. Luna’s shadow passed overhead again, a loud reminder of the strength she came bearing.

Claere remained silent, her attention focused elsewhere, though she could feel the stares around her. Cregan moved closer to her, his hand brushing her tensed spine in a modest gesture of reassurance, and though she didn’t react outwardly, he sensed that she took some comfort in it.

"Come along," he murmured to her.

As they made their way through the courtyard, the Night’s Watchmen continued to steal glances at Claere, awed and sceptical. But she walked beside Cregan with her peace, head held high as if she were oblivious to their scrutiny. He was accustomed to seeing this, it was the armoured expression she bore at home as well.

For all the severity of the journey and the stony welcome of the Wall, their moments only worsened. The Lord Commander had led them through the frozen courtyard, past the rookery, into another training square, towards a group of scruffy, tired men bound at the wrists. The air hung uneasily with tension as the three accused were lined up, their heads bowed beneath the weight of their crimes.

“They were caught plotting desertion into the wildling lands,” the Lord Commander grumbled to Cregan, his breath clouding in the cold air. “The punishment is death. We serve justice swiftly here, my lord, as you know.”

Cregan nodded, though his thoughts immediately drifted to Claere, who stood quietly by his side, her gaze already fixed on the bound men in the yard. She was observant, her violet eyes missing nothing, but Cregan wondered how she would react to what was about to unfold. Being a Targaryen, she was no stranger to violence—King’s Landing had certainly shown her enough of that—but this was different. The North demanded a harsher brand of justice, one that came without the pomp and ceremony of the South. Here, the punishment was raw and prompt.

His stomach tightened at the thought of her watching him carry out a beheading, especially so soon after arriving. But this was the North, and this was the way of things.

The Lord Commander’s eyes slid toward Claere, his tone lowering, a trace of something biting in his words. “You ought to carry it out soon enough. Thought it wise to inform you, seeing as you’ve brought your lady wife.”

There was an edge to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Cregan. The man was testing him—his pride clearly still stung from their earlier exchange—and now he was trying to make a point as if to say, You think she’s up to the task? Let her see the real cruelties of the world you boast of.

Cregan’s jaw tightened. He wouldn’t allow Claere to be disgraced in this way, nor would he let her be forced into witnessing something she wasn’t prepared for. But now that the challenge had been laid out, she could not very well step aside. It was a calculated slight, designed to unsettle them both.

Claere, however, made no indication that she had picked up on the tension. Her composure remained unshaken, her eyes briefly meeting Cregan’s before flicking back to the prisoners.

“The sentence will be carried out. We will see justice here tonight,” Cregan announced firmly, his voice collected, though a flicker of dread ran through him.

He glanced at Claere once more, his heart hammering beneath his furs. The Lord Commander might have forced his hand, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her where he could.

The men to be executed were brought forth, their faces hollow with fear and resignation. The bound prisoners knelt before the chopping block, their breaths coming in fast, ragged puffs. The yard was eerily silent, all their dreading regards turning to Cregan as he stepped toward them.

But before he took his place to offer the verdict, Cregan turned back to Claere. There was a moment of hesitation in his gaze as he approached her, brushing a gloved hand across her arm in a subtle gesture. She turned her head slightly, her violet eyes meeting his in quiet question.

Without a word, he nodded toward his men, issuing a silent command. They understood him immediately. Two of his loyal lads stepped forward, their movements discreet, and gently led Claere a few paces away. Not far, but enough that her line of sight would be slightly obscured.

She didn’t protest, but she didn’t look away either. Her gaze remained focused, though Cregan could sense her tense scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid, that much was certain, but he wondered what she truly thought of the disparity between the judicious world of her ancestors and the brutal pragmatism of the North.

With one final glance toward her, Cregan turned his attention back to the condemned men, snivelling out pleas of mercy. Of words to be sent to their families.

His voice rang out over the yard, presiding over the murmuring men of the Night's Watch, commanding and final.

“Let it be known that your brothers have been found guilty of desertion and treason. By the laws of the North, and by the vows they swore, their lives are forfeit.” He inhaled a sharp breath, addressing the doomed men now. "I, Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

The greatsword, Ice, glinted in the faint light of the yard, ready to deliver the mandate. Cregan lifted it high, the significance of the act pressing on him as it always did. He had done this plenty of times before. This was justice, and justice had to be done, but knowing that Claere was nearby, even out of his sight, made it feel different this time. He couldn’t explain why, but the feeling sat with him, solemn as Ice in his hands.

With a swift, practised stroke, the sword came down three times—with no leave—and the courtyard returned to its stern silence. Blood had strewed a good foot onto the frost, lifeless heads toppling and rolling off the blocks.

Cregan exhaled a long one, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. He would have to shrug it off once again, take it like a king. Soon, the men's lopped bodies were gathered up to be torched in a lonesome procession.

When he looked up, he saw Claere watching him. Though she had been pulled back, her violet eyes lingered on him, as if mulling over what she had seen. He couldn’t tell if she approved or not, but in her inscrutable way, she didn’t seem disturbed. She simply was—a stillness in the storm.

After a moment, she gave him a slight, affirming nod, a gesture so small yet somehow momentous. Whatever had transpired between them, it had not shocked her.

But Cregan’s thoughts dimmed as he glimpsed the Lord Commander, who gave him a thin-lipped smirk of approval. He had gotten what he wanted, though it left a bitter taste in Cregan’s mouth.

As he sheathed Ice, his fingers brushed the Valyrian dagger Claere had gifted him. Soon her own gentle touch replaced it, having come to his side, sensing his apprehension.

"I apologize for what you had to bear witness," he said, cautious and quiet. "Did you look away?"

She shook her head in a silent response. A miserable sigh escaped him, proven right.

Yet when she risked a glance up at him, her gaze was calm, not a trace of concern there. "Your apologies go in vain, my lord. Justice is the same, no matter where it is served."

He hovered his hand near her cheek, aching to touch her, to find solace in her presence. But just as quickly, he fisted and dropped it. His hands, stained with blood and burdened with the affliction of the life taken, had no right to reach for her. Not now. Not when the bloodstained steel still lingered in his grip.

"Go," he muttered, stepping aside to make room for her. "Get warm. The captain will see you to your lodging."

Claere lingered for a heartbeat, her gaze fixed on him, wariness flickering in her eyes. But without a word, she complied, turning away and heading towards the wooden barracks, her form disappearing into the shadows of the dimming day.

The morning was bitterly cold, the early rays of sun barely cutting through the thick frost clinging to the stone walls. Inside the mess hall, Cregan sat at a long wooden table, surrounded by his guard and the timeworn members of the Night’s Watch. Plates of thick, greasy meat and stale bread were passed around, the clink of mugs and the low murmur of conversation filling the room.

Cregan stared at his plate, sleepless thoughts drifting back to the bloodshed of the night before. After that, Claere had been inconsolable, more jittery than usual, her sleep broken by quiet mumbles that filled their chamber, moaning and somnambulating once again, striking at the bolted door.

The Wall—its archaic, frozen weight bearing down on them—seemed to beckon her. It ground at her spirit, pulled at her, leaving him helpless beside her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold, endless stretch beyond was reaching for her, trying to draw her into its depths. All he could do was watch.

He had watched over her, lain awake, unable to rest. Every time she cringed and whimpered, he reached out, touched her face, and soothed her back to silence. But it was no use. Even in sleep, she was not at peace. All his strength meant nothing before her, not when the battle was in her mind.

The meal before him—charred meat, stale bread—was untouched. He speared a piece absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on the door. The hall grew quieter as Claere entered as if answered upon his call, her presence commanding the room in a way only royalty could.

She moved with an effortless grace, her dragonrider’s leathers of red and gold clinging to her like a second skin, a vivid flame against the bleakness of Castle Black. She was a fire in the heart of ice, a sight too bright for this grey, cold place.

It gnawed at him, the way they looked at her. Vows or not, they were still men—tempted, starving. He saw it in their eyes, the way they shifted, attempting not to stare but failing. Claere was unlike anything they had ever seen, no Northman’s daughter draped in modest furs or woollen layers. She was a dragon, forged in fire and blood, a queen among crows.

He hated it. Hated how they dared to want what was his. A furious wish flickered in him then. Let them see her as she truly was, as he sometimes did—the unnatural, quiet woman who spoke to shadows and sang her cruel songs. Let them think this radiant, untouchable creature mad. Better that than desire. Better fear than the thought they could ever have her.

He turned back to his plate, though the food had lost all appeal. His hands itched with the urge to reach for her, to pull her closer, claim her in a way that would leave no doubt in their minds. But he restrained himself.

She approached Cregan, her path instinctual. Without a word, she sat beside him, her hand reaching for a piece of bread—the only food she could stomach amongst the heavy, greasy fare. As she tore a small piece, a slight grimace creased at her brows. It drove all those farcical feelings of envy right out of his mind.

"Luna causing you too much trouble?" he asked, trying to make his tone light. He carefully unhusked a boiled egg and placed it beside her bread, pushing his little glass of goat's milk before her.

She poked her knife at the egg, as though she was too drained to even slice the egg herself. "I was too wearied to ride her this morning."

Cregan’s eyes flicked over Claere, her words lingering as they sat in the dim hall. He could feel her taut exhaustion, even if she masked it beneath her calm demeanour.

He felt a knot twist tighter in his chest. "You barely slept last night, and neither did I."

"Unfamiliar country," she reasoned.

He sighed, grazing his hand over her warm cheek and hair. Her sleeplessness was clear in the pallor of her cheeks, the faint circles under her eyes.

"I admire your resolve endlessly. There's no need to compel yourself, princess; and certainly no need to go chasing shadows and omens. It's not worth it."

Her eyes flickered—barely—but the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting and strange. "You sound like her."

"Who?"

"My delirious mother."

He exhaled hard, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I fear losing you to whatever it is that rips at your mind. Past here, is a vast unknown. The world is dangerous enough without stepping into places best left forgotten."

Claere looked at him, her violet eyes undisturbed but faint. She was quiet for a moment as if considering her response carefully before she cut into the untouched egg on her plate.

"I am quite fine with danger, my lord. I have faced plenty under the guise of my uncles." Her words were barely louder than a breath, but there was a firmness there.

He would not have one bit of this. Cregan’s grip tightened on her hand, trying to ground her to the moment, to bring her back from whatever obscure force she felt. His gaze searched her face, looking for a way to persuade her otherwise.

"Please," he said; almost pleading. Would that not be a sight to behold, a begging Stark.

Her gaze lowered briefly, her fingers brushing his knuckles in a small, almost tentative movement.

“I know I’m not strong, not like you are,” she murmured, her voice meek, but unyielding. "But I must see what lies beyond. I feel it too keenly to ignore. It will not let me rest."

Cregan loomed atop the Wall, the winds cutting through his furs and coat of plates, but his intentions never wavered. His grey gaze tracked as Luna, immense and white against the grey sky, ascended higher and higher from the snowbound plains beyond Moletown.

He followed them, unblinking as Luna triumphantly soared overhead, without putting up much of a fight. The sheer size of her—vast leathery wings cutting through the air—was enough to make the ground beneath him tremble with an almost deafening rush of wind. He could almost sense her fire on his skin, a living furnace against the winter. Her wings stretched wide, casting a shadow that nearly engulfed this portion of the Wall whole, even the cold, old skeleton was dwarfed by her presence. The men around him were silent, awestruck, but Cregan’s focus was fixed solely on Claere. All he could think of was her—Claere, commanding that immense beast, a mere speck on its back, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, flying into the unknown, facing it all.

Until they became no more than a shadow against the vast expanse of the wilderness beyond. His jaw clenched, eyes squinting against the wind, every muscle tense.

"Perhaps it is best if we leave the vigil to the scouts, my lord," the captain suggested.

He tossed him a vague smile. "Aye, it would be."

The hours crawled on, the cold biting deeper as Cregan remained rooted to the lookout post, eyes fixed on the horizon. The guard and the Watchmen lingered nearby, wild and tense, but none dared to speak. The only sound was the occasional distant roar of Luna, carried on the wind like an augury. It was a sound that rattled through the Wall, but it gave no answers. Was she hunting? Fighting? In peril? Cregan could not tell. His mind conjured images of Claere lost in the belly of that icy void, surrounded by darkness from her dreams, beyond even the dragon's protection. His jaw clenched against the rising panic—he couldn't show it, not to his men, not to himself. Yet every minute stretched thin, a tightness growing in his chest as the sun slipped toward the horizon, casting the Wall in long, threatening shadows.

At last, as the sun bled into the sky, they finally saw it; both victorious rider and steed.

"Dragon!" someone yelled, out of the blue.

Cregan looked up from the little furnace that warmed his gloved hands, ardent grey eyes observing the skies.

Luna’s silver wings broke through the golden skies, finding the light, and cutting an immense curve against the darkening clouds. The dragon’s landing sent a gust of frigid wind over the Wall, roaring out a rattling growl, her claws digging deep into the ancient stone. Cregan exhaled out a visible gust of air, the breath he'd been holding in for a long time as Claere nimbly dismounted, scarcely before Luna was lighted. She moved without hesitation, her steps measured, calm—but her face was pale, and there was a strange detachment in her eyes.

Powerless to his dying reign, Cregan strode to her, his heart pounding, hands shaking as he drew her into his arms. The relief was almost agonising as it flooded him like some forgone part of him had clicked itself back into place. He caught her chin to press kisses wherever he managed; at her hair, nose, brows, and cheeks; even that did not sate him.

"Claere."

Her name was breath on his lips, but she remained still in his arms, her gaze distant, as if her body was here and her mind elsewhere. He grasped her tighter, embracing her empty face to his neck, unable to stop the trembling in his hands. She was safe, unharmed, but it felt like a hollow victory. Something was wrong.

“Nothing,” she whispered, so faint he would've missed it. “I saw no one. There was nothing.”

Cregan pulled back, searching her face. He had expected triumph, or maybe exhaustion—but not this. Her words hung between them, cold and hollow. Did she see something out there? Something too terrible to speak of? Or was it worse—was it the absence of anything that disturbed her?

“Nothing,” he echoed, unsure of what to say, but his voice trailed off as she finally met his gaze.

And then, softly, for the first time, between chattering lips and falling darkness, she spoke his name. Time and stars could've condensed into nothing, it could not stand to compare.

“Cregan,” she murmured, her voice fragile, her eyes unfocused. “I want to go back to Winterfell. I want to go home.”

The words struck him harder than any blade. She had never called it home before, never spoken his name with such tranquil verity. In all her shroud of menacing whispers and oddities, she was his. And now, in her own way, she was telling him that he was hers, that Winterfell was hers.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, overwhelmed with a fondness he had seldom regarded before.

“We’ll go home, love,” he promised, his voice hoarse.

But even as he held her, felt her warmth, a part of him sensed that whatever she had seen—or hadn’t seen—had shaken her deeply. Yet she had crossed the Wall and succeeded where her own ancestors had failed. Her name would go down in history, forever bound to the White Dread. But she seemed only depleted as if the cost of that victory mattered more than any glory could lift.

Claere leaned into him, following intuition, her face buried in his chest as if seeking solace from the emptiness she had found. The mysteries beyond the Wall had not revealed themselves to her, and now, all that was left was to return to the warmth of home. The closest to that was her husband.

He laid a kiss over her braids, holding her close, and whispering, "Let's go home."

omg i figured out taglists:

@pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @piper570

thank you for your sweet comments! there's more to come <3

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angstywaifu · 6 months ago

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The Lost Sister - Part 26

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

Garrick Tavis x OC The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

”You can do what now?” Xaden nearly yells after getting over his shock.

I can mind speak. I say confidently in his head, causing him to jump back a bit, earning chuckles from Liam and Garrick.

I had spent the afternoon practicing on them. Jumping between their minds with ease, as if already second nature to me. All I had to do was focus on them and it seemed my mind connected with theirs. Only proven by how easily I had reached out and done the same to Xaden. I was also quite proud of the name I had given the ability. Direct and explained it perfectly.

”Does Carr know?” He demands as he starts to pace.

I shake my head. “No, this happened after I left. He only seemed intent on seeing if my signet blocked out other mental signets. And I can now safely say Dain’s signet did not work on me at all. And that was without me trying to put a shield up. But that doesn’t mean its not something he knows about. Seems there are tomes that have spoken of my ability somewhere.”

Xaden looks as if he breathes a sigh of relief. I would have said it was in regards to my mind being safe from Dain, but I can feel something else fuelling his relief. But what that was, I wasn’t sure. With how much he had going on I had no doubt there was others higher up with signets I was now safe from.

”I assume you tried to put a shield up?” Bodhi asks from where he is perched up against some stacked fighting mats.

I smirk and nod. “I did, sent Aetos jumping back from me as if I had electrocuted him. Was quite satisfying actually.”

”Well that is something at least. Now we just have to be careful of ourselves around Dain. Sadly our shields will not work against his like yours has.” Xaden states as he stops his pacing and stands next to Bodhi.

”I take it you’ve tried?” I ask him.

Xaden nods. “Not myself, but we have tested the theory with other cadets with stronger shields. He gets right through them like a knife through butter. So the fact he could barely make a dent in yours without even trying just goes to show how strong yours are.”

”You said Carr mentioned tomes about your signet. He let slip what they were at all?” Garrick asks from where he sits next to me, arm draped over my shoulders as I sit tucked into his sides.

I shake my head. “Sadly no. But least we know there are some. As well as fairy tales and stories of it. It’s a starting point.”

The others nod in agreement. The slip of that information, intentional or not was at least a starting point. One that had me thinking of where to start. And I knew exactly where to start. And none of these guys would be overly keen on my suggestion. But I had a feeling we could trust her. With time and how closer her and Xaden we’re getting despite him saying other wise, she could be a great asset.

”And I might have a suggestion on where we can start.” The others all turning to look at me.

”Why do I feel like we aren’t going to like your suggestion sweetheart?” Garrick drawls from next to me.

I look up at him and smirk. “Because you wont. Not entirely anyway.”

”Spit it out then. Where do we have to look?” Imogen asks.

I turn and look at Xaden, his eyes widening as if already knowing my answer.

”Not where. Who. And who better than my brothers new partner in crime for life. Violet Sorrengail.”

Xaden had not been thrilled by suggestion, but had agreed she was our best bet once we could verify she wouldn’t go tell someone about my signet. Though as I had pointed out, there was a very high chance she knew about Dain’s and as far as I knew hadn’t told anyone about it, even with how distant they had become while she had been here. He promised once he was sure my signet was safe, he would approach her about it. But only him.

”Aetos did not want to let you two go did he?” Garrick muses as we walk up to the flight field.

Garrick and Xaden had come to grab Violet and I for some training. Not that I needed it, but I took the excuse to get out of classes for a little bit. Aetos had put Garrick and Xaden through the wringer to let us go. Mainly Violet who was yet to manifest a signet. Claiming she needed Carr’s class more than anyone. But as Xaden had countered she wasn’t going to manifest a signet suddenly in Carr’s class and had proven she had the strongest shield in our year. I did not miss how Dain’s eyes flickered to me at that comment. He knew mine were significantly stronger that Violets. But it wasn’t public knowledge. Violet had proven she had mastered the basics and Xaden had dragged her out before he could say no. He had tried to fight it with me saying signet needed training. But as I pointed out I had a classified signet and was not allowed to fully show it off in classes. And with that I had turned and walked out, a snickering Garrick not far behind me. Which now lead to us heading down to the flight field to catch up with Xaden and Violet who definitely had a head start with only having to go to the first year doors three levels down. Due to Garrick insisting I move my stuff, we had to go all the way up to the third floor.

”No he didn’t. He’s just worried we wont win squad games. He is hell bent on winning it.” I inform Garrick as we push through the doors into the rotunda.

”You guys will be fine. Between you and Liam you should have the combat challenges and that hands down. Sadly I can’t speak about the other aspects.” The way he speaks, I know he knows what is coming. Wing leaders and section leaders knew everything to do with squad games as they didn’t take part as they didn’t technically belong to a squad.

”Don’t get any privileges, from being your kind of girlfriend?” I tease as we approach the stairs.

Garrick smirks and goes to respond, but his face goes blank as he pulls us both to a stop, his arm going in front of my protectively. I follow his gaze and watch as Colonel Aetos, General Sorrengail and Pancheck approach us.

”We’re getting the grand welcome today it seems.” Muses Colonel Aetos as they stop in front of us. My guess is they had encountered Xaden and Violet on their way up. “And I finally get to meet Fen Riorson’s daughter. Well know you by your actual name now. It still amazes me you hid her for long General, none of us had a clue who she really was.”

Colonel Aetos’s eyes look behind Garrick and I, and I know instantly who stands behind us. That familiar, black unhinged presence at the edge of my mind. Garrick going stiff as he angles his head ever so slightly to see who stands behind us. The muscle in his jaw twitching, eyes darting between the group in front of us and the General behind.

”Trust me Colonel, was no easy feat keeping who she was a secret from you. Surprised you believed me so easily when I introduced her as my niece.” Melgren drawls from behind us.

”Helps when she barely looks like her father and brother. And if I recall, not much like the women Fen called his wife for a short period of time either.” A small smirk on the Colonel’s face.

”Must have taken after some distant relatives.” I say sternly.

He just chuckles. “Some very distant relatives it seems. Well don’t let us hold you up cadets.”

And with that they walk past us, but I don’t miss the feeling of their eyes on us as they walk away. Mainly Melgren and Aetos, who as I turn my head catch looking directly at me. Clearly I was also on someone else’s radar, but for other reasons entirely. Part 27

@riorgail @going-through-shit @fw-gt @bbkissme99 @xceafh @leptitlu @came-to-laugh-but-cried @onthewaytotimbuktu @daardyrnitta @lovemesomevesey @mxtokko @krowiathemythologynerd @callsign-blue @1islessthan3books

#fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #garrick tavis #garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis imagine #garrick tavis x oc #fourth wing x reader #the empyrean #the fourth wing

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idalenn · 2 months ago

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Day 4 - Reticent

Worqor Zormor - Lillian and Alisaie switch up the plan to harry the Second Promise. (7.0)

Major characters: Warrior of Light, Thancred, Urianger

Full text below the cut

Quick as a lie, Lillian’s hand snapped away from her forehead and a golden cord yanked Alisaie whole into her grip.

“We’re changing the plan,” Lillian growled, twisting the younger girl around to get at the leather tube slung across her back. “Alisaie, you and Krile stay with Wuk Lamat, and I’ll head off the others at the pass instead.”

“What’s come over you,” the girl cried. “So. Suddenly?” Wrenching with all force in her Elezen frame, she tried to free herself to no avail. Lillian’s arms were muscle woven with steel.

“Thancred got the best of us. Heard all we – quit moving – intended. They’ll expect your harassment up ahead.” Her deft fingers slid around the tube’s hooks, undoing them one after another. So much easier without gloves, she thought. In short order the map was flapping in her hand. “But not mine.” Krile nodded, clarity writ plain on her face.

“The Echo. We’ll leave this to you, then.” She knocked their Hrothgar claimant across one hand with the dripping end of her brush. “Worqor Zormor awaits us, Third Promise. Our friend will rejoin us once she’s finished.”

Confusion reigned over Wuk Lamat’s own expression. “Does anyone care to enlighten me on this?”

“It must needs be later, I’m afraid. Just run for now. I’ll do my best to inform you of the basics on the way.”

“So it goes.” Wuk Lamat’s shoulders slipped with a heavy sigh. Beyond a protesting Alisaie, Lillian hurriedly crumpled the map into a long green pocket of her cape. “I bring you into my circle for help and you look to escape me at the first chance. Sometimes I think you just can’t toler-AH–” Wind took the rest of her words, loose earth and shards of rock showering the remaining party as Lillian raced off with its power at her back, yalms melting away with each stride.

Up the path she went dodging around fallen stone outcroppings and growths of blue and violet crystal, the image of the Second Promise’s ascension on a column of air with Thancred and Urianger in tow still burned into her eyes. Not one soul in that damned town malms below had mentioned that was a possibility. Or perhaps her attention had fallen off at the wrong time in conversation and missed its passing mention in one of many grand tales she had been forced into hearing, some unexplainable act that had allowed the defeat of a rampaging beast like Valigarmanda. That was the irritating part about scholars like Koana; legends always held a grain of truth, and those learned as he always knew how to exploit those grains. Like as not down in the valley there existed some Sharlayan device he’d built capable of calling tempests to aid him.

Irritated, she slammed her staff into the mountain face and flooded it with aether. Juts of jagged, black stone ground out, dislodging flora that had lain root in the rock and birds that had found roost in the plants. Once extended enough for use, she bound up the cantilevered platforms, staff readied, its tip alight with pearlescent aether. One bird arrowed towards the Miqo’te, squawking complaint till light and petrichor found their mark, the smell of roast windkin filling Lillian’s mouth with water and nearly sending her feathered cap flying into the abyss. She almost shed a tear as the bird tumbled limp trailing feathers through the clouds.

After the last step, Lillian found herself on a mountain ledge flanked by a low rise of boulders and flowered moss. She drew out the time weathered map and flattened it on the ground, tsking at a tear she made in her haste to abscond. Wuk Lamat had been correct, but why waste time and confirm to the child claimant what she already knew? She was haughty, naïve, self-absorbed, and above all, a fool who believed Lillian’s actions took her well-being into consideration.

Were you not similar once, and did you not learn better? The voice of logic nagged. Quiet. Never so much as she, Lillian thought back, smoothing the spot Thancred pointed out to the Second Promise; a wide pass dotted with the ruins of ancient walls

“Alisaie plans to harry us here. She’s a quick-footed little pest, but we’ve battled alongside long enough for me to know exactly where her faults lie, and I’ve been itching for the opportunity to knock her down a peg or four. I’ll have her in bed without supper and you your victory before the Third Promise realizes she’s been made.”

We’ll see if you can manage the same against me, she thought, stuffing the map back down, wind licking at her heels as she ran. Beastkin poked their soft, red noses from their dens as she passed and retreated just as quickly. Excitement made her ears unable to stay still. They beat a dangerous leather heartbeat against their coverings sewn into her cap. Her thoughts were smothered, but so were the land’s whispers.

The ruins were a short jaunt away. There, the ground was soft and pocketed with fist-width craters filled with tepid water. Vegetation grew verdant from the civilization’s desiccated corpse to cover the bones in green embrace.

There it was. Along the path to the mountain’s summit, a towering stone barrier stood solemn. Dutiful. For a Miqo’te clad in forest colors: easily concealed behind. Some great hand had torn a hole through its skin and left a passage from ruin to path providing the perfect redoubt from which to utilize a White Mage’s magic against unwary passersby. Lillian sprinted across the sodden field, her mind bursting with all the possibilities to slow down her opponents.

As she reached the hole, a white blur faded into the open space.

A reticent blur of white absent of sound, of tension, of presence and definition. The pressure of existence swelled gradually with each fifth of moment. Her brain fired desperately on every available detail.

Bulk; clothing; the jangling of canisters; his interwoven bandolier; plant musk hiding his scent.

Thancred?

Who could claim the greater surprise? Not he, who knew of a coming. Not her, who knew of an arriving.

But if anything, he didn’t appear surprised at all. In fact, he was even –

Smiling?

A strong, hardened jaw stared back at her, yellow teeth glinting from a light growing –

From below?

A tickle started in her brain. Understanding came before the knowing.

Water flew into her hand from the puddle below before growing outward in a blue, glass-thin sheen in the path of the gunblade’s edge, hardening into a shield faster than the blooming muzzle flash. The explosion sent her flying back in a trail of dust and smoke. Powder smell filled her nose. Her ears rang with a cannon blast. Wind gathered thick around in a shroud of green aether to carry her from danger, willing herself to land upright on stable ground.

But as she did, a sigil circled with arcane letters expanded across the stone.

Rolling in the air, her hand wreathed in blinding green tore across the space as a wave of wind struck her full in the side mere ilms from the sigil, lifting the Warrior of Light to send her tumbling bodily across the ground and out of the way of harm as the sigil vanished in a thunderclap of dust and heat. Coughing up more dust caught in her throat, she turned blazing yellow eyes to the cloud of soot obscuring her would-be assailants.

“Bastards… the both of you.” She rose on shaking legs. Shards of broken stone had ripped tears in the cloth of her garb. Blood sheathed from a deep, muddy cut on her arm, but nothing else felt broken.

“Come now, we’re all friends here, and what’s a scuffle between friends.”

Thancred sauntered out from the debris, a shite-eating grin ballooning across his handsome features. Following suit with a light chuckle was Urianger, his astrometer spinning at the ready with cards prepped for reading.

“Our comrade believeth her hand superior to thine own.”

“Count yourself lucky that Alisaie hadn’t been the one around that corner.” Lillian spat a globule of saliva laced with red. “You might have killed her.”

“And I would have been eternally guilty for the act, make no mistake.” Somehow Thancred’s smile grew wider. “But, thankfully, no luck was necessary. You came around just as I had planned.”

“Planned? Ha!” Lillian tossed back her head to laugh. The movement made her wince. “Unless one of you can divine the future, my being here is all luck. And where has the Second Promise gone?”

“Ahead,” Thancred said.

“Thou would beggar of us an explanation?”

“Please. I’m all ears – hold…” She held up a finger hazy with radiant white and plunged the digit into her ringing ear. As the aether healed the damage from Thancred’s attack, the plants around her feet withered into brown husks and crumbled to join the dirt. “Apologies – Now I’m all ears.”

“Your Echo.” Thancred wore the face of a child swimming in an ocean of unwrapped candies. At Lillian’s widened eyes, he continued. “A most useful tool in our adventures, being allowed to witness past events as they occurred. But only as they occurred.”

“Of strength in sight does it boast, yet Master Thancred, awash in inspiration and long accustomed, privy to thine Echo’s potency, hath discovered the flaw in its making.” He held a hand to his lips and laughed lightly. Lightly and restrained. “Deceived we were, as means to deceive you.”

Lillian shook her head. “Somehow I believe this is just some trick to keep me here.”

“Oh, you were tricked, all right. Now your turn comes – what did the Echo show?”

“And why would I tell you?”

“You saw us discussing plans with Koana; plans to ambush Alisaie; plans in which I spoke of knocking her down a peg or four? You witness events exactly as they occur, so once we witnessed you succumb to the Echo’s effects��” Thancred placed a hand to his forehead.

“Into the fold were the Second Promise and I giveth allowance, and a trap thus lain for our dearest friend.”

Thancred’s fingers drummed along the gunblade’s handle. “Do pass on my thanks to Alisaie. Had it not been for her plot on Ultima Thule confirming you’ve density common with archon loaf, this endeavor may not have been as fruitful as hoped.”

The skin under Lillian’s left eye began to quiver. White aether burst at her wounded arm as the dirt crumbled into fine powder under her boots. “I hope you realize what you’ve earned.” Her words came out as a low hiss, the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly upward.

“A prize, I wager! And a prize Urianger and I have wished so long to taste.”

“Indeed. We bringeth all our might to bear, that we may witness might worthy of song and notoriety, what bringeth even eikons to heel.”

With a malicious cacophony, like to an endless sea of keening glass, from Lillian’s back spread opalescent wings of aether aflame, size and ferocity swelling until she was rendered a silhouette before their crescendo. Sensation of needles prickled against the Scions’ skin, and the myriad wounds below notice across her flesh steamed forth white clouds until hale and closed.

“Try not to choke on it.”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv fanfic #ffxivwrite2024 #I love Temperance. i think it could be scarier.#7.0 lillian post character development isn't she beautiful

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alexcors · 9 months ago

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The flames of the witchcraft torches played with reflections on the ancient walls and the blue-black plumage of the raven. Flying under the stone arch, the bird spread its wings unnaturally wide, stepping onto the gallery floor with human feet.

The train of her thin, almost transparent outfit rolled down two steps below, under the feet of the quietly grumbling owner of the castle.

— Cover yourself, — Damian hissed, raising his wings threateningly. — I don't need guards staring at you.

— Do I really hear jealousy in your voice?

— Tt. I don't share my property. And you're on that list.

Anyone else would have found his tone intimidating, even dangerous, but Raven just rolled her eyes and stepped out the door of the luxurious chambers. Her bare feet immediately sank into the softness of carpets and animal skins, carrying their owner to the burning fireplace. The orange light made her outfit almost invisible, highlighting every seductive curve.

Grabbing an unfinished book from the shelf, Raven deftly climbed onto the arm of a huge armchair, hid her feet under the cushion on the seat and immersed herself in reading.

Maleficent glared at his familiar and silently walked to the window. From the top of his tower, he could see for miles around, including the capital of his father's kingdom. Damn Gotham. For some inexplicable reason, the city irritated and attracted at the same time: belonging to people, from the old catacombs to the highest spires, but still storing ancient magic in its own shadows. And it was all the more annoying that Damian didn't have a place there.

The son of a fairy lady and a mortal ruler who had not ceased to be ashamed of this kinship for twenty years, Maleficent wanted revenge. He had planned everything, was ready to revel in his triumph and the look of despair on his parent's face, when Bruce from the Wayne house of course ruined everything.

— Floras, Fawn, and Maryweather, — Damian growled softly.

— A trio of fairies from the swamps? — Raven was instantly distracted from her reading.

— Three reasons for my irritation. And the only explanation for the king's behavior.

Maleficent simply couldn't find any others. Cursing his father's pitiful mortal daughter, he expected screams of horror, pain, and pleas for mercy, but saw only confusion and incomprehension in his eyes. Not the kind of emotions Damian wanted to enjoy after all these years.

—Or maybe the king doesn't care about all his children, — the dark fairy concluded, turning away from the window, catching the calm violet gaze of his familiar.

Raven gave him a soft smile, returned the book to its place, and was almost immediately at his side. The scent of lavender and cinnamon immediately filled his nose, erasing the dusty smells of the city along with painful thoughts.

— We have sixteen years to check it out. And, whether the king wants to or not, he is doomed to think about you for the entire duration of the announced term.

— Too long,— Maleficent snorted. — And too merciful. He didn't deserve this!

—But you deserve,— the familiar came close, barely touching him through his clothes. The tenderness in her touch and voice cooled his anger. — And when His Majesty has exhausted all available means to save the princess, he will come to you." And you'll get everything you've wanted for so long.

— Maybe, — Damian breathed.

Take a classic fairy tale and reshape the characters for DC? With pleasure! 😁😁😁 So Damian is the male version of Maleficent, Raven is actually a raven, three fairies are three brothers, in blue (Dick), red (Jason) and green (Tim), Bruce, as always, is a so-so dad, Selina as the queen and Helena Aurora Wayne herself. It's going to be fun! And in the case of DamiRae, it is very, very hot.The full version will be for Valentine's Day 💌💘

#damirae #demonbirds #feathertale #damian wayne #damian al ghul #raven dc #damian x raven #batfam #not my art

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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“The magic of his voice”- Part 2

🔥Pairing: Aemond x Fem. Reader (Non. Targ / second person POV)

🔥Themes: Soft | Fluff | Smut

🔥Word count:1.8k words

🔥Rating:🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+

Summary: You and Aemond take the first step into trying something new in the bedroom.

Want to be tagged? Want to know the rules? Read all here.

Part 1

Aemond watched, his countenance softening as you made yourself comfortable on his lap.

"Do not fret, ñuha jorrāelagon," he began, "You will enjoy this as much as I."

You folded your hands upon your lap and looked up at him with eager eyes.

"You're so willing to please already. Good girl." The prince smirked, the violet of his right eye gleaming in the light of the fire. Aemond was content to watch, and think. How best to start this night? He thought and thought before finally settling on something simple for you both. "My hair. Loosen it."

The request was simple enough, and you timidly reached around him to undo the thin leather strap that kept his hair out of the way. Aemond trembled at your closeness, the warmth that seemed to radiate off your body, and the sweet scent of your skin. He brushed his nose over your hair, slowly, tenderly, his hands coming to rest on your waist as if to hold you steady. They quivered when your fingers combed through slippery, thick silver-gold locks, when the heat of your breath fanned against the shell of his ear. Aemond fought for composure, and patience won out, for now. He kept still while you finished your little task, quietly relishing how you felt against him.

His hair finally loosened, and the thin strap that held it all together was now in your hand. Aemond took it off of you and consigned it to the side. He then swallowed and asked you to do something he had never done before. "My eye-patch," he said, suddenly bashful. "Remove it as well."

Well. This truly was a turn of events. Aemond had never removed his eyepatch in front of anyone, not even you. He even wore it while asleep. Or perhaps he took it off while you were asleep and donned it before you opened your eyes, but you never saw him without it.

"Why now, my love?" you asked, ravenously curious. "Why after all this time?"

Aemond grew pensive for a moment before replying. "Many a time I have asked you to put your complete trust in me. It is time I did the same. The patch, ñuha jorrāelagon," he coughed and looked away. "Remove it."

Deep inside, he was more than a little wroth, but not with you. Aemond loathed the patch, for it was a reminder of a dark and painful time, a time that showed his sire only ever truly cared about Rhaenyra and her brood, and not his other children. More than anything, Aemond wished he had never had it. He wished his kin could have just accepted that Vhagar chose him, and then he sighed. Events unfolded as the Gods had willed them; he could not change them no matter what he did.

You took great care with the patch, carefully slipping it off. Your gaze rested on the familiar scar that ran from brow to cheekbone, the now visible deep blue stone that seemed to gleam with a life all of its own. You have heard, of course, how Aemond claimed Vhagar, of the fight that followed, and of the terrible price that had to be paid in exchange for claiming the last living reminder of the Conqueror and his sisters. Seeing it was wholly different from hearing about it in tales, and you kept pity out of your eyes. Aemond never cared for the pity of others, and it always vexed him.

"Does it hurt?" You asked hesitantly, running a finger carefully over that jagged line.

Aemond closed his eyes as warmth washed over him. Just your touch alone was enough to soothe him. "Not anymore."

He took the eye patch off your hands and placed it on the side as well. The weight of the mattress shifted as he moved to make himself more comfortable. Aemond turned to you and took you in, with your curious eyes and your willingness to please. How it warmed his very blood to see you like this, ready to submit to him.

"Your shift," he said, greedily eyeing the silky wisps you wore. "’Tis too much. Unburden yourself."

The force and steel in his voice unlocked something inside you, something deep and dark, something that made a jolt shoot up your spine. It heated you to your core, and you complied, fumbling with the laces in the process, your fingers feeling like they had all turned into thumbs. You heard no reproach, no sound of impatience, but you felt it—his vivid purple eye watching you, following your every move, taking in everything you were doing. You looked at him after tugging your shift over your head, your pulse quickening when lust and need burned in his eye.

And Aemond didn’t want to go too far, not on your first night trying something so wholly new to the both of you. Step by step, he thought. There would be many more nights like this, and many more opportunities to explore even further.

"Stay still," Aemond all but purred, his words as sweet as honey. "Stay perfectly still."

First, he took your nightgown and threw it to the floor without ceremony. Then he ran his hands all over your body, oh so slowly, over your thighs, your belly, all over your neck and hair, down your arms, his fingers lacing around yours when he reached your hands. Aemond brought both your hands to his mouth, his lips moving over each finger in soft, airy little kisses that left you flushed and more than a little breathless.

"You taste sweet, ñuha jorrāelagon," he breathed, letting go of your hands so he could move his arms around your waist. "Now, are you ready for more?"

You nodded, willingly yielding to the growing demands of your body. Aemond dipped his head, his lips brushing against the hollow of your throat over and over again. Lightheaded and dizzy, you threw your arms around his shoulders, gasping when they tightened their hold. His teeth grazed over your skin, leaving patches of lavender to bloom in their wake. His tongue laved, leaving a damp trail, while a hand hardened and callused by years of sword use moved up to cup your breast. Aemond palmed it softly, enjoying the warmth of it against his palm, how your nipple stiffened by his touch. And the sounds you made—all those little whimpers and sighs—were like music to his ears. He laid you back in bed, his lips and tongue laving and tasting in turn, his hands exploring every possible inch of your body, his heart pounding harder than ever, his cock hardening and straining against his breeches.

Your fingers nearly ripped into the sheets when he moved his hand to your sex, already slick and wet. Aemond slid a finger in, then another, moving them in and out, growing drunk on your needy moans. He felt you shudder and heard you sob his name. Aemond propped himself up on his elbow, and when you shuddered again, he pulled out and moved over you, his thighs pushing yours apart. "Lie back, dārilaros," he said and sat up, the soft sound of clasps unfastening filling you in on what was about to happen next. "And let me take care of you."

Again you obeyed, unable to deny him. Your gaze drifted over Aemond’s body while he undressed, the muscles sculpted by many moons of sparring and fighting. A warrior’s body, one that held great skill and strength, strength he had never use against you, not to hurt. Your cheeks warmed when Aemond caught you looking, and he smirked.

"Enjoying the view, dārilaros?"

You grinned even as your cheeks burned. "Yes, my love. Very much so."

Aemond chuckled—a light, breathy chuckle—before moving over you once more. "Are you ready?"

He said, brushing stray locks of hair out of your eyes.

You hummed in anticipation, your arms circling his shoulders and your legs moving over to rest against his hips. Aemond leaned in and brushed his lips over yours, once, twice, before capturing your mouth with a kiss that shook you to your very core. Aemond kissed with passion and fire, rendering your bones to water. He propped himself on his elbow, his free hand moving to your hip. He moaned, oh, how he moaned, when he entered your velvety core. Aemond stopped, his body trembling, his need for you growing all the stronger. He took a moment to savour how hot and wet and ready you were. And then, he moved, his lips crashing into yours.

A tangle of limbs was what it was: two bodies and two souls cleaving into each other, hungrily and desperately, as if this night was going to be the last. All sense of restraint had crumbled to dust as Aemond rode you, his hips bruising the insides of your thighs. Your grip tightened, your fingers scouring his flesh, your legs scrabbling for purchase against his hips as he pushed in deeper and harder, his fingers digging into your hip. And the things he said, how wonderful you tasted, how soft your skin felt, how sweetly it smelled. And there were other things he said, darker and more sinful, things he reserved for your ears alone.

"I cannot get enough of you, dārilaros," he groaned when your nails raked over his skin. "The things you do to me, it makes me so weak."

That only encouraged you to arch toward him. "More," you plead. "More."

Aemond grinned. "The feeling of you is the only thing I can think about for days after we make love," he admitted, his rhythm growing erratic as he neared the edge. "All I have to do is close my eyes, and the sight of that beautiful body of yours writhing beneath me is enough to make me forget everything else."

It was bliss that overcame you, bliss that blinded you to all else. You couldn’t think, could barely breathe, as pleasure of the most sinful and acute surged like a wave that kept on rising. Aemond’s name blew past your lips in a whisper as he drove mercilessly into you, taking you higher and higher.

Bliss slowly gave way to heat as the two of you succumbed to wildness. Aemond forced himself to open his eye, to see you, to see the myriad of expressions on your face, how your mouth parted when crying out his name. Soon, it came so soon: unimaginable ecstasy as he plunged one last time, his release crashing over him barely a moment after yours, your walls contracting and pulling him in even deeper as he spilled his seed, his chest heaving against yours.

You blinked your eyes as consciousness trickled in slowly. You heard heavy breathing and looked up at Aemond. Beads of sweat gleamed over his brow, his chest trembling even as he still leaned over you. When he felt you stir, Aemond opened his eye and looked down at you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He dipped his head and kissed you again, softly and sweetly this time, before moving to his side and sighing contentedly when you curled into him.

"That was wonderful, my love," you murmured, shifting your gaze to him.

"There will be more," Aemond promised, taking your hand into his. "So much more. This was just the beginning."

tags: @asianbutnotjapanese | @nupppuff | @arcswonderland

#aemond #aemond smut #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #house of the dragon #HOTD #HOTD imagine #hotd x reader #x reader #writeblr #💫a world of whimsy writes

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snowbellewells · 4 months ago

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Self Promo Sunday: "A Story Told at Last"

This short three shot was my first offering for the second @cssns event in 2019. I had a really lovely time using a more grown up version of Henry out in the "real" world, as well as keeping Violet (who I always liked) in the picture. I got to use my love of literature a bit in this one, making it Henry's profession, and I took my first early stab at a ghost story element for the supernatural. I think the main thing to bear in mind is that, while Henry is our Henry in personality, he is not Emma's son. Emma and Killian exist in a whole other time - the one he is studying... ;)

If you missed this one originally, I hope you will enjoy this offering. And if you did read it before, I'd love to hear if you enjoy your revisit!

Thanks once again to @branlovestowrite who did the cover art at the time for the event - I still simply adore it!!!

{Also available on AO3, if that's your preference

I've put all 3 parts in this post for reader convenience}

Summary: Historical Literature Professor Henry Mills has the chance of a lifetime before him. He might finally uncover the truth of a folktale that has intrigued him for years. But, when the whole story comes to light, will he be able to accept the story that needs to be told?

~Prologue~

The young man moved quietly through dusky shadows in the long-abandoned building, brushing aside cobwebs with a grimace of distaste, his flashlight trained well in front of him, and walking with slow care, trying valiantly not to disturb anything more than necessary in his path. Henry Mills was still holding his breath more than a bit in awe that he had finally been allowed the permits and permissions, not to speak of the grant money which had brought him here and allowed him to focus solely on his research, and that he was standing within the deserted tower ruins of a long vanished kingdom’s outer borders. He had dreamed of seeing this structure’s remains since the legend had first crossed his desk, unfounded but also unforgettable until he explored it for himself. Drawing in another steadying breath and squaring his shoulders, Henry moved forward once again, anxious to see all that he could before he lost the last bit of evening sun.

He would be back tomorrow of course, with his team and full daylight, and all the equipment needed to properly identify, catalogue, and preserve anything of historical value or interest they might find. Still, he couldn’t resist the chance to get a first look at this place that had held his curiosity for so long, especially when he only had to share it with frogs, cicadas, and the droning gnats. Soon enough this site would be buzzing with other historians, researchers, and anyone else on the approved team, and Henry yearned for a moment on hallowed ground, beneath the crumbling walls and mouldering ceiling, in the dreamy half-dark when it could be his alone. He didn’t know what treasures they might find, or if they would unearth anything new at all, but the storyteller’s heart that beat beneath his grey henley and respectable historian’s facade couldn’t help sensing that the very walls around him were holding their breath as much as he was, anxiously awaiting the right explorer to at last reveal their secrets.

Regardless of the venture’s outcome, Henry still found it hard to believe he was in Italy; seeing the world, traveling on his own quest for knowledge and adventure, just as he had always known he was meant to do. He was still considered quite young for a history professor, and this would be the first field mission he had led. Granted, to most folks who weren’t history buffs or fans of Renaissance literature and its roots, the remains of the stone structure around him that they would catalogue and examine in the next week would not have been delighted enough to go without sleep just dreaming of the treasures and tales they might find, but Henry Mills had never been one to do as most others would.

The particular result he hoped to achieve was to find some sign or proof of the princess Emmaline, the protagonist of that tale which had sparked his interest nearly four years ago. History had at least partially buried her existence, or much knowledge of her beyond the ranks of myth and legend. But, if what Henry had learned was true, she had once been imprisoned by the same walls he was standing within. A younger sibling had ascended the throne in her place, and Emmaline had disappeared from all records of the kingdom which had eventually become extinct itself.

The story Henry had uncovered told of strange happenings beginning to occur around the beautiful golden daughter of King David and Queen Margaret of Misthavia once the young princess reached her sixteenth year. Injuries to those who might have slighted her, accidents and damages - coincidences all, but their frequency had reached the point that her involvement could no longer be hidden, and her people had begun to fear her. It seemed that Princess Emmaline had even been deemed a witch by some, and at last the king and queen had been forced to hide their daughter away for her own safety.

There had also been - at least as related in several varied sources - a handsome young lieutenant in the Misthavian royal navy who had long been in love with the hidden princess. This young sailor had vehemently protested the decision to lock Emmaline away, much less the eventual denial of her birthright. So the story had gone, this lieutenant had eventually left the king and queen’s service due to the rift, and as incongruous as it sounded, turned pirate in her honor, as he left with a ship to seek her in exile and rescue his love.

Still, by any account Henry had been able to locate, whatever had truly happened, if Princess Emmaline had existed at all, she had never taken the throne of her kingdom. The rather tiny Misthavia, along the Tyrrhenian Sea had been subsumed into the rest of the larger country and ceased to be a separate entity in the modern world. To his scholarly, and curious, mind however, what became of the lost princess, hidden in her tower, remained an irresistible mystery.

For the moment he was not willing to risk discovery and be banned from the site before his official work even began, so Henry did not linger. He closed his eyes, breathing in the somewhat musty air that somehow, to his mind, also brought hints of spring rain, apple blossoms, weathered wooden planks, leather and sea salt. Shaking his head at his own ridiculously detailed imagination - now bringing him scents even, as well as hoped for sights and stories - Henry turned to carefully make his way back out of the rocky rumble, avoiding an overturned settee frame with bits of ripped upholstery clinging to it and a few floorboards, whose soundness appeared debatable. Watching where he was placing his feet and the path back to the entrance in the beam of his flashlight, he failed to notice that materializing behind him, wispy white and hazy against the deepening gloom within the old walls, two shadows, almost corporeal but not quite, were silently watching him go…

~***~

~Part One~

By the time Henry had returned to the Universitá di Bologna housing,where he and his team of advanced grad students were staying for the duration of their research trip in Italy, he was more than a bit anxious to reach his temporary quarters and go back through the copious research notes he had taken and goals he’d laid out in preparation before finally standing within the crumbling skeleton of his historical site - what remained of the once-stunning tower. Having now glimpsed it with his own eyes in the still shadows and dying light of evening, Henry was almost breathless with excitement and the desire to compare what he had seen with the numerous possible finds he had deemed likely. Already, he was itching to return at dawn’s first light with his team and equipment.

The heavy feeling in the air of another presence - of not being alone in the ruins, though his logical mind knew he must have been - had been easily shaken off once he returned to the city from the more remote location. The sound and bustle of the modern world - phones, cars, the press of crowds - melted away the icy shiver that had traced down his spine and put it well out of his thoughts. For several minutes now (nearer to three hours in point of fact, though his mind, caught up in more interesting details, had lost all track of time) he had been leafing through his reference manuals, maps and notes, packed and then unpacked again meticulously upon arrival, when a soft rapping on his door roused him from the fevered state he’d slipped into.

Shaking his head, and hazily pulling himself back into the present time and place, Henry drew a steadying breath, reminding himself that he was a skilled and credentialed professor of historical literature, not the teenage fanboy he’d once been and currently felt like again; he should show a bit more composure to whomever waited to speak with him in the hall. Opening the door, however, his eyes widened momentarily, in spite of his recent resolve, to find his brightest and most accomplished research assistant facing him.

Violet Clemens had actually graduated from the university’s history program two years before, but knowing the particular interest she would have in this research opportunity, Henry had contacted the museum he knew she now worked with when there had been spots left to fill in their group. Violet, with her pale, dewy complexion and ebony hair shining as it rested on her shoulders, not to mention her effortlessly elegant and tasteful way of dressing and carrying herself in a sea of her contemporaries wearing shirts cut so low and pants and skirts so tight that they left little to the imagination, had always stood out and seemed a bit of an old soul out of her time. Despite her keen intellect and quick wit, Henry had always been glad her degree focus leaned more toward historical art and architecture rather than his historical literature. While her complimentary knowledge would serve well in this venture to supplement his own, he had at the time feared becoming completely charmed by her if he’d had her in class on a regular basis.

Trying to shake all those thoughts from his frazzled and rather unfocused mind, Henry gave her a curious but friendly smile before speaking. “Miss Clemens, what can I do for you this evening?”

Violet flushed prettily, her cheeks pinking as her gaze fell to her toes for a moment before glancing back up to meet his. “I’m sorry, Professor Mills. I know it’s late. I was just wondering...I mean…” she finally blurted the rest out in a rush “...you went out to see it already, didn’t you? What was it like?”

Henry truly couldn’t hold back his wide grin at her question. Another person who held the same enthusiasm for the princess and the ruin of her family’s legacy, was not someone he came across often, and a part of him basked in having someone to share the thrill with - someone who just might understand. “You’re not a student anymore,” he offered with a self-deprecating chuckle. “You don’t have to call me Professor. But, to answer your question, yes I’ve been out there and it was incredible. Even with the light failing, it took my breath away.”

Violet merely nodded, taking his words in with an awed smile on her lips. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it for myself,” she murmured. Then a twinkle of mischief flitted into her eyes as she added, “but if you no longer want me to call you Professor, then you’d better just call me Violet.”

“Deal,” Henry affirmed, reaching out a hand which she took to shake on their agreement. The moment their hands were clasped together, a tremor of awareness caught him off guard, running up his arm with a heat and intensity that surprised him. Though he’d heard of such reactions to another many times in the books he’d read and stories he loved, he had never experienced anything so arresting in real life.

“Well, then, Henry,” Violet added, taking her hand back, though he didn’t think he was imagining the sudden breathiness of her voice and the way she shook her head as if to refocus, causing her dark waves of hair to shimmer. “I guess I should leave you in peace for now. We want to get an early start tomorrow after all.”

“That we do,” Henry agreed, seeing her to the door and hoping he wasn’t smiling wide enough to make him look giddy. Once she was gone, he leaned back against the solid oak, shaking his head in disbelief. It would seem this adventure was going to bring about more than one incredible discovery.

~~~~~~~~~~~***~

The next morning dawned all too early for Henry’s taste; his alarm waking him from such a solid sleep that for a full minute he was too bleary to remember where he was at all. Between the jet lag and staying up another two hours pouring over notes and manuscripts to be certain he was prepared for their first day cataloguing finds onsite, he wasn’t sure he would even be able to pry his eyes open without coffee. It was almost funny to think back now on the days when he used to laugh at his mom and stepdad for their need to have a hot chocolate and black coffee respectively before they could face their days. He understood all too well as an adult.

Once he got himself moving, saw himself down to the continental breakfast provided on the first floor, and was waiting at the van to make sure all his assistants and fellow scholars were on time for the ride out, Henry did begin to feel more awake and alive. It wasn’t long before their small group had gathered, all had been accounted for, and they were loading onto the van. Rolling out of the city proper and into the Italian countryside, Henry began to lay out his game plan for the day, and the rest of his lethargy was swept back by excitement and purpose.

When they reached the ruins, gathered the tools, instructions, and research which would guide them, they all stood a bit awed, gazing up at the remnants of the tower walls before them, quite possibly full of clues to be discovered. His travel mug providing a further jolt of caffeine as he took a last sip, he then stepped forward to begin directing the tasks to various assistants. Those with him moved out with care through the ancient, crumbling bricks and mortar, leftovers from an exiled life, off in the directions he had indicated. Undeniably, her felt more than a bit of pride wash over him at the gravity and industry his little group displayed in tackling their assignments. The members of his team were clearly well-chosen.

He wasn’t, however, too selfless to have left one particular team member for last, to work with him one-on-one. Henry firmly fought down the urge to fidget with the hem of his shirt or stutter nervously as Violet edged closer to his side once they stood relatively alone. Her eyes were shining as they drank in the sight before her, more than a bit stunned and affected if her hushed voice was any way to judge. “It’s… splendid…” she nearly whispered, clearly struggling for the right words.

Henry nodded wordlessly, then turned to explain what he hoped to get her help with, just as Violet looked up to him and they bumped into each other awkwardly, both stumbling away a step and chuckling. His hand darted out to catch her elbow, not wanting to knock her to the ground, and Violet wavered closer at the touch unconsciously.

“Oh, Profess - Henry… I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

He waved her off gently, “No apology needed. I bumped into you just as much… Vi...olet…” His tongue tangled on her given name as if he were still thirteen and worried about it squeaking. “I mean, there’s no harm done. As long as you’re alright?”

The young curator flushed prettily and nodded with her reassurance of “Absolutely, I’m fine. What did you intend for the two of us to work on?” She was clearly anxious to shed her embarrassment - and to explore this place they both had fallen in love with before even reaching, but for a moment Henry was stymied. He couldn’t speak or think, so struck was he by the intelligence and enthusiasm shining in her eyes and the classical beauty of her face. He wondered helplessly how visitors to her workplace could appreciate any of the art hanging on its walls with Violet standing before them.

Her light touch on his forearm finally brought him back to the moment as she asked again, “Henry? Was there someplace in particular you wanted to start?” Even as those curious words escaped her, Violet’s chocolate-y brown eyes widened noticeably, this time unmistakably also feeling the same jolt of electricity that ran along Henry’s skin where her fingers touched.

Valiantly seeking to ignore the attraction fighting for his attention, Henry redirected his focus to the curious detail he had noticed the evening before, leading his partner toward what still stood of the column that had once been part of the support to a vaulted ceiling. It seemed obvious to him, again if the details of the legend he had heard were true, that this tower had once been an incredibly lovely haven - even if to its inhabitant it had proved a gilded cage. Which was why an oddity in the surface had caught his attention upon first look. There appeared to be a spot where the join between the two sides of the arch didn’t match up - a strange and careless anomaly in a building that otherwise had the look of careful and exquisite design in the other parts that remained.

Pointing up to the spot he had seen, Henry directed Violet’s eyes to the same strange seam that he had noticed. Hearing Violet’s surprised little intake of breath and the way she immediately stepped forward, tracing careful fingers along the obvious malformation in curiosity, told Henry he had indeed been onto something. Soon Violet nodded to herself, drawing closer yet, both hands now up to help in her exploration, and seemingly forgetting Henry, the bustling site, and everyone else around in her rapt focus.

“Often times,” she murmured lowly without looking away from the movement of her fingers on the old stone, now gingerly but determinedly probing and prying, “in buildings of this age - especially ones which would have belonged to families of importance - an inconsistency like this might often indicate…” she paused for a moment, wedging her finger into the impossibly small opening she had managed to pry, the very tip of her tongue peeking from between her lips in concentration adorably (to Henry’s mind at least).

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed in a breath of triumph, the arch giving enough for what appeared a hidden panel to fall open and a still dully glistening bronze object to fall into her open palms. “As I was saying,” she continued proudly, “might indicate a hidden compartment for items of value.”

Beaming with excitement, Violet held her prize up for Henry’s inspection. In her hands lay an ornate, yet solidly constructed compass on a chain. The piece appeared to have some definite age on it, and yet its quality and beauty still shone through. It looked like an instrument which would have been used for ship navigation on sea voyages prior to the advent of modern navigational systems, and Henry’s thoughts could not keep from flying to the princess’ lieutenant of the stories and tales. Might this artifact serve as his first major proof of the legend that had captured his imagination?

His gaze lifted from the compass to meet Violet’s expectant one, ready to speak his hopes. But, even as he did so, the sound (or so he could only imagine) of a sword at someone’s hip as they moved and the creak of leather arrested Henry’s ear. He turned, startled, at such an incongruous noise for a research site, only to find that no one stood anywhere near he and Violet, as if the sound had come from nowhere beyond his own imagination.

Uncertain eyes flew to his companion, who looked back at him in concern, but Henry forced himself to swallow the strange impression he’d had, sure he would sound crazy if he brought up what he’d heard. Instead, they wrapped and catalogued their find properly for transport back with them, talking about what it could mean… and to whom they both had to wonder if it might once have belonged. Even in the elation of success and discovery, the feeling of lingering over his shoulder did not leave Henry easily, staying with him for the rest of the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~***~

That evening after dinner, once more in his quarters for the night, Henry’s thoughts were still on the compass as he plunged back into his accounts and stories, all the information on the Princess and her legend, and though he had mostly committed to memory all that was before him, he still pored over the details in hopes of a mention of the compass they had found in order to confirm his suspicions.

As the team leader, items discovered and picked for transport or further research had been logged and stored with him. And though Henry attempted to reason the need away, tried to convince himself that there were no details he had missed, nothing else to see, and that he needed to go to bed, to not spend another night with too little sleep, and instead be rested and well-prepared for the next day’s work, he was still impelled to stand and go over to take out the compass once more; the need would not be denied.

Once the instrument was cradled in his hands, the weight of it steadying to a surprising degree, Henry sunk down on the side of his bed, scrutinizing the relic with focused curiosity. What was he still missing? Several deep breaths, a few pounding heartbeats, went by as he pondered the instinct guiding him.

Then, with a disconcerting effect that shook him and sent a tremor down his spine, the air around him seemed to waver, undulating dizzily and clouding the borrowed room before his very eyes. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Henry blinked, in hopes of clearing his sight, only to find his perception unchanged as they opened again. The lightheadedness forced Henry to lie back on his pillow, a rather clouded grey beginning to close in on his awareness, vision tunneling to his fingers still clutching the compass tightly - until it was all he could see.

His eyes closed, as surely as if he had been suddenly put to sleep, and then he felt as though he were floating, moving through space even as he knew he was lying still. And then, though he couldn’t fathom how, he stood in the tower of his dreams - whole and shining new as it had not been for some hundreds of years - unseen and right next to a stunning, golden-haired woman who could only be Princess Emmaline…

“Killian, go! You must be away from here before they come with my evening meal,” her voice is quick and urgent as she tries to push him toward the window of her cell, through which he had climbed not even an hour before. “If they catch you, you’ll be arrested. You’re wanted for piracy.”

The dark haired young man, lean and strong, despite appearing more long haired and less neat than he had as a royal navy lieutenant stands firm, well-muscled enough from days spent steering a ship through wind and rain and all other obstacles besides, impossible for her to move unless he allows it. He has waited too long to see her again, and he is not anxious to relinquish the sight of her beautiful face now that it has been restored to him.

“Easy, lass, easy,” he soothes, looking for all the world as if soldiers and guards, arrest and punishment, holds little concern for him. In truth, he would face those and more as well for her sake, but he has also changed much in the months since his flight from royal service. He is a captain now, not the uncertain, eager-to-please junior officer he had been. Now he gives the orders, his crew (those loyal few who’d followed him into exile) follow his lead and go where he sees fit. “I’ve plenty of time yet… and...I wish to spend every second that I can with you.”

Only here, when addressing his true feelings for his princess, his first and only love, does he show a moment’s hesitance and a lingering sign of the shy young man he once was. Truthfully, he does not know whether or not there is a price on his head, or if he is being sought after diligently; Emmaline’s parents themselves did not agree with the steps taken to hide their daughter away. Whether they truly view him as a dangerous criminal to be apprehended, or more of a rebel with the freedom to act where they could not, Killian Jones is not sure. The King and Queen are constrained by duty to all of their people, where he is loyal first and foremost to his Princess above all others.

Unfortunately, their time is drawing to a close. He can hear the muffled tread of booted feet hurrying up the winding staircase, and knows that soon those who stand guard over Emmaline’s safety, but also make sure she remains in her prison, will reach her room. Much as he loathes leaving her behind again, he knows she is right. He dares not remain and have to fight people who are on the same side, compatriots in service of Misthavia, even if they interpret their orders much differently than he.

Turning to her once more, taking Emmaline’s hands in his, and gazing into her wide, green eyes and her tense face full of worry for him, Killian voices the question he has asked every time he steals back to her side in this long year past. “Come with me. You don’t have to stay locked away here. We could sail the world and be free.” It kills for her to be trapped and alone, paler with each visit he manages, dark purple bruises from sleepness beneath her eyes. Though he knows what her answer will be before he finishes speaking, Killian still has to ask.

His brave, bright angel shakes her head, yellow-gold hair flying around her like a halo, even as a slow tear makes its slow trek down her cheek. “You know I can’t, Killian. My place, my destiny, is here. Though my people fear me now, they need me… My parents need me… I can’t desert them.”

Much as he regrets it, Killian knows her honor will allow her no less. Sadly, he bows his head over their joined hands to kiss the back of hers, murmuring, “As you wish, my Love,” against her skin. Before he turns to climb into the window frame and grab the rope he had used to climb once more, he presss an object into her grasp - the compass he had received upon his naval promotion to lieutenant. “Hold onto this for me at least, aye? As promise of my return.”

His Emmaline nods tearfully, letting him go and stepping back, but pressing the compass to her breast. “You always return, Killian,” she replies. “I know that.”

His blue eyes brighten the smallest bit at her faith in him, allowing them both to hold onto hope. “And I always will,” he vows. Then he grasps the rope, swings from the window, and is gone.

~ Part Two ~

Henry came back to himself the next morning to the sound of anxious pounding on the door of his room. Sitting up slowly, blinking and struggling to regain his bearings, he began to hurry toward the sounds only when he also heard Violet’s worried voice through the wooden barrier, calling out with concern for him.

“Henry? Henry, are you in there?” Several more sharp raps against the hard surface followed, just before he could reach the doorknob in his befuddled state. “We got worried when you weren’t downstairs to meet the bus, Profess - “ Her words cut off abruptly as Henry finally managed to turn the knob and swing the door open to face her.

While he hadn’t really considered the rumpled mess of a picture he must present, the way Violet’s mouth fell open in surprise, and how her hand reached out as if to either feel his forehead or offer him support somehow before quickly pulling back, said quite a lot. Her prettily rosy cheeks paled as she stuttered anxiously, “H-Henry...are you alright?”

Feeling more than a bit awkward and embarrassed standing before her in the previous day’s clothing and obviously late for the group’s scheduled departure time, Henry shuffled from foot to foot before clearing his throat and attempting to smooth his sleep-disheveled hair back into lying calmly on his head. Violet, as was her way, looked impeccably neat and professional in sturdy khakis and a pale lavender sleeveless shirt that he knew must have a matching cardigan or jacket somewhere in her suitcase. She didn’t look judgemental in the least though, only concerned for him, despite his growing embarrassment.

“I’ll be fine, just a little off balance,” he offered uncertainly, already reaching behind him to begin shoving necessary items into the satchel he carried with him on their excursions. “Would you just, please, make my apologies to the others, and our driver? Ask them to give me five more minutes, and I’ll be right down.”

He was scrambling by then, to find his shoes, locate his keys, and get dressed almost all at once, so that he didn’t realize Violet had not left yet after agreeing to his request. She had instead taken a step forward into his room, one more question of if he was really alright on the tip of her tongue when he whipped off his old T-shirt, ready to pull on the clean one he’d found.

Her startled gasp arrested him in the midst of raising his arms to pull the new shirt over his head, turning wide-eyed to face her and already flushing red in his cheeks and well down his neck and chest. Slowly lowering his arms, and the material down to cover his bare torso as well, he couldn’t dismiss the hopeful idea that Violet seemed unable to stop staring at his chest, even once again clothed in one of his usual tops, and that she was swaying just the slightest bit toward him, as if drawn by a magnet.

The odd moment broke at last when Henry stepped forward, just as Violet did the same, and they nearly collided. Both jerked away again, Henry already apologizing and bringing a hand to his stinging chin, even as Violet rubbed her forehead where they had made sharp contact.

“It’s alright, Henry. Truly. It’s fine,” she assured softly, reaching out to clasp his wrist with gentle pressure and calm his rapid flow of words.

Her former professor’s deep brown eyes raised to search hers hopefully, clearly easing as she nodded in added confirmation. “Honestly,” she added with a small smile, patting his arm before releasing her hold. “I’m really just glad to see that you’re okay.”

Catching her hand before she could retract the soft, delicate fingers completely, he squeezed back with gentle gratitude. Shaking his head ruefully, Henry let out a low chuckle and confessed to her honestly. “Alright might be a bit of a stretch, really. In fact, you may think I’m downright insane when I tell you what’s happened, Vi. But, let me get ready before we make everyone else even later, and I’ll share on the way.”

She nodded, stepping back to go so he could change and be ready to leave for the site as soon as possible. Yet, before she slipped back out the door, with one last promise she added, “Whatever you say, Henry. But, just know this… whatever it is that’s going on...I doubt I’ll think you’re crazy. I believe in you.”

Henry’s breath stalled at her admission, and he turned toward her to thank her, to express a similar faith, but Violet had already fled the room. There was nothing else he could do but hurry to rejoin her; her words and his excitement at his vision too, driving him onward so as not to disappoint her galvanizing confidence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

By the time their bus had reached the crumbling remains of Emmaline’s tower once more, Henry had told Violet all he’d seen and heard in his vision. To his utter astonishment, though wide-eyed and stunned, she had taken every word as truth and believed him.

Once they were at the ruins, she still seemed a bit overcome - Henry couldn’t say that he blamed her, as he was more than a little disbelieving himself - but they piled out of the van as everyone else did, perhaps even more anxious to know what else they might learn or see after his midnight vision. Violet did, however, turn back to look at him once they were both on solid ground, a light touch to his upper arm to convey her concern as she whispered low enough that the others bustling around them couldn’t hear. “You’re sure, that you’re alright to be out here, aren’t you, Henry? I mean… you aren’t disoriented or lightheaded or anything like that?”

Even if he were, there was no way that Henry Mills was letting his last day in this scenic escape, this place of legend at which he had worked and scrimped and saved to arrive, be lost to a weird dream or a strange bout of vertigo, whatever it was that had come over him. He was careful of course not to seem impatient with Violet though; her care for him touched him greatly, warming and thrilling him inside much more than he would like to admit. Instead, he merely shook his head slightly, hoping to assuage her worries by appearing unfazed and moving forward with this last day’s exploration of their site. “Thanks, truly. I appreciate you checking,” he offered, “but I’m fine - no lingering side effects.”

As he spoke, they neared the last vestiges of the archway where they had discovered the compass the day before. Henry could tell that Violet ached to explore further, to make sure there was nothing else of note, to study the intricacies of design and execution that were more to her interests than his, but that she was equally reluctant to leave him after the strange stupor in which she had found him just a short time ago.

Good naturedly smirking at his own odd behavior, Henry urged her to see to what she wished. “Vi, really, go on and have another look. It’s not like this opportunity comes around every day. I promise, I’m not going to keel over.”

She shook her head at his lighthearted teasing, all ready with the stubborn reminder that he didn’t get the scare of wondering what had happened, worrying whether or not he was alright, but she bit her tongue in the end. Bickering wasn’t going to make him see his health as more important than their find, and it would probably only make him feel badly to know just how concerned she had been at the pale, unsteady sight he had presented when he first opened his door to her that morning. Plus, it would waste precious time, and so instead she moved off with a nod of begrudging consent and one more gentle press of his hand.

Henry, meanwhile, when he had made certain that Violet wasn’t holding back on his account, moved carefully toward the crumbling frame of the window in an outer wall still partially standing some feet away. It was slow going for the bits of stone and splintered, weathered furniture scattered in the way between, but he picked his way through the detritus without falling himself or destroying anything which might be of value. The niggling feeling that the window he stood before was the very one he had seen in his vision, the one from which the rogue lieutenant visiting his imprisoned lover swung to escape the princess’ guard, and he could hardly fight the need to touch it - see it - for himself, as if he could somehow derive the rest of the story, what had happened next, from the space he had seen in that reverie.

And though as much as he had promised his concerned protegé that all would be well, Henry still felt a bit off balance and unsettled, as if whatever presence or power in the air was still lingering from his encounter that morning. No sooner had he neared the wall, than he was reaching out to rest his hand on what would once have been the window sill, now loose and partially eroded by time.

Taking a moment to look more closely at the cracked stone and dusty grooves, Henry curled his fingers into a gap curiously, the piece of rock still in place shifting to the side and allowing his fingertips to slide deeper into the opening. For a moment, he felt nothing, just empty space and a disorienting sensation of brushing up against a wide open void, then his grasp caught against an edge of paper or leather, almost like the corner of a book. Straining to reach just a bit further, he managed to grasp the item and clutched tightly to draw it out.

Several more bits of debris and rubble fell away as Henry attempted to carefully extract his treasure. Once free of its hiding place, however, the mystery was revealed as indeed being some sort of leather bound journal or logbook. Brushing off the cover the best he could, despite the determined cling of years and years of cobwebs and mildew, Henry held his breath, hoping the pages wouldn’t crumble to dust, that they were still legible. It might contain the proof and the answers he had been seeking.

Ever so gingerly, Henry carefully opened the cover to find a flourishing if faded script scrawled across the opening page of the book in his hand. And even before he could locate the author’s purpose or name, he felt his surroundings begin to swirl and fade to grey once more, for the second time in one day, he was seeing the tower as it had been and the princess within it long ago…

“What have I done?!?” Emmaline’s tormented wail echoes in the thin air of the tower’s height, as her sword clatters to the floor from her suddenly nerveless fingers. The guard she felled is clearly not dead, as his chest rises and falls steadily even in unconsciousness. Still, though her father had trained her well in swordplay, until her technique and form was nearly as flawless as his own, she had never before actually struck someone with such determined intent. To stop them - and even end their life if necessary, rather than see her lover caught and killed.

Turning at that, her eyes still frantic at the blood that runs from the slice across his cheek beneath his eye, all too close to putting out the brilliant blue light forever. Her lip quivers, and Princess Emmaline struggles to bite back the ridiculous show of weakness and emotion, even while stumbling toward Killian at the same time.

He catches her in his arms, smoothing her wild hair back form her damp brow and whispering reassurances that she only did what she had to, that she isn’t cruel or evil, only a brave woman taking her stand in an impossible situation, and - if possible - he loves her even more, “bloody brilliant” she is in his adoring eyes.

However, the stolen moment is not meant to be theirs for long. Shouts from below remind them that the man they have felled to make their escape was not the only one, and unless they wish to be forced to do even more damage, they must go - immediately. Pausing a mere second longer, Emmaline snatches up a small brown book from a desk in the corner of the room. Pressing it to her mouth as if imprinting a kiss in its surface, she hurries to the window where her sailor stands waiting to spirit her away - from her family, her kingdom, her duty - but also to freedom and a life, something it has become clear she will never regain locked away in some gilded cage.

Working loose a part of the masonry, she slips her private diary into the aperture created, hoping against hope that it will be found. That her parents and her brother will be able to read it and know that she has discovered a way forward, even if it isn’t what they had always planned. She hopes she will see them again someday, but if not…

Looking up to meet her rogue lieutenant’s pained but knowing gaze, she is relieved to see she needs give no explanation. He understands, just as he always has.

Then, with a final backward glance around her prison, she is swinging over the side with him, his steady presence next to her helping as they begin their descent on sturdy ropes, toward the ground below where horses wait to take them to his ship in the harbor....

Henry jolts back into his own place and time more immediately with this second vision. Already anxious to read the book still clasped in his hands, his heart thrums with excitement in his chest at knowing just what it is he holds. He gulps in air like a fish floundering on the docks, but it doesn’t slow his haste or enthusiasm. This is it; the evidence he had always believed he would find. Princess Emmaline existed, she was real; her story had happened just as it had been said. And now, at last, he could show the rest of the world the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

Six months later ~

Hand in hand, Henry Mills and Violet Clemens stand in the sacred space once more - the site that drew both of them halfway around the world, but also to each other. Since their research venture to the Misthavian ruins, there has been widespread recognition that the tiny kingdom did exist and that its lost princess had been a real, living being of flesh and blood. Though it was asking a bit much for the reigning historical and scientific community to believe that she had been locked away due to a fear of her magic, as detailed in her diary, it had become accepted knowledge that Princess Emmaline had been held in the windswept and isolated tower they had explored, she had been denied her birthright and crown, and had - much like her homeland - vanished almost completely from history… if not for the tokens Professor Henry Mills and his team had discovered.

They are now both published and much-lauded experts in their field; both already had been experts, it was just a matter of the rest of the world realizing it. More important than glory and fame though, to both Henry and Violet, was that now they could return to this place, so close to both their hearts, and perhaps offer closure to two souls who had been awaiting it much longer than either of them.

As the couple stood at the small display which had since been constructed at the scenic overlook near the ruins, there was an absolute sense of accomplishment. It was just a small podium with a guest book for tourists and visitors to sign and a protective case allowing the compass and diary to be returned where they belonged, but still available for the curious, the lost, and the lonely to see, to read, and to learn from the Princess’ story and take heart again. It was just how Henry had wanted it and had fought against various museums and universities to have it be displayed - as he could only hope the long ago royal would have approved.

Looking lovingly to the woman at his side, Henry smiled unabashedly as the sparkle of her engagement ring caught his eye and he simply brought their joined hands to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. He could still remember that first dim evening, when he had ventured within the tower’s remaining walls with cautious reverence. He had sensed that he was not alone, the presence that - while not threatening - had still sent a shiver skittering down his spine. Violet had long since talked with him of a similar awareness as they worked within the aged structure, and it was what brought them back now, to say one final farewell before embarking on a joined life together, to bid another lingering pair of lovers rest at long last - impossible as that quest might seem.

“Do you think we’ll know if they’re here?” Violet whispered to him, her eyes wide and half-hopeful, half-worried.

“I’m not sure what to expect,” he answered seriously. “It was just a feeling I couldn’t shake when we were here before. I don’t know whether to believe it will be more or less this time around.”

They waited, breath caught between nervously bitten lips in silence, before Henry stepped closer to the preserved ancient stone walls rising around them. “If you can hear me…” he started, tentative but determined, hopeful, and in a voice gaining strength as he continued with Violet’s reassurance at his back. “Princess? Lieutenant?...The world knows now, about Misthavia and about you. That you were real, that you existed, and about your love for each other. No one believes Killian stole you away against your will anymore. And though most people of the modern age don’t believe in magic, they know now that you were wrongfully imprisoned, your Highness. They understand that though Misthavia ceased to exist as a separate nation, you never had your chance to rule to try and save her. And…” Henry paused here, swallowing a lump that took him by surprise as it formed suddenly in his throat… “and, though we can’t for sure know what became of either of you, it is known that Lieutenant Jones saved you, Princess Emmaline. That you loved him and he loved you. And I’m going to choose to believe in a happy ending for you both… that you sailed until you found a place where you could be together, come what may.”

“I do too,” Violet echoed into their still surroundings, offering him a gently affectionate smile as she gazed up into his intense and open brown eyes - the moment stretching powerfully between the two of them, cementing their faith in each other and their bond, whether or not anyone else bore witness.

Then, surprisingly, Violet’s eyes widened as she looked off to Henry’s side. “They - they’re here…” she breathed, almost too stunned to speak at all in the quiet evening around them.

Peering in the same direction Violet was, awestruck, Henry was slowly able to discern two clouded white shapes in the murky grey dusk, becoming ever more solid and opaque as Henry and Violet stood watching. Though far from corporeal, they were two human forms, one slighter with almost an outline of a medieval, bell-sleeved dress and what appeared a flower crown upon its head; the other taller and wearing what seemed to be a sword at its side, with broader shoulders.

Though the apparitions seemed to turn toward Henry and Violet, as if offering their gratitude, they came no closer, and merely hovered in place as the two historians held their breath for fear the moment might vanish. Soon enough as it was, the two cloudy shapes, once princess and pirate sailor, appeared to bow in farewell, then move toward the overlook, as though seeing the bright horizon and the waves far below that they had been separated from for so long. Just before the modern couple’s eyes, their ghosts began to fade into nothingness, gradually losing consistency, as if finally slipping the tether that had held them to the ruin. Vindicated at last, and free to move beyond, they set sail for peaceful shores.

Tagging a few who might be interested: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @whimsicallyenchantedrose

@laschatzi @iamstartraveller776 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @booksteaandtoomuchtv @anmylica

@stahlop @kday426 @xsajx @bluewildcatfanatic @linda8084 @lfh1226-linda

@belovedcreation @jonesfandomfanatic @motherkatereloyshipper @xarandomdreamx @bdevereaux @shady-swan-jones

@goforlaunchcee @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @drowned-dreamer

@undercaffinatednightmare @myfearless-love @winterbaby89 @donteattheappleshook @the-darkdragonfly @elizabeethan

#self promo sunday #cssns19 #ouat three shot ff #cs fic rerun #a story told at last #modern au of sorts #professor henry mills

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no2ticonderoga · 11 months ago

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Okay, so here it is. My not-really-anticipated-by-anyone fic New Year’s Resolutions. No one cares about this but me, but I’m putting this out there into the universe in the hopes of keeping myself accountable.

So here they are. In a loose order of priority.

Finish the Regency AU wedding fic

Finish Billy Joel, David Bowie and Jay-Z.

Create some kind of interactive website/document/tumblr post where someone could click to read the entire Regency/Napoleonic AU in chronological order, regardless of which story it’s in.

Finish next Regency Piece…tentatively titled Make Sport for our Neighbors.

Finish Regency piece after that…tentatively titled: Surrounded By A Neighborhood of Voluntary Spies

Violet, my Own Dear Violet

Some future Olympics based fic set in the Senior Year-verse, possibly involving the Chase twins getting up to post-high school hijinks.

Publish a nearly completed Regency one-shot that I can’t publish until I’ve finished Arthur and Violet’s tale.

Estelle’s Regency tale….

I think that’s enough for now. If I make it through HALF that list…I’ll be doing well.

#fic writing #pjo #regency au #napoleonic au #senior year cliches #percabeth #new years resolution

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caeli0306 · 7 months ago

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chapter 1 of castles crumbling (aka Tales from the Airport Bathroom extended version) now posted!

Chapter 1: Awakenings now up on AO3: READ HERE

I know I said it would be awhile until I started this fic but I lied :) I was inspired and decided to take advantage. I'm so excited (and also kind of nervous?) to share this story with you guys and hope you enjoy reading us much as I've enjoyed writing so far :)

Summary:

Violet should already be dead. People whispered about her weak body and how she would never live up to her family's martial accomplishments. Violet rose above them all, however, fighting and killing to survive the Navarrian Intelligence Agency's brutal BASGIATH training protocol. Now, people whisper about Violet's swift ascension through the NIA's ranks as one of its most valuable operatives and assassins. The whispers don't matter to Violet: She has her own agenda, and it's a dangerous one - finding out what happened to her father.

But one mission changes everything: Suddenly, Violet finds herself in the crosshairs when she stumbles on information Navarre wants buried, and the country she fought for begins to turn on her. Violet knows too much, but she's determined to do what she does best: Survive. Her only hope is the son of the man who they say killed her brother, but their partnership is far from assured. Some grudges run deep, and trust is a currency too valuable to give freely. Xaden realizes Violet may be the key to everything, but with enemies seen and unseen closing in on all sides, the consequences of failure are deadly.

===

“Violet?”

I’m jolted out of my thoughts and return my attention to Ridoc, who has an uncharacteristically stoic look on his face.

“I have a really bad feeling about this.” He scratches the back of his head. “Promise me you’ll call if it goes south.”

I don’t deserve my squad. And that’s all the more reason that I can’t let him, or anyone else, near this mission. If things go wrong – if my slight treason turns into not-so-slight treason – then I don’t want to bring any of them down with me. I’d rather die than drag them into my problems. I let my mask slip for a moment, patting Ridoc’s arm reassuringly.

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

He rolls his eyes, but that mischievous spark returns to his eyes. “Bullshit. Danger is your middle name, Sorrengail.”

“Actually, it's Brigid,” I quip with a grin.

He punches me lightly in the arm. “Of course it is.”

#fourth wing #ao3 #fourth wing fanfic #caeli's fics #the empyrean #xadenviolet #fanfiction #iron flame #violet sorrengail #rebecca yarros #xaden riorson #riorgail #violet and xaden #IM SCREAMING I HOPE YALL LOVE IT

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thewordkeep-ffxiv · 1 year ago

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vernda: TALES OF A LOST CHILD OF THE GREEN WORD

ENTRY 1: ENVOY

Author’s Note: “Ale” (pronounced Ah-leh) is Leif’s forest name, what he was called before leaving the forest for Eorzea.

“I’m leaving the Green Word.”

The rays of moonlight scattered around the Viera pair were suddenly daggers, sharp in the wake of that statement, and Ale wished for nothing more than to hide from that light. The female Viera he had grown up with, the woman he thought he knew, had become a stranger in an instant, and he suddenly felt awkward, vulnerable. He looked into those violet eyes, darkened by night, and could no longer see the mirth and pride that always shone within them. Instead, she pinned him with sadness and regret, emotions he never wanted to see from her directed at him.

Frozen in place by his shock, the male Viera could only look on, questions and emotions swirling in his mind like a tempest, but the only word to come to his lips was, “Why?”

Fjola almost flinched, a slight twinge of muscle just beneath her skin, and she reached up to brush back a lock of Ale’s moon-white hair from his face.

Ale did not flinch to her gesture. He lean into her palm, touch starved, but he could not close his eyes and enjoy the moment as if afraid she would disappear if he did.

“My dearest friend,” Fjola murmured, her soft tone as measured as the lulling sounds of night. “In the years we’ve been apart since you were taken from the village to become a Wood Warder, I struggled to find my place in this world, in this life, and could not. Nothing changes here. The forest breathes in and out steadily, every moment, every day, every year, unchanging. Our lifestyle drifts on, never shifting, never adapting. Meanwhile, the Empire presses on our borders, becomes a deeper threat with each passing moment. I’m tired of seeing my sisters die needlessly in battle to forces they don’t bother to understand. I’m tired of living with this looming danger. Why do we not know more about the enemy who demands to take all that make us Viera? Why do we not venture into the outside world, study its wonders and its horrors, and bring all that back to the villages so that we may defend ourselves? I can no longer stand idly by and watch our culture crumble…”

Tears glistened down Fjola’s cheeks, and Ale reached with a hand to brush them away without thinking. This brought a twitch of a smile to the woman’s lips, but there was strain there, sadness, and Ale hated seeing it.

“We’ve gotten by this long, we can surely prevail indefinitely. I’ve learned so much about fighting magitek, and more with each encounter. My brothers in arms and I, we—”

“It’s not enough, Ale.” Fjola shook her head, short dark hair swaying. “You’ve seen your kin die in battle, haven’t you. Had close encounters yourself, I bet.”

Ale did not want to admit Fjola right, his expression grim, but he also could not bring himself to lie to his childhood best friend. His silence was more than words could ever convey.

“We need envoys, Ale.”

“You know what it means to leave the Green Word, this forest,” Ale protested. “It means you can never return to it. The Green Word takes offense to the children who leave her protection after so much she has sacrificed to nurture us. To leave is the highest dishonor. It—”

“I know what leaving means, Ale,” Fjola interjected patiently. She lifted her chin, the violet of her eyes suddenly clear with pride, determination, and resolve. “I don’t care what the rules say. I will venture into the world, learn what there is to learn about it, and force myself back into this forest to educate our sisters about it. I will do my part in saving this land, not by sword but through knowledge, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop me.”

That drive. It was the same drive that kept Fjola to her mischief when they were children. The same drive that had her insist to Ale, as he was taken away to Warder training, that he would be okay and that they would see each other again. The same drive that now pushed her into the unknown, unflinchingly, to do what was best for her people. She was stupid. She was brave. It was what he loved about her.

“I love you.”

Ale hadn’t realized he said the words until he watched that resolve suddenly melt from Fjola’s expression, replaced by shock.

Fjola swallowed. “What did you say?”

Ale wished he could hide again, but he stood his ground, desperate for even a fraction of the resolve Fjola had shown only a moment ago. No turning back now. “I love you. I’ve loved you since we were children. I loved you even when I worried we would never see each other again. In the years we have been apart, not a day has gone by when I did not think about you. The hope to see you again drove me to survive. To be the best Warder I could be. I’m here because of you. I love you, and I can’t stand to see you leave after we have just found each other again.”

“L-like a sister, right? Like a best friend?”

Ale held onto confusion instead of dread as Fjola took a step back instead of forward, as he watched grief inflict her expression instead of elation.

“N-no,” Ale responded with careful words, working through his confusion. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, to bond with you. I want to share children with you. I want to love you as a lover, to bring you joy and pleasure and contentment. To touch you. Hold you. Be with you. I—”

“I can’t.” Fjola turned away with a shuddering gasp, and she might as well have punched the other Viera or spat in his face.

He realized the rejection at once, noticing only now the pack that hung from her back, the layers of clothing she wore, and the sturdy boots that marked her as prepared for a journey. He had been so elated just to see her he had not clued in to her attire. Now her intentions were all too clear, as sharp and cold as the moonlight. “W-why?”

Fjola took another shuddering gasp, shoulders heaving, before spinning around to face Ale again, tears streaming down her face. “You are my very best friend.” Her voice trembled in anticipation to break Ale’s heart. “The dearest to my life. I cried myself to sleep so many times after you were taken from the village, worried I might not see you again, convincing myself that I would. I thought of you every day. I miss you every day. But I can’t love you the way you want me to. I don’t find you attractive—” Fjola pushed through Ale’s stricken expression lanced by hurt—“because I only have attraction for other women. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to love you, I just can’t. It’s why you’ve never found me at Gatherings all these years. I avoided them because I didn’t want to mate with males, let alone be ogled by any in that way…”

Ale swallowed, hard, struggling to force a smile that would not come, tears summoned instead. He wanted to understand, to be supportive, but the words just hurt… “If I hadn’t become male, so much of my life would be different, including your love for me…”

“Oh Ale,” Fjola whispered as they both fought back tears, night song smoothing over the sounds of breaking hearts. “Come with me. Leave the Green Word with me. We can go tonight.”

Ale shook his head. “You just said you can’t love me, a-and now—”

“Just because we can’t be lovers doesn’t mean I don’t need you. I have no idea what to expect out there. I don’t know what kind of danger I’ll be in. I have a better shot at this envoy thing if I had your support. And, as I said, I’ll miss you…”

Ale took a step back this time, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. How could she ask at a time like this? “I made an oath to protect the very village we grew up in, to keep it safe. To forsake that oath is to turn my back on the village, on what we love. I can’t come with you, Fjola. My duty and my life are here.”

Fjola hitched a breath and responded with a brisk nod. Ale saw the pain in her eyes at that statement, the disappointment, and he wanted to find catharsis in it, for her pain to soothe the blow she had just given him. All he found was more hurt, more regret, and the loathing to see her in such pain, even now.

Such a fool.

“I-I understand.” Fjola took several deep breaths to compose herself, then shot a hand forward. “Then I guess this is goodbye.”

Ale glanced down at Fjola’s hand, her chosen parting gesture instead of the hugs she was known for. He turned away, rejection in the sheen of his white hair, of the hand-sewn leather that covered his shoulders, of the Warder’s hunting knife strapped to his back. His metal clawed boots flashed in the fleeting moonlight as he began to step away. “Be safe, my friend.”

Ale refused to shed any more tears over Fjola. Only later, in the company of solitude, would he regret not giving her that hug instead, not saying more, not doing anything he could to see her until the very last moment at the border between this life and the next.

~ FIN

#FFxivWrite2023 #FFxivWrite #viera #ffxiv #Leif Renna #thewordkeep

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veariy · 1 year ago

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"Come here, little bun...let me show you what the world is really like outside the Woods..." ~ Zori

Zori's Musings Part 1

He sighed softly as the drawer closed to his desk, papers ruffled in his hands. Zori leaned back, the chair creaking as he did so. He tsked and reminded himself to replace the old thing once more. Long legs swung up onto the desk, the solid wood beneath thumping as he rested his boots, one crossed over the other.

The papers were laid in front of him, forgotten for a moment. A job he’d been asked to do, insignificant in comparison to his current predicament. Well, to him, at least.

Zori closed his eyes and placed a hand over them, the light disappearing and plunging him into the darkness he felt most comfortable in.

She wouldn’t leave his conscious, dancing as she did through his every thought. She’d come into his life like a whirlwind months ago. Fresh out of the woods, naive to the world outside. Emotionally injured from the unjust treatment she’d received from those who should have protected her. He growled softly as he remembered her tale. The very notion that man would have…he stopped himself. Zori swung his legs back down and sat forward, face falling into his hands. White hair-tinged teal blue brushed his fingertips.

He shouldn’t care this much. She should just be another client. Another person drifting through the endless mess that was his life.

But he did.

He cared, and with every day that went by, it increased incrementally more. She was strong, loving, funny, and compassionate. Even with everything she’d been through. Things a weaker soul would have let destroy them. Yet she pushed on.

She didn’t fully trust him yet; he understood that. Her past made her wary of any Viera males, whether they were outcasts or not. He looked up and templed his fingers, resting his chin on them.

He’d win her over.

He had to. At this point, he didn’t have another choice. She’d wound herself entirely around his soul, heart, and mind. Zori smirked; she didn’t even realize what she’d done, oblivious to any flirting or affection.

He’d tried; oh, he had tried. But every time, she’d look at him like he was insane and laugh innocently, thinking he was joking. She couldn’t grasp the idea that someone would love her as she was.

He paused, his silvery white eyes narrowing. What had just leaped to the forefront, that word. The word he swore he’d never use after his previous relationship had ended. He’d been used and tossed aside. It had never been real, at least, from that- he stopped that train of thought. This time was different. He could tell she was sincere. There was something about her, the way she talked and acted around others. He knew in the depths of his being that she would never betray those she cared for.

He chuckled softly in remembrance. Lo to those who betrayed her first. He’d seen what happened when someone threatened her or anyone she’d adopted as her sudo family. They earned the tip of her exceptionally sharp scythe.

She was incredible.

Zori shook his head and stood, hands placed firmly on the desk. Papers still laid where he’d put them initially. He needed to focus, this job needed to be done if they wanted more Gil flowing in. As he was about to begin reading through the brief, the door to his office slammed open, and a small figure rushed in.

Black hair tipped with white that shone with a dark purple hue waved around her. Fiery violet eyes glowed softly with emotions deep within, and her lips were turned upward in a smirk. Delicate hands were placed on her hips, and she raised a soft brow.

By the Twelve, she was beautiful and didn’t even see it.

He stood straight, towering over her unusually petite frame for a Viera female. Zori crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head.

“Vea, to what do I owe the pleasure, small one?” He teased her, an act that was quickly becoming his favorite pastime.

She frowned then and narrowed her eyes. She could never quite pull off threatening with him, but he’d die before telling her that.

“I’ll let that slide for now, as I have more pressing matters to attend to.” She shook her head softly and looked back up at him.

“Oh? And what would that be?” His tone didn’t change, still teasing.

She huffed and let her arms drop in exasperation. “I require your blade. I’ll explain on the way. Come on.” She whipped around, and out the door she went.

He stood there for a moment in a daze. It was always like this. Of course, he’d never said no, and she’d grown used to him following her.

Zori shrugged and smirked as he walked around his desk to grab his blade propped up by the door.

“Oh, my little Vea, you’ll be the death of me someday.” He chuckled and ran after her disappearing form.

#ffxiv viera #gposers #viera #reshade #gpose #kyrencinematic #ffxiv oc #ffxiv original character #oc lore

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zyana-wyvern · 1 year ago

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Idunn Character Inspiration 💗

Just a really awesome Baldur's Gate 3 template a dear friend made. This was so fun to fill out. Of course Yennefer is part of it.

Yennefer (The Witcher)- For her drive, ambition and willingness to do anything to reach the things she believes in. For a soft, gentle, red heart enclosed in tough, dark armor. For the violet left eye.

Luthien Tinuviel (Silmarillion) - For disrupting the order and challenging the rules of the home she was raised in, to follow her heart's desires. For her dedication to anything and anyone she cares for.

Varamyr Sixskins (ASOIAF) - For her Druidic wild shaping abilities and her tendency to "become the beast" too much sometimes and lose control.

Helga Sinclair (Atlantis) - For the time she starts to care for herself more and put her own personality and will before others. Also pure sass, charisma and occasional grey morals.

Isolde (Tristan and Isolde) - For her tragic past and her unshaken belief that love is the ultimate force. She'd probably love the Tristan and Isolde tale.

Yavanna (Silmarillion) - For her Druidic connection to nature and the Feywild, but also her care for everything that grows. She'd probably tie herself to a tree in our times lol.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate iii #bg3 oc #baldur's gate #oc: idunn

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ariendiel · 1 year ago

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LITG S2 Colour Seasons

Summers (cool)

Lottie: Light Summer (we can see this executed perfectly in her hair dye options, and her lipstick. However black is too strong for her, it makes her a bit yellow-ish, but that just makes her "pop" more, which adds to the Gothic style)

Gary: True Summer (his hair is so yellow aka springy, his skin is so pink and purple, an his eyes are a vibrant bright blue... unrealistic design but I did my best to translate him to real life)

Bobby: Muted Summer (cool-neutral. The neutral tones come in with his season being a neighbor to soft autumn, he as some warmth but leans cool overall, and has an olive tone, low contrast)

Henrik: Light Summer

Arjun: Muted summer (his hair also has ashy tones)

Winters (cool)

Marisol: Deep Winter

Hope: Bright Winter (each color of her makeup actually compliments her, but it's just too many all at once)

Lucas: Clear winter (icey pastels King)

Carl: Clear Winter

Kassam: Bright Winter

Winters are easiest to spot for me,very distinct from the other seasons in thier electric and dramatic colours.

Autumn's (warm)

Priya: Deep Autumn (warm-neutral. Anything deep and rich. She can wear gold best, followed by rose gold- a deep autumn specialty, and even silver is it's not a very cold type)

Blake: Soft autumn (warm, low contrast, and can wear gold mainly, copper, metals and silver If they're brushed or patina finished. Her hair is a bit intense, so maybe she has a bit more warmth that leads her into true autumn...)

Noah: Deep Autumn- true neutral (I've struggled with him, true neutrals are rare irl, but based on the fact that he's rich, and can wear neutrals and navy like no on else I've settled on this or now.. he just has so much red undertones but also has medium contrast.. im not 100% satisfied, so any input would be appreciated)

Rocco: True Autumn

Elijah: Deep autumn (I don't have a quality screenshotnof him so this isn't confident, but he's warm-neutral, low contrast, and muted)

Springs (warm)

Hannah: Warm Spring

Chelsea: Light spring (her natural tan is very springy)

Jo: Soft Spring (neighboring the summer season, she has some coolness)

Shannon: Warm Spring

Rahim: Clear Spring (warm and bright, and he so happens to be blessed to wear violet... love that for him)

Elisa: Light Spring

Felix: Light Spring (he's wearing mostly summery colours, maybe to accommodate his dyed hair?)

Jakub: True Spring

Graham: True Spring (hes bright and his hair is warm.. I considered True Autumn.. do we really care about him? lol)

OK, my theory is that there are so many springs in litg because these colours are juicy, fresh, trendy, bright and eye catching. Which is perfect in a summery, hot setting like the villa.

In the colour season theory, things like overtone (freckles, tanning VS burning, and blushing, eye colour) aren't indicators of a specific season, however they can give clues to a person's place on the dial within thier base season: Soft, bright, true, Muted, deep, clear.

This art style doesn't add eye texture or patterns-probably due to size, space and distance-but those are the best tell-tale of someone's season, so obviously I couldn't work with that.

Anyways, it was fun to do this, I find it interesting how some characters don't always wear their best colours, just like real people :) overall, thier chosen clothes give insight into thier personalities! I'd love any feedback or corrections from anyone who's also into this x

This is so, so good! I'm in awe, anon 🤍

Absolutely loved reading the analysis for the different characters, and I'm definitely trusting your judgement on this one. For people not familiar with all this, here's a reference photo for you. It doesn't match the categories you mentioned perfectly, but I think it's close enough:

Noah is definitely tricky, as he does wear deep blues and neutrals and warm colours well (at least in my mind). We love complex characters though, even if it's "just" about colours 😌 My ideal colours for him are definitely these, but I'm not sure which category they fit in:

#this is so interesting anon!#I'd love it if others want to chime in as well #litg s2 #love island the game #litg #ask #litg everyone

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dreamingclockwork · 6 months ago

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Interview

(Spoilers for the Trailblaze quest from 2.2)

Dreams. Incorporeal as they are, they are built from humanity’s hopes, desires and fears.. In Penacony, the land of dreams, the impossible becomes possible. Nonexistence becomes existence, spawning manifestations of the subconsciousness. Those born from thoughts and memories are what people have dubbed “memetic entities”. Mikhail Char Legwork. The Watchmaker. Father of Penacony. He is all of them. He is none of them. He is a memory. He is a fragment of hope. He exists. He does not exist. His journey has ended. His journey has not yet begun. Who.. and what is he? What was meant for him? Was he truly meant to be nothing more than a figment of a memory? A tool to guide the nameless, only to then vanish into the depths? Was he truly satisfied with that? His time as simply “Misha” may have been short, but it meant everything to him. Getting to be a bellboy, listening to the stories of all who passed him by. Being inspired by tales of adventure, dreaming that one day he could go on his own journey across the stars.. But, because of the nature of his existence.. Was that dream impossible? He knew he wanted more out of his short existence. The watchmaker’s journey has already happened. Yet the journey of the innocent spirit he left behind had not. His fate was perhaps a cruel one, as the moment he was born within the dream bubble, his destiny was simply to fade away alongside the world that he called his home. What if though..? What if rather than oblivion, by some miracle, or perhaps the grace of a higher being, the dream was allowed to find existence? Allowed to find his own identity? Allowed to live the life he wanted? Allowed to go on the adventure he always wanted? What if the boy that was born from dreams was allowed to dream, himself? “H-Hello! My name is Misha! Um, if it’s not too much trouble.. Please let me journey with you! ..For at least a little while!” Doing a little curtsy in front of the Astral Express and its crew was a young looking boy, with pale blue hair and curious violet eyes. Though his stature was small, his voice light and a little weak, an adventurous spirit burned brightly within his core. Doubt crossed one of the crewmember’s expressions, however. The boy looked like such a fragile, young little thing.. “Are you sure you’ll be alright, Kid? I mean, journeying like this is serious business, you need to be strong. and you look rather, well…” the man trailed off. While he didn’t want to crush the boy’s spirit, he was worried he could get hurt, or worse.

“Well.. It’s true I'm not the strongest..” That wasn’t a lie or his way of downplaying his skills, it was just a fact that physical strength never was his forte. He was destructive maybe, but that was purely because he was kind of clumsy.. Not the best record for him to have perhaps, but strength (or the lack thereof) wasn’t all he had in store! “But I have other skills I could offer.. Maybe? I-I’m good with machinery, and I’ll make sure everything stays tip top clean!” He was once a bellboy, after all. Keeping the hotel spotless was his job, as was taking care of the appliances. The idea of simply replacing parts was a little sad to him, so If he could he’d always prefer repairing over replacing. “Please.. It’s always been my dream to travel amongst the stars, and to see the vast universe. I.. I won’t get in your way, I promise!”

He always wanted, for as long as he could remember, to go on adventures as a trailblazer. A part of him wondered too if, maybe, this is how he could carve a legacy of his own. Mikhail might be remembered, as both a nameless as well as the father of Penacony, but he had long since passed. Misha, however? The boy that stood on the plush carpet of Penacony’s space port, here in the real world? He was.. Nothing, really. All his adventures took place in the depths of his mind, known to nobody but himself, Clockie and Miss Mirror. As is, he wouldn’t be remembered by anyone, having been a dead man’s shadow. But that would change. He would become known for his own, real adventures. As Misha, a dream who’s wish carried him into reality.

“Well.. okay, sure. But I want you to be very careful, okay? This isn’t a vacation. Pack your things then, We’ll leave soon.” The crewmember spoke after a moment of deliberation. Delight sparkled in Misha’s expression, forming a bright and grateful smile. “T-Thank you so much..! I promise I’ll be careful!” And he thankfully already packed his bags. They were right.. Huh? As he turned around, the suitcase he had packed up was suddenly gone! Where did it go..? Looking ahead, he saw his suitcase had been mistaken for a guests’ and was carried off into a Trolley! “Oh no, my suitcase! W-Waaait…!” He shouted after the attendant that was currently rolling his belongings away. Running after it, he tragically was unable to see a bag that was on the ground in front of him. His foot caught on it, and he fell to the floor with a painful thud. “Owww….” If he ever wasn’t sure about his existence, the pain he was feeling in his knee certainly would remind him with every spill...

#(OOC: Out of the Dream)#(Spoilers: P-Please be careful!)

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hlizr50 · 1 year ago

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Chapter 3 is posted on AO3!

Read it here or catch it below the cut!

With a sigh Zelda returned her focus to the top of the page for what had to be the fifth or sixth time. She’d been trying to focus for the last hour, but every single thought brought her back to what had happened in that chamber the day before. There had been something… intimate about the way Link had vowed to protect her. The way he had spoken to her, used her name.

I am yours.

The pledge was not written to be personal. It was an oath to perform a duty to the royal family. The knight would swear to the princess, the title alone. But never one person to the other.

Shaking her head, she closed the book. Too many romance novels putting ideas into her head. It was her royal guard’s sworn duty to keep her from harm. It was nothing more personal than employment. End of story. It was little wonder her father had told her to stop reading these tales. Clearly they were filling her head with fanciful thoughts and outlandish dreams.

With a huff she launched the book across the room, the novel landing on the floor with a dull thud. She scowled at it, as if the bundle of bound parchment had landed her in this predicament. Then she turned her glare to the door.

Link was on the other side of the heavy oak, likely bored out of his mind. She would be, if their roles were reversed. Why would anyone care to stand guard over the silent, stoic princess? If he were anything like the townsfolk, he would hate her. And if he truly believed in her father’s leadership, then it was the King’s favor that he valued, not her life.

From this moment to the last moment, I am yours.

Zelda groaned as she uncurled herself from the corner of the settee and stalked to the opposite end of the sprawling bedchamber, sweeping up the book as she grumbled to herself, “Get a godsdamned grip.”

She had to find a way to get him out of her head — those words, the intensity of his attention, the crystal clear blue eyes, the caress of his lips on her skin. Her feet were moving before her mind had time to catch up, her need to let everything go driving her actions without her own instruction. Crossing to the bookshelf, she plunked her novel in its home before turning her focus to the bottom shelf. She pulled away the facade of books — a crafted decoration that spanned the length of the bookcase — to reveal her most treasured possessions.

The bow and the dagger were beautifully made, both elegant and fierce, like she wished she could be. They had been gifts from Impa, who had guarded her before Kieran. She’d been the closest thing Zelda had to a parent after her mother died, her father having turned away from the reminder of his queen. Impa had led her through so many things she would have otherwise had to endure alone and afraid. She’d shushed her and comforted her the first time she’d bled, terrified of what was happening to her.

And the first time a battalion of monsters had breached the walls of the castle town, Impa had begun teaching her to defend herself.

Zelda palmed the dagger, tucking it into the leather belt that cinched her waist before putting the false line of books back into place. She required the release that only physical effort would grant her, so standing still and aiming at a target were out of the question. Hurriedly she stood, working her way out of the linen tunic that always lay closest to her skin, under the laced corset that was often shades of blue or green or violet. She never trained without her full skirts, but she could afford to remove the long sleeves and high necklines when she snuck off alone. There was no reason for such propriety, no wandering eyes and thoughts against which she needed to shield her honor.

With one more look toward the door, Zelda headed toward the old servant’s entrance — now dark and unused — and slipped from her chambers and into the maze of corridors that would lead her out into the evening.

~~~

Sweat trickled down her spine, tickling sensitive flesh, as the fair-haired princess took a cleansing breath and prepared to execute her formations again. She’d been sparring with an invisible opponent for goddess-knew how long, reveling in the way her thighs and calves burned with the effort and the way her arms felt heavy with fatigue.

Once more, then she would go back. Since she’d slipped out after dinner, her absence would not even be noticed. Her knees bent as she lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, ready to lunge forward—

“You’re supposed to be in your room.”

Zelda whipped around, facing the owner of the soft, yet firm, voice. The same timbre that she’d been successful in forcing from her mind until that very moment. Sir Link was leaning casually against one of the crumbling columns of the decrepit temple, arms crossed over the royal insignia stitched in gold across his chest. She felt the burn of chagrin at her cheeks, feeling foolish for being caught. But annoyance bubbled forth as she gazed upon his expectant expression.

“And you are supposed to be guarding my room,” she quipped, tucking her weapon into her belt. “Seems you’re not doing that so well.”

“Wrong.” Goddess, he was so quiet, and yet his tone slithered over her arms and down her spine. It was authority and reproach. Confidence… too much confidence. Instead of continuing, the golden-haired knight simply started toward her, his boots silent against the weathered stone. It surprised her; no wonder the knight had avoided her detection. When he was nearly too close to her — close enough for her to reach out and brush tendrils of hair from his cerulean eyes — he finally spoke. “My responsibility is to guard you, the Princess, which is made quite difficult when my charge insists upon sneaking off alone.”

“Perhaps you are not suited to such responsibility, if it takes little more than a day for your charge to slip away right from under your nose,” she crooned, clasping her hands in front of her in a mockery of the way the ladies driveled amongst the Lords before the holiday feasts. Always so enraptured by the Lords’ exploits and complimentary of their appearance, as if their feigned attraction had nothing to do with the gold lining the men’s pockets.

“Or perhaps the King would like to know more about his daughter’s past times,” he murmured, ice cutting through her carefully cultivated courage. She stifled the flinch at his thinly veiled threat, but she couldn’t stop the tiny gasp that escaped her lips or the widening of her eyes.

“You can’t. You don’t know what he’d do…” she swallowed, taking a step back from him. Maybe he did know. Maybe he would revel in it like her father seemed to. Maybe it had been the King’s specific instruction to report back upon all her potential misdeeds. If that was the way of things, then she was already doomed. So she gathered the shreds of her dignity and threw her shoulders back, staring into his eyes in challenge. “If you feel that’s what you must do, then I can’t stop you.”

But Link’s hard expression fell away, softening as his brows bunched in confusion. He studied her, and she felt her skin burst into flame even as his attention never wavered from her face.

Perhaps he didn’t know, then.

Zelda’s fingers twisted together, now in nervousness rather than confidence, as the quiet settled around them. Even the breeze, which would sometimes drift in through the missing window panes, had abandoned her. And so, the princess was left alone to endure the silent scrutiny of her personal guard, the uncertainty of his intentions making her insides twist uncomfortably.

“That’s a beautiful weapon.”

Zelda blinked, then blinked again, having never expected those to be the words the man uttered next. A biting retort, a cold command to return with him, perhaps, but not something so complimentary. Any reply stuck in her throat, and she could only stare as he continued.

“It’s Sheikah, isn’t it? It must be. Nobody else could craft something that is as exquisite as it is deadly.” Link extended a hand, palm up. “May I?”

She wanted to say no. She wanted to back away, to hide the dagger behind her back and pretend that she didn’t know what he was talking about. But, of course, what good would any of that do now? What use was there to deny his request? So, with a shaky breath, Zelda slid her prized possession from her belt and pressed the pommel into a calloused palm and prayed to any deity that might hear that he didn’t tuck it into his own baldric and take it straight to her father.

Worrying her lower lip, the princess watched Link’s face as he examined the blade. She couldn’t detect anything aside from genuine intrigue and appreciation for the weapon, and then he flipped it so the metal was between his fingers, the hilt pointed back to her in invitation. Slowly she reached for it, once again too shocked for words. Sensing her confusion, the knight simply dipped his chin and offered a soft grin.

“I will wait at the temple door and make sure that you aren’t interrupted. Find me there when you’re finished, and I will escort you back to the castle.”

Zelda’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Link had already turned, heading toward the temple’s entrance, but he called over his shoulder, “I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you. And when you’re finished, I’ll escort you to your room, and you’ll show me how you got out in the first place.”

Tag list: @headcanonheadcase @mystical-blaise @vikingmagic33 @daevastanner @thelovelymadone

#zelink #zelink fanfic #legend of zelda #the legend of zelda #loz #zelda x link #link x zelda #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #my writing

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