#waidwen

[tarbuchyloewenthal]

the kinkier sects hold public readings of a very good farmer and get, uh, inspired (i'm only half joking)

scaffolded bonfires in the shape of the dawnstars

kids play london bridge is falling down except it's 'evon dwr is blowing up'. this is absolutely blasphemous but it's impossible to stop the kids

the torchlight parade starts at the end of a passion play recreating his flogging in the town square and eothas' sudden revelation

I freaking love that as an unforeseen result of this exchange we seem to have collectively invented a new Eoran holiday called St. Waidwen Day.

please reblog with your pitches for St. Waidwen Day lore

[maryfranlmes]

The Burning Bridge

[joshbii]

Happy Secret Saint Waidwen @adozentothedawn! I will absolutely never turn down a chance to write Waidwen / Eothas so I'm so glad I got you xD I hope you enjoy it! And thank you to @secret-st-waidwen-exchange for organising all this :)

Prose beneath the cut >:3

Kindling for the Faithful

Waidwen had not been raised for war. Not for the sound and scent and sight of countless men, steel in their hands and fire in their hearts; the march of the faithful. Emerald tabards, speckled with snow and mud, dotted the fields of Cold Morn, blooming like flowers through the hoarfrost.

A familiar sight, like back on the farm. Winter had always brought its own certainty - that of grim winds and Rymrgand’s cold. Back then, he’d known his place beneath its weight, enduring as best a common man could. But now, standing here, that same cold seemed brittle, fragile - something he could banish from the land, if only he willed it so. He drew a deep breath of the winter air, frost sharp in his lungs, the ash of a dozen distant hearthfires adding their own faint tang to the sensation. Beneath it all, there was something else: a warmth that was not his alone, a quiet hum deep in his chest.

“Do you see them, Waidwen?” came the voice of Eothas, steady and low, like lantern-light flickering through the ever-dark. “Look upon their faces, upon their souls.”

“I see folk scared, half-starved, wondering if tomorrow’ll even come. I see folk who’ve been ground down and told it’s their lot. They’re our people, aren’t they? The folk who need change most.”

Waidwen stood in silence, watching over them. They looked to him, full of suspicion and fear. They looked to him, but not as a saviour, not yet. They looked to him, and cowered before this figure of light and blood, be he king or god or both.

“Do you feel them, Waidwen?” Eothas’ presence hummed in his heart again, softer now, like the breeze that stirs the stillness of freshly settled snow. “Do you feel the flicker of hope they hold? It is faint, but alive - it burns as embers now. Go to them. Walk among them. You need not change them with grand words or bold promises - tell them what you have seen, what you have learned. Let them hear the truth you speak; show them the warmth that burns within and share with them your fire, that they may kindle their own in turn.”

“They’re frightened, Eothas,” the saint lowered his gaze to the snow, where countless footsteps marked the surface, “they’ve lost so much and suffered so deeply that I fear mere words will change little. But you are right. I owe it to them to try, to show them there is a flame in every soul, if only you give it time to catch. I will speak to them.”

Breathing deep once more, Waidwen exhaled as he stepped forth, his boot crunching softly against the snow. The folk of Cold Morn - his folk, in spirit if not in allegiance - let their gazes linger warily on him. Some muttered prayers beneath their breaths, to Berath or Magran or the others, but none to Eothas, for even those who had once doubted could not deny the god they saw before them.

As he stopped in the centre of the town square, he felt the weight of their eyes, each stare a question he wasn’t sure he had an answer to. His hands, calloused from years of labour, felt strange as they rose to speak. They had always been the hands of a farmer, not a king nor a god. But still they bled with his light, and they were his to use, for a purpose he might never fully comprehend.

“I ain’t here to make you promises,” Waidwen’s voice cut across the wind, rough with the weight of his words, “and I’m not gonna say everything’ll be right, just cause we carry a god with us. I’ve seen some of the worst this world can bring against us - folk broken by hunger and time and war. But I’ve also seen what they each yet have - what you each yet have, should you only turn it to use; I’ve seen the flickers of fire in your eyes and your hearts, and so not all is lost. I’m not askin’ you to follow me blindly. I’m just asking for you to put some faith in those trying to do right by you. I may not have all the answers, but I’ve got faith that if we stand together, we can burn away the darkness. There ain’t no war or winter can take that from us. I know you don’t got much at present, and I ain’t asking for no miracle. But faith’s a bit like sowing seeds. It doesn’t seem like much at first, but with the right care and a gentle hand, it’ll grow into something mighty fine.”

Some of the townsfolk exchanged glances, uncertain and wary, echoed in the whispers that seemed silent beneath the wind. A few of them nodded along, slowly, to his words. Others held the haunted, hollow look of those who had been burned one too many times by the wildfire of false hope. Others still looked on at him with wide eyes and desperate hearts, clinging to that flickering light of belief that stirred somewhere within them.

A woman, stood with her children by the edge of the square, tightened her shawl around her shoulders, her eyes flitting between Waidwen’s light and the ground beneath her feet. When he spoke to the fire in their hearts, her eyes flickered upwards for but a moment, and Waidwen saw then not defiance nor exhaustion, but the faintest ember awaiting its kindling, near-silent beneath the murmurs of the crowd.

Not far from her, a young boy tugged on his father’s sleeve, while the grown man averted his eyes from Waidwen, as if he feared he might see truth in the strange man’s glow. “Papa,” the boy said, pulling again on his father’s sleeve, “Papa, I should give it to him.”

The father snapped his head down, the cold made manifest in his tone, “Hush, Tosti.” He glanced momentarily towards the saint, never looking at him directly, “We will talk about this at home.”

But the boy had already stepped away, small boots crunching through the snow. The murmuring crowd drew silent as they watched the child. His patched coat, far too large for his frail frame, hung loose at his shoulders as he trod forth, his mittened hands clutching something close to his heart. His father made to reach for him, but hesitated and faltered as Waidwen’s light reached the boy.

Waidwen turned to the boy. In the child’s wide eyes he saw the trepidation that filled him, even as he gathered the courage to keep moving as the weight of the moment pressed against him. In those eyes he saw himself, and the fires of his own faith burned just a little bit brighter.

“Saint Waidwen?” the boy called out, his words soft but certain.

Waidwen crouched slightly, meeting the boy’s gaze, dimming his light just a fraction to let the child see his face clearly. “That’s me.”

The child stopped just before the saint, close enough now that Waidwen could make out the rough edges of the charm he clutched tight - a small river stone, its surface smoothed by time, with faint carvings cut into it. A thin string was tied around it, long enough to be worn about the neck.

“This is for you,” Tosti held out the charm in trembling hands, “It’s for luck. My ma said it’ll keep me safe if I carry it, but… but you can have it if you’ll help us - if you’ll fight the bad people and make sure we don’t run out of food again.”

“Tosti, get back here, now!” The father’s voice rose, sharp with fear. The boy’s face froze, but his feet remained planted.

The saint glanced towards the father, memories of his own lingering at the edges of his mind. Slowly, he reached out to the charm, his calloused hands hovering just above the boys as he looked him in the eye. “Why that’s mighty kind of you, Tosti,” he spoke gently as took the charm in his hand. Running his thumb over the carvings, their intent became clear - the sign of the Dawnstars. Their light warmed even Waidwen as the words left his mouth, “A gift like this - made with care - it means a lot. Are you sure you want me to have it?”

The boy nodded quickly, resolutely, his eyes shining with nervous pride, “You’ll keep us safe, won’t you?”

Waidwen swallowed hard, the boy’s words settling heavy in his chest. He held the charm for a moment, running his fingers again over the carved symbols, before slipping it into a pouch. “I’ll do everything I can,” he said, quieter now, “and thank you for this. It means more than you know. Remember, Tosti: Eothas’ light ain’t no different from the sun that rises after the longest night; it might not warm you right away, but give it time, and hold yourself to the light, and it’ll drive the chill clean out.”

The child smiled shyly before scampering away to his parents. His father grabbed him by the shoulder, his mother muttering something quietly. Waidwen smiled.

“Did you see the faith in his eyes, Waidwen?” Eothas’ voice came to him once more, warm and quiet, as if speaking from the depths of his soul, “Even the smallest spark, when kindled, can drive away the cold and the dark.”

“Aye,” Waidwen murmured, “I saw it. A child, giving up what little he still has to try and help his folk…” The words caught in his throat as he reached for the charm once again, “What kind of a man takes a gift like that, Eothas? What kind of man can carry the weight of their hope and not be crushed by it?”

“You are not merely a man, but you know this; you are a vessel of their faith, as much as you are of mine. It is not the weight of it that will break you, but the doubt that seeps into the cracks. Let that boy’s faith rekindle your own, Waidwen, and follow where your faith leads.”

“Faith’s an odd thing, ain’t it? Sometimes it feels like a fire, keepin’ you warm in the cold… Other times it's biting and sharp and full of fury, making damn sure you how much you’ve yet to endure.”

Eothas offered no reply, nor did Waidwen make further comment. His fingers tightened around the charm; those rough-hewn carvings of the dawnstars seemed realer even than the light of Eothas that poured from his hands. Silence lingered as the voices of the townsfolk faded, the saint’s gaze turned north-west, towards their next destination.

Mercy Vale. The snow that they had marched through gave way to charred earth and ash, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of rain. The town sprawled out before him, its remnants still smouldering under the dull grey sky. Blackened beams jutted from the wreckage like the broken ribs of a harmless beast, hunted for sport and thrill. Pools of melted snow, darkened by the soot, congealed in hollows and seeped into the wounded earth. The few homes that had yet to burn maintained their stoic vigil - the world watched in silence with them.

Waidwen stood at the edge of it all. Mercy Vale lay before him like carrion, feeding a faith that hungered for more. He held tight to the charm in his hand, its carvings somehow foreign to him now. “You once told me that fire ain’t just there to destroy; it’s to burn away doubt, and leave behind something brighter, something stronger,” he whispered the words, scarcely escaping his lips, the sounds joining the hiss of dying embers in the only dirge these folk would get. “Well, Eothas, is this what faith has wrought? Was this the fire I was meant to share? When you look south, to the Dyrwood, is all you see more kindling for the faithful?”

The hum of Eothas’ presence stirred within him once more, but he did not speak. The saint closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the boy’s charm as he drew a slow, laboured breath. For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of all he carried with him, the faith and the hope and the dreams. It pressed down on him - not as a god nor a saint, not a general nor a king, but as a man, standing alone amidst the ashes that he left in his wake.

[adozentothedawn]

Okay I've been cracking up over this too much, I have to post it. Thank you @ampleappleamble, it's impossible for me to ever forget about this now

[yanara126-writing]

Hypothetically

Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern.

Waidwen meets a stranger in a tavern and learns that either way he doesn't have long to live.

-

Read here or on Ao3 (4960 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

---

Under normal circumstances, a stranger in the small village of Palemorn would have been cause for suspicion, but these were not normal circumstances. The village was teeming with people, traders, pilgrims, priests, but first and foremost soldiers, all shades of kith in armour with different states of quality and condition. Anyone looking for a uniform to tie the group of soldiers together would have searched in vain, it seemed like everyone had simply grabbed what was accessible to them, from repurposed sharp farming tools to ceremonial armour. The only thing uniting them was the symbol of the dawn, sometimes painted on chestplates or pauldrons, sometimes stitched into the tunic, sometimes etched into a hilt, but ever present.

It was precisely because of this situation that no one batted an eye when the night after the god king's arrival in Palemorn, after the sun had set beyond the horizon and the soldiers had scattered all over the village in search of some entertainment, a stranger stepped into the tavern. He was a young man, old enough to be married but not to have taken over his family's farm. And the exact age to join a holy crusade in honor of their god. His brown hair, longer than was seemly really, was tied back out of his sun marked face, his clothes were clearly too large hand-me-downs with a lovingly embroidered emblem on the hem. An uninteresting footsoldier that barely anyone gave a second glance. And if his hazel eyes shone just a little too bright in the dim fire light of the tavern, well, stranger things were happening these days.

The tavern was already near bursting, filled with soldiers relishing in a night not spent in a hastily erected camp and villagers still dazzled by the awe-inspiring sight earlier that day that was Saint Waidwen's glorious arrival and were now hoping for stories from those who got more than just a single glimpse of their Saint and ruler. No one paid attention to the young soldier making his way through the crowd, his steps too awkward and posture too hunched to be anyone of import, and therefore interest. The sergeant who'd come into the small tavern an hour earlier in his polished, shiny platemail was much more interesting, and more than ready to keep telling stories of their glorious prophet and how often he'd already fought side by side with Saint Waidwen for as long as the rapt listeners kept buying him drinks. The newcomer briefly stopped at the edge of the crowd surrounding the man and listened to a few words. He didn't seem impressed with the heroic stories and simply frowned before moving on to the bar counter.

The man behind the counter threw him a harried look while hurrying from one end to the other, handing out mugs, jugs and tankards and collecting coin with nary even a moment to breathe. The young man waved his hand dismissively, he was in no hurry. The barkeep nodded lightly and moved on, ignoring the newcomer for now, much like the rest of the tavern.

He'd come here hoping for a moment of calm, a time free from the expectations and constant supervision his life had become, and yet, despite the anonymity the stolen tunic granted him, there was no peace to be found for Waidwen. Not from the constant roiling of heat in his soul and not from the stubborn fuzziness in his head that he couldn't seem to get rid of.

He leant against the bar, eyes shifting rapidly over the crowd as his fingers started tapping out a nervous rhythm.

"I am allowed to drink a cup of Wyrthoneg." He kept his voice low, only mumbling under his breath. The tavern was loud enough that likely no one would have heard him regardless, but there was no reason to draw people's attention with inane comments to himself. Then again, there was no reason to talk out loud at all, but it was a habit he'd developed over the last few months. An extra voice in your head suddenly makes the voice from your mouth the private one.

*There is no reason why you wouldn't be.* The voice was, as ever, calm and soft. There had been few moments in their partnership that Eothas had ever become agitated, and all of them had included grievous bodily harm. Which this would not. This was a fun, short outing, to take his mind off of the horrifying exhausting trek before all of them.

"Broder worries too much, it's not like anyone cares when we're not glowing." The stolen tunic had done its task, as had the hair tie he'd reluctantly used and no one in the tavern had given him even a second glance. No one cared about a simple soldier coming to drown his fears or revel in the attention, they only cared about Saint Waidwen, mouthpiece of Eothas. It rankled him, despite the relief of escaping the constant scrutiny for a little while.

*I'm sure.* Eothas said gently, because it was what Waidwen wanted to hear.

He continued tapping on the counter, bit his lip and tried to ignore the dizzying pressure in the back of his head.

He'd almost convinced himself that he was simply sleep deprived when someone slid through the mass of people clogging up the tavern and settled beside him at the counter. He winced as the pressure spiked for a moment. His fingers tapped faster. He was not in the mood for entertaining (gawkers).

The same didn't seem to apply to the stranger.

    "I'm told it's rude here to let a brave soldier sit on their own." Waidwen didn't flinch when the stranger spoke and it felt like a needle was rammed into his neck. One deep breath later the pain subsided again, leaving only the constant buzzing that never left him these days. When he finally turned, the stranger was looking at him expectantly. Or at least he thought they were, with a death godlike you could never be quite sure. He'd seen very few of them and all of them in the last year.

There was something vaguely unsettling in the stranger's growth covered eyes and sharp toothed grin. The pitch black growths seemed almost crownlike, spanning over their forehead and nose in ridged layers and peaking in two high spikes, as well as arching down their cheeks, framing their cheekbones and mouth as the only visible features. A white, Waelite eye tattoo was carved into their forehead.

Waidwen frowned as the shape wavered a little. He turned and went back to tapping.

"They forgot to tell me then." It wasn't quite a growl. He didn't want to piss anyone off, bar brawls tended to draw attention, but he also really didn't want to deal with people.

The stranger laughed, their warm, smoky voice floating just above the noise in the room. "I think I like you. Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink and you forgive my social blunder?" He sighed and the wood was granted a moment of mercy from the relentless tapping. For a moment he debated simply leaving again. But then what was the harm in indulging this stranger for a moment? They'd notice soon enough that there were better targets for gossiping. He steadfastly shook off the vague, ever-constant concern warming his neck and ignored the needle stabbing through his right eye as he glanced over to the stranger again.

"Won't stop you from spending your own coin, but don't expect any stories out of me." He threw a surreptitious look over his shoulder to the sergeant who was still surrounded by adoring villagers. Occasionally booming laughter or a wave of cheers sounded from the group as the man animatedly waved his hands around during his tales of heroics of saving saint, god, and country.

Waidwen turned back to the stranger and swallowed a wave of nausea. He wished he hadn't waved off the bartender.

The godlike threw an amused glance to the colourful group before turning back and smirking with raised hands as if in surrender. "Promise, no elaborate dickwagging required." Waidwen let out an unenthusiastic huff, but didn't disagree. As the stranger turned to call out to the still buzzing about barkeep for the promised drink he blinked in mild suprise. Behind their head growths peaked out two buns of hair, fire red and coiled. Probably a rare remnant of their aumaua heritage if their teeth were any indication. Not that it was any of his business. Or interest.

Waidwen went back to tapping the countertop. The grain of the wood was soft under his hands, both well sanded by its maker and smoothed down by many passing hands. His fingertips burnt.

A tankard was banged on the table in front of him with enough force to splash the Wyrthoneg both over his fingers and over the wood, filling the soft grooves of the grain with the sticky substance. Without thought he lifted his hand and licked the drink off his fingers as he mindlessly watched the liquid slowly creep across the table, soaking into the wood like he saw the dawn's rays soaking into every living being, regardless of the sun's position in the sky. The coolness of his tongue helped little against the burning. Where the wood absorbed the golden liquid, it turned a dark brown colour, soft and almost soothing. Above it sat more sparkling drops, shimmering in the firelight brightening room, almost glittering like early stars during sundown. Staring at them he could almost see his own face reflected, sprinkled over the wooden surface, first in the beads of Wyrthoneg sitting on the already soaked full spots, then in ever smaller droplets, specks sitting in the grain, so small that the grooves looked like canyons and he himself scattered between all of them, in ravines, mountains, fields without focus or reason, the only constant being an overpowering *warmth* making up every shattered piece of him.

A voice ripped through his mind like the roar of a cannon firing.

"I do apologize for the mess, but I think there's more in the tankard than on your fingers," the stranger chuckled with entirely room-appropriate volume. They were leaning casually against the countertop with one arm while lifting their own tankard with the other, not-perturbed in the slightest. Waidwen suppressed another flinch and quickly lowered his hand. After a moment to reassemble himself he grabbed the tankard and took a large gulp, decisively not looking at the golden liquid in it.

Judging by the quiet sloshing sounds, the stranger was content to simply drink in company for now.

The alcohol, however little it was, helped to dull the sharp sting of too clear sound and too detailed vision for a while. Probably better that it wasn't more potent, he felt like he might really crumble out of the confines of his body if he loosened his control too much. A few more gulps dulled that feeling as well. Eventually he felt stable enough to be annoyed again. And patience had never been his strong suit.

"So, what's the deal with you?" he asked with all the elegance and subtlty of a hailstorm, because while Eothas had taught him how to speak with flourishes, he rarely ever bothered with them. Eothas never corrected him.

The stranger laughed again, the way the merchants always did when they thought he wasn't counting the coins. The muscles in his shoulders tightened in irritation, even as the stranger answered with nothing but friendly mischief in their voice, nodding towards the bartender: "My deal is that I give this nice man some coins and he gives me drinks." Waidwen couldn't see the wink, couldn't see anything of their eyes through the pitch black growths, but the implication of it soaked through his aching bones like a well intentioned balm. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

"Oh haha, hilarious. How about a joke of my own then: a death godlike walks into an eothasian bar," Waidwen muttered. He wanted to scowl, to be hostile and inhospitable, so the stranger would leave him to his misery, but truthfully he was too exhausted for it. He didn't acknowledge the gentle, hesitant brush at the back of his mind, a flickering candle, a muted ray of light through heavy clouds, a wavering hand nonetheless held out offering. The moment passed, the soft touch lifted and Waidwen didn't give in to the yearning, the instinct to grab for it and the relief it promised. Eothas did not comment on it.

Yet again, the stranger seemed unbothered by his blunt suspicion and laughed. "Does the bar I say 'I forgive you' as the godlike rubs their head?" That did finally crack him a little and he snorted, more in exasperation but also a little bit of amusement. It was hard not to give in just a bit when someone was at last willing to banter with him and gave as good as they got. People these days were hardly ever honest with him in any way that mattered. He took another drink.

The stranger waited for a moment as they watched him down more of the wyrthoneg, their amused smile never wavering for a moment. Eventually he had his fill of the watered down alcohol and set the tankard back down with just a bit too much force to be entirely casual. The stranger leant back on their school, crossed their arms and smirked.

"Alright alright, don't want to get purged for murdering a holy soldier with my impressive wit." Once again, a wink was implied in the short pause. Dimly Waidwen wondered if his easy perception of the godlike's facial expressions was normal or if it was a skill born from frequently having to interpret feelings that weren't his own. Eothas said nothing to the thought. Waidwen didn't linger on it. If the stranger noticed his brief inattention they didn't acknowledge it. "Truth is, I'm here on business, Waelite business." They tapped lightly on their forehead with a strangely hollow sound and the eye tattoo almost seemed to flicker. "And you seemed like an interesting enough start." To Waidwen the explanation tasted like slightly moldy sonnread. Still sweet but with an undeniable rotten aftertaste. He took another swig and let the stranger wait for the answer they were clearly fishing for. When the taste didn't wash away with the drink he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

"I thought you said 'no dickwagging required'?" he eventually muttered into the almost empty tankard, tasting only disappointment. Perhaps he should have been concerned. About spies, about yet another priesthood on his tail. But fear had been long burnt out of him, leaving only the dry ashes of resignation. No, he was not afraid of Wael. For all he was concerned, the whole world might as well be Waelites now, when all anyone ever wanted from him these days were answers that he didn't have or couldn't give. Perhaps he should be grateful that at least this one was bothering a random a soldier and not Saint Waidwen the Divine King. The thought felt like being violently shoved into a frigid lake.

The stranger's laugh sounded like jingling keys being dangled over his head, just out of reach.

"It's not," they assured, and Waidwen didn't believe it for even a second. "I don't even really know you're the one who has the secret that led me here. All I know is that I have to sit here for a bit and have a drink with you." The stranger, who really made a lot more sense as a Waelite priest, smiled, toasted their own tankard to him and drank. When they set it back down, it sloshed as if still full.

"Seems like a very vague holy mission," Waidwen huffed, elbows on the table and staring at the wall behind the counter, because he'd never been good at being polite or knowing when to stay silent. Hypocrisy sounded like a discordant temple bell struck at the wrong angle, familiar.

The priest shrugged, making the small, clear crystals attached to their scarf jingle ominously. "Comes with the trade. Though I wouldn't call it a 'mission' really. That would imply that Wael told me to do it. This is more of a... Personal interest." They did not wink this time, just smiled amiably with a sense of serenity that seemed almost out of character. Waidwen didn't like it any better than the sly grinning.

He took the bait anyway.

"So how do you know you have to sit here with me for your... Personal interest?" he asked, his loaded pause the exact same length as the stranger's. Over the last year his sense of time had become somehow both extremely precise and completely unreliable, a second stretching out into an unknowable infinity while whole days blended together until he couldn't be sure when he'd slept last. He'd also become very good at drowning any cold, creeping dread in the heat of annoyance.

"Ah, just because Wael didn't tell me to do it doesn't mean they had nothing to do with it," the priest replied. For the first time in their short conversation he really focused on the priest next to him. Their clothes were made for travelling, sturdy and altogether unassuming at first glance, except they were clearly of dyrwooden make. Their scarf suddenly stood out in sharp contrast, dyed a muted blue and decorated with crystals that seemed to almost glow slightly. The eye tattoo on their forehead was now purple. None of it had in any way occurred to him before. He was not afraid of Wael, no, but it was very different to not be afraid of someone out of reach, who may or may not be paying attention to you, and not being afraid of someone potentially right in front of you.

He narrowed his eyes and held the warmth in his head closer. The incessant buzzing flamed up again. "What does that mean?"

The priest chuckled, as unbothered as they had been throughout the entire conversation. "Nothing as grand as what you're imagining right now I'm sure. I don't start glowing for one. We just... Have an understanding. One that occasionally lets me siphon some knowledge from the vastness that is Wael if I go look for it." A slight tap on one of the crystals with their nails produced a quiet ping that reverberated through Waidwen's ears like a temple gong. But the sound was hollow, empty, like a hall left unfilled, the worshippers long gone. His shoulders marginally relaxed, but he stayed cautious. Few rooms stayed empty for long if someone was still living there.

"That sounds suspiciously like something you shouldn't be telling me." Perhaps it was a form of animancy instead? Waidwen frowned, eyeing the priest in front of him. He was not at all sure on his own stance on the practice, there had been so many other problems to deal with and realistically the only place animancy had in Readceras was as a political accusation or in a moral play, so he hadn't bothered looking into it. But if his choice was between a questionable mortal practice or another god getting personally involved, he'd certainly prefer the animancer.

"Maybe," the godlike agreed with a shrug. "But something tells me that I must anyway."

They told him stories of their own then. Of nobles having their pockets lightened, of government secrets stolen, of drafted spells mysteriously vanishing from their inventors' desks and of the small nibbling in the back of their own mind, never words, never orders, never a presence, but something far more delicate and interpretable. In the privacy of a crowd that didn't care about either of them, and with a steady, hot pounding behind his eyes, ready to burst forth at at any moment, Waidwen learned a bit more of the world, of gods, of cultures, and of people seeking to meddle with all of it. In a way it was almost comforting, the knowledge that out there, authority was not allowed to simply stand, that there was resistance to power, even in this strange way. It made him feel oddly reassured, connected in a way that had nothing to do with the silent voice in his head.

With each amused story some of the heat drained out of him, like a cool evening wind blowing away the noon's warmth, and he relaxed. At one point a new tankard was placed in front of him and he absent-mindedly sipped the wyrthoneg. Eventually he caught himself laughing at a mayor finding the love letters to his 3 misstresses pinned to the village board one morning. For a moment suspicion sparked in the back of his mind, but it went as fast as it had appeared. He was tired of being suspicious and for the first time in months he found it difficult to even try. Sweetness on his tongue, drink in his stomach and only the gruff voices of the people around him in his ears he decided that maybe he could stand to let it go. Just for one night. Even the pain behind eyes subsided just a bit.

Eventually his companion's stories trickled off, leaving a comfortable silence between them. The lights of the tavern were warm, the wood soft, and Waidwen was content for just a little while. But this piece of relief brought with it something else: curiousity. Something was itching in the back of his mind, for once it had nothing to do with Eothas, at least not directly.

Waidwen took a sip from his cup, enjoyed the taste for a moment, and then broke the silence.

"So that personal relationship of yours, it sounds a bit... Vague. Removed. Hypothetically, wouldn't it be easier for both of you to just be more direct about it? Something like, I don't know, share a body? If that works. To let you talk more easily, make use of that power yourself." He shrugged and drank again. The heat swirling up in his throat had nothing to do with the drink.

The godlike tilted their head curiously. "Is that what you think your saint is doing?"

"I wouldn't dare guess what his holiness is doing, I'm just curious." Waidwen lifted his tankard and took another sip to not have to look at them. The taste barely covered the ashy feeling in his mouth.

The priest hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I for one hope he isn't, for his own sake." They paused for a moment, mouth still open and fingers tapping on the table twice. Then they apparently came to a decision. "You see, mingling with the divine is a little bit like working with a raging river. What I did is dig a little pond," they cupped their hands, elbows on the table and fully turned to him, "And then I connected that pond to the river through a thin canal that has a movable gate. And when I need water I use a cup to get some from the pond. I have multiple layers of distance and safe guards. What you're describing would be more like throwing the cup into the river, shattering it and polluting the river in the process. Both would be ruined."

Somewhere behind them a tankard crashed to the floor, followed by a roar of laughter. Waidwen blinked. The death godlike stared back. Probably.

"Well. That sounds... Painful." His mouth felt dry. He took another drink.

"Oh I'm sure it would be excruciating. And fatal." The godlike agreed cheerily, then drank as well, a content smile on their face.

For a moment Waidwen considered thinking further on the comment, but quickly thought better of it. The cup in his hand was a much better thing to contemplate. He lifted the tankard and nodded to his drinking friend. The flesh under his nails itched, like they didn't fit quite right on his fingers. His hand never wavered.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things then." The godlike chuckled and clanked their tankard against his with friendly enthusiasm.

"To not doing excruciating and fatal things!" As Waidwen emptied the tankard with one large gulp, the liquid felt alien running down his throat, slimy and rough at the same time, invading his body even as he let it. He slammed the tankard down on the wood with a satisfying crack, smacked his lips and sighed in a contentment he didn't feel.

The soles of his feet started burning in his boots, and he decided it was a night for bad decisions. He turned to the godlike, leant back in his chair and theatrically let his eyes wander over them. He didn't know quite what to make of them, more than usually, with their covered eyes and strange growths on their face, but he supposed they were probably attractive. Tall and built broadly, in a way that spoke of hard work and good food. The hair was a bit odd. Then again, what wasn't odd about him.

"Hypothetically, what would you say if I asked you to leave here with me? For the night?" For some reason he expected something then, some emotion or reaction not his own. He didn't know why he was disappointed when nothing happened but his own tension rising. He closed the hand not gripping the tankard into a fist and hoped the stranger didn't see the way his knuckles turned white.

The godlike chuckled. "Hypothetically, I'd thank you for the compliment. But since your heart isn't in it, I'd leave it at that." Their smile seemed softer than the others, understanding in a way that grated against him more than anything else. He hated himself a little bit for the relief that was all his own spreading through his limbs.

He hmphed and turned towards the bar, trying to dredge up the appropriate anger for being turned down. As always he failed.

"Don't take it personally." The godlike shrugged, still smiling softly. "There's plenty of people who don't find sex all that attractive. It's hardly a character fault." His neck burnt, this time in embarrassment, but he ignored it, just as he ignored all else. He hated that a stranger had seen through him so easily. Still he didn't quite manage to be truly angry about it either. At least the rest of this conversation assured him that he wouldn't have to endure the constant judgement for much longer. That dark thought did elicit a spark of a reaction in a part of Waidwen not quite his. Another part of Waidwen took some savage pleasure in it. The majority of him ignored it.

"What, is my sexual behaviour your secret?" he grumbled into the tankard, glaring into its empty depths.

The godlike laughed. "Maybe. Who knows really." The entirety to the country. But who was counting. (The entirety of the country and they didn't like that they'd never gotten past zero.)

Waidwen sighed and dragged a hand over his face. It left a strange fizzing sensation in its wake. Everything felt heavy, dragging and bloated with a certainty that never stopped yanking him forward. The tension in his limbs had evaporated, leaving him with nothing but the ashes of himself. For once he could afford to run away from them. He pushed the tankard away and got up, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the ground under his feet rather than the swirling in his head.

"Well, either way I think it's time for me to turn in. Got a way to march tomorrow." The godlike didn't seem to mind his somewhat abrupt goodbye and simply nodded to him amicably.

"Good night and good luck then." Waidwen nodded back and turned, no doubt to never see them again, one way or another. Despite everything he still felt a twinge of regret, like there was something he was leaving behind in that tavern full of noise bullshit and lies.

Eventually he'd managed to fight his way through the crowd and stepped outside into the cool air of night, the noise behind him finally muffled through the door. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes focused on the surrounding houses and not the stars that hung like threats in the sky. He started walking towards the camp beyond the village border. He'd of course been offered to stay in the mayor's house, but first he'd have to change back into his own clothes, which he'd hid outside the village.

His hands starting stinging, like the fingers were about to peel off from both hand and bones. He flexed them for a moment and sniffed, a mixture of spite and tired acceptance filling him.

"Well. Nothing we didn't know before, is it." His voice was quiet, even in the silence of the night as they'd left the bustling tavern behind. Nothing like the booming voice of Saint Waidwen. Nothing like the grudging rasp of the soldier. Just him and a rapidly shrinking eternity.

Eothas didn't answer, but a soft warmth returned to his neck. Not burning, not pushing, only present as they moved onwards to something neither of them could stop.

It occurred to neither of them that they had never felt the need to ask the stranger's name.

And so lone soldier slowly strode through the streets, in the direction of the camp just outside the village, noted by no one.

Inside the tavern, a godlike clacked their tongue and sat, thinking.

Anyone bothering to ask the locals the next day about a death godlike drinking in the tavern would have their silly delusions quickly corrected. The village of Palemorn had not seen any godlikes in more than a decade.

[perenians]

props to deadfire for making me care about waidwen. i did not see that one coming

[bragganhyl]

✨ The illustrated edition of A Very Good Farmer is coming to a bookstore near you ✨

[xhinc]

@fervenial's watcher Xathrae for @secret-st-waidwen-exchange c:

[klawphish]

🎶 Then one foggy Spring Dawn eve

Eothas came to say

Waidwen with your head so bright

Won't you lead my war tonight? 🎶

[dragonologist-phd]

Secret St Waidwen Gift Fic!

Happy Secret St Waidwen reveal day! My recipient for the @secret-st-waidwen-exchange is @veronaluna / @spacepigfanclub!

I hope you enjoy your gift!

Fic: Steadfast Characters: Adaryc Cendamyr, Watcher Maraia Ships: Adaryc/Watcher Rating: G Summary: An unconventional first meeting leads to a unique connection, and Adaryc finds himself entranced with someone wholly unexpected.

Adaryc wonders, at times, whether he made the right decision in coming here.

All Commanders must have such thoughts, he supposes. With so many lives in his hands, people like him cannot afford to make decisions that are wrong. When someone like him takes the soldiers he is responsible for and marches them to seize a frozen fortress in a hostile land full of hostile people…he’d better have a good reason.

The thought turns to a sigh, and the sigh almost turns to a yawn. Exhaustion has not yet taken hold, however, and he manages to focus his mind and fight it off; he’s had plenty of practice at that. Sleep is a tempting siren, as it always is, but Adaryc knows better. He knows what sleep will bring.

Even now, if he closes his eyes for too long, he can see the visions: armies and destruction, falling like a hammer on his already-battered homeland.

The memory shakes all thoughts of sleep from Adaryc’s mind, and with renewed vigor he returns his attention to the maps and plans laid out before him. If he wants to stop the vision from becoming a reality, he has a lot of work to do. It may not be pretty, and it certainly won’t be easy- but it must be done.

Later on, he won’t be able to say whether his absorption in his work or the approaching grip of sleep is what causes him to miss the sounds of a trespasser approaching. Perhaps, he’ll consider with some chagrin, he simply let his guard down; why would he be on alert for intruders, here in the middle of an army camp with guards on patrol?

Whatever the reason, the result is that Adaryc does not notice his company until they’ve already slipped into his tent, and he looks up to find himself face-to-face with a stranger. He leaps to his feet immediately, a shout of alarm already on his lips.

The next few moments happen so fast, he barely has time to take in the sight of the strange woman standing before him- just a flash of brown hair, the wind-blown ripple of a long purple scarf, the green of her eyes staring boldly into his.

It’s when their eyes meet that it happens: a sudden, breathless snap, the sensation of falling, a flood of visions and memories and scenes from another life whipping by too quickly to decipher.

And somehow, Adaryc knows that this stranger is feeling the exact same thing.

The feeling is over as soon as it begins, though the breathless sensation lingers. The strange woman is staring at Adaryc, not breaking her green-eyed gaze even as soldiers finally rush into the tent. Adarys holds up a hand to halt them, though even then he doesn’t dare look away from her.

He has no idea what feelings his own face may be betraying, but hers are easy enough to read- wonder, excitement, understanding. The words leave their lips at the same time.

“You’re a Watcher.”

Her name is Maraia.

She is a traveler, currently residing in the Dyrwood, where she has been proclaimed the Lady of Caed Nua. Or perhaps ‘proclaimed herself’ is a better manner of phrase- as Adaryc understands it, there is some dispute over the title, though she is quick to laugh off the conflict. Such is her way, Adaryc soon learns.

She is also a Watcher, just as he is.

The two spend a fair amount of time together after their first hectic meeting. Adaryc’s soldiers are wary of this newcomer and her odd assortment of companions, and for good reason. There are no strong arguments to be made for trusting her and the fantastical stories she brings, save for one: she has shared her own visions with Adaryc, and he knows her to be telling the truth.

It seems impossible. Not only the tales she tells, but the very notion that for all his conviction- the very conviction which drove him to bring his army here, to make these plans, to bind his very soul to his sword as proof of his commitment to Readceras- that despite all this, he may still be wrong.  

But then, Adaryc has had his own share of impossible experiences. And when Maraia opens her mind to him, he knows the truth of her intentions.

With nothing else to do, he agrees that they should work together against whatever true threat resides in these mountains. And despite her strangeness, Adaryc finds himself glad for this new ally. There’s a certain comfort in knowing another Watcher is out there.

She must feel that, too, for it doesn’t take long for them to end up sitting together late one night, when neither can reach the realm of sleep.

Like everything else that’s happened here, their nighttime meeting is an accident. Adaryc is merely taking a walk through the camp, hoping the biting night air will clear his mind, when he rounds a corner and finds her standing there, staring up into the dark, starlit sky. She carries a distant look in her eyes; not a Watcher vision, Adaryc thinks, but distant all the same.

Then she catches sight of Adaryc standing there, staring. Her face brightens, and she flashes him a smile, and suddenly Adaryc is at a loss for words.

“Oh,” he finally manages. “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself,” she replies, leveling a knowing look in his direction. “What brings you out so late? Wait, let me guess- weird dreams?”

“You could say that.” Although distressing is a far more apt descriptor, in this case. The visions which drove him here, those images of invasion and bloodshed…they still haven’t stopped.

“Same here,” Maraia groans, running a hand through her hair as she shakes her head in aggravation. She glances back up at the moon overhead with narrowed eyes. “Wish I could get visions about something nice for once, instead of getting a front-row seat to all the gods’ drama.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Adaryc’s lips, though he does his best to keep his composure. “Careful. You never know when they may be listening.”

“Let them. They know how I feel,” she says with a shrug. Irreverent though she is, her confidence must be admired. “Either way, we’ll settle this soon.”

“I hope so.” He stands there a moment longer, suddenly uncertain of himself as Maraia watches him with those curious green eyes of hers. Even now, her mouth rests at a half-smile, as if tonight’s nightmares and tomorrow’s battle are nothing but a trifle. Adaryc likes her smile…but something about it also makes him nervous in a manner which he is reluctant to place.

“We should both be rested,” he says, intending to make his leave even though he has no intentions of sleep, but Maraia speaks up before he can slink away.

“You want to meet someone?”

Whatever Adaryc had expected- and he’d truly had no idea what to expect when Maraia led him to the small circle of tents her companions have set up on the edge of his camp- he never would have guessed she was taking him to meet a pig.

Not just any pig- no, nothing is ever so simple with Maria. The creature she introduces Adaryc to is a spectral being in the form of a pig, and at this point Adaryc decides not to probe with further questions.

“His name is Cosmo,” Maraia says fondly, scratching between his ears. At her encouragement, Adaryc lifts his hand for the pig to sniff. After a long, slightly awkward moment, Cosmo make a snuffling noise and licks at Adaryc’s fingers.

“He likes you,” Maraia declares.

“Does he?”

“Yeah.” Maraia studies him a moment, that half-smile still on her lips, a glint of mischief sparkling in her eyes. “He says you’re a little brooding, but he can tell you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. A good heart, too.”

Adaryc’s face grows warm, and he drops his eyes from Maraia’s, focusing only on the pig as he struggles for a response. “Tell him…I appreciate the sentiment. And I’m glad he somehow found his way into my camp.”

They chat a little longer after that, though the night is finally starting to weigh on both of them. Still, Adaryc can sense Maraia’s reluctance to return to her tent, even as exhaustion creeps into her voice. Perhaps, he muses, the burdens of a Watcher affect her more than her cheerful disposition would imply.

But they both must eventually get some rest, and when it can be denied no longer Adaryc bids both Maraia and her strange pig goodbye with a small, respectful bow.

“Good luck with your coming missions, Cosmo,” he says, and the pig snuffles happily once more. Adaryc glances at Maraia, and he realizes there is much he still wants to say to her. She is the only other Watcher he has ever met, and she understands his perspective in subtle ways that no other kith possibly could.

And he realizes in that moment that even were he to ignore the obvious connection borne from their mutual powers…he also simply enjoys her company.

“Good luck to both of you,” he says softly. “And stay safe.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Maraia says breezily. Then she smiles again, a full smile, and there’s something warmer in it this time. She places a hand on his shoulder, a light yet comforting touch. “But thanks.”

Maraia handles her mission at the fortress with ease, and she returns safe and successful. She handles the next mission just as deftly, and the next. Tales of those missions grow ever more grand- vengeful gods, ancient grudges, secrets lost to time- but Maraia handles them all. Adaryc is beginning to believe she can handle anything.

His admiration is obvious, he fears. Whenever Maraia visits, Adaryc finds himself standing a little taller. When their eyes meet, he becomes oddly flustered. When she smiles…well, there are simply no words for that.

Adaryc tells himself these reactions are merely due to their connection as fellow Watchers. That this closeness he feels is merely that of comrades who share a rare place in society.

But the relief he feels every time Maraia returns to camp, safe and flush with victory, is something different, and he knows it.

For all of that, however, Adaryc also knows there is no chance of pursuing these feelings down whatever road they may lead. His path may have crossed with Maraia’s here and now, but soon he must carry on back to Readceras. To his people. To his duty. She, meanwhile, has urgent business in the Dyrwood which cannot be denied.

Those are the roads they each must take. There is little chance of future intersection.

And yet…

Their bond cannot be denied. They are two Watchers who have glimpsed each other’s souls, unlikely allies who have worked to create peace out of conflict. They could be something more, Adaryc thinks, whenever Maraia flashes those green eyes at him. Whenever she gives him that damned smile.

The thought is unwise. Adaryc and his army cannot linger here. But he wants to leave something of himself with her, just to let her know that he sees her just as well as she sees him.

In the end, he decides to leave her with his sword.

Maraia regards the gift with some confusion at first- then her mouth falls open in surprise as she realizes what it is, and Adaryc feels a small thrill of pride at having, for once, been the one to leave her speechless.

“This,” she says, shaking her head, “this is your soulbound blade.”

“It’s name is Steadfast. I did the binding as a testament to my belief in my original mission. Considering my initial error in judgment, and your effort in setting it all right…it seemed appropriate that you should be its keeper now.” Adaryc waits to see if he has overstepped, if she will refuse the gift. But after a moment she nods, and her hands close around the hilt.

“…Thank you.”

It seems a rather poetic end to their time together, and Adaryc thinks that will be that. But Maraia pauses one last time before taking her leave.

“You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?” It’s something less than a demand, something more than a request. Her green eyes are piercing as she waits for an answer. “I do want to see you again. Promise me you’ll write, at least.”

And though Adaryc had intended for this to be a grand, final farewell…what else can he do, when she looks at him like that?

“I promise.”

[quenthel]

My @secret-st-waidwen-exchange gift for LOGAN @triflingshadows @triflingshadows @triflingshadows !!! Hope you like it forever and ever!!!!

[herearedragons]

A Waelite Indeed (Secret St. Waidwen exchange 2024 gift for @yelly-ink)

Happy New Year!!!

AO3

For the next hour or two, Aloth has the room all to himself.

The others have gone shopping, and then probably drinking. He claimed to be unwell, still recovering from the blow he'd taken down in Defiance Bay's catacombs — half true; his head does hurt, still, and not just from the usual foreign presence within — and stayed behind, winning himself... some peace and quiet? Not quite.

But, at the very least, a chance to have a conversation in private.

Iselmyr surfaces, as always, with pressure within his skull; it's a familiar and expected discomfort, but even fifty years later, he remembers how badly it scared him the first time this had happened. Part of him thought that his head was going to burst.

Now he knows better, and so he grinds his teeth and lets it come, trying to anchor himself in his own body even as Iselmyr takes some of the space.

It feels like being locked together in a small, narrow closet, with not nearly enough room for two.

Took ye long enough, she says, a teasing edge to her voice.

That annoys him. What he was supposed to do, converse with himself in broad daylight and be whisked away to the sanitarium?

On a better day he might have had more patience for Iselmyr's antics, but today… Today has been strange enough as it is.

"Well, excuse me for having other matters to attend to — such as handling the aftermath of your outbursts!"

Ye mean jawin' with the Watcher? Mayhap it's better she knows about us.

"Telling her… was a relief, yes," he admits begrudgingly — and immediately adds, "It still doesn't excuse you!"

Iselmyr chuckles in his head, her amusement like a taste of too-strong liquor on the back of his tongue.

Come tae, lad. What's done 's done.

That's just like her. Doing as she pleases and never taking responsibility — no, that always falls to him. And what if the Watcher wasn't as understanding as she was? What if she scorned them, turned them away? What would they do then?

He can argue his point until his voice gives out, but Aloth has done that enough to know that it's useless. Some ideas, it seems, Iselmyr just can't comprehend.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, master his own irritation. Anger is an unpleasant emotion; when it takes over, finding the line between himself and her becomes too difficult for his liking.

Finally, he says:

"I will admit, I didn't expect such… instant acceptance from her."

He can still see Izel's face in his mind's eye, her big eyes stark yellow against her dark fur, like two moons in a night sky. Staring a hole through him, excited, as she questioned him about his condition.

He had counter-arguments prepared, dozens of talking points to convince her that he was not dangerous; that he could manage Iselmyr enough for her to be a minor nuisance, rather than a large problem.

There was no need for that. Izel simply accepted his story at face value, and when he gathered the courage to ask her for help, agreed to his request within a heartbeat. If anything, the prospect of delving into the details of his condition seemed to excite her.

She's a fine lass, Iselmyr says.

She's a Waelite indeed, Aloth thinks; fascinated by the unusual and mysterious, ever curious.

He's still not sure how he feels about finding himself in the sights of that curiosity.

"You were trying to tell me something, back on the street," Aloth says. "What was it?"

Shortly after they'd emerged from the catacombs. He was still answering Izel's questions, and whatever Iselmyr was trying to say was lost at the edges of his awareness, settling between his eyes as a dull headache; one that would worsen and worsen until he found a safe space to hear her out.

Aye, she says, her voice suddenly more grave. About the Watcher. Fine she may be, but ye should keep an eye on her, lad.

That takes him by complete surprise.

Iselmyr, of all people, urging caution? A short, nervous laugh escapes him before he can fully compose himself.

"You're… worried? About Izel? Just what has gotten into you? Didn't you just say you approve of her?"

Certainly, Izel has been… forceful, somewhat, in her questioning, and it's not hard to imagine it becoming troublesome if she keeps at it.

But, above all else, she's an ally. They've never had a true ally before; even his Leaden Key supervisors have always remained distant by necessity, allowing him to do his own research as long as it didn't interfere with the Key's goals, but never stepping in to lend a hand themselves. Never promising anything.

And, now that they have Izel's alliance, the help of a true Watcher who is Awakened herself, Iselmyr has doubts?

Stop fretting, lad! I dinnae say she was wickt. But ye saw her down there with the Key. She liked what she was seeing.

Oh, there's the reason. Of course Iselmyr doesn't like her attitude towards the Key. Or, rather, to be more precise, she doesn't like that Izel's perspective doesn't align with her own.

"You're just upset that your ravings fell on deaf ears," Aloth counters. "So, unlike you, she's a woman who can appreciate order and discipline. What of it?"

Fye and coxfither to that!

"Now you're just being juvenile."

I was out in the world 'fore your auld man was a twinkle in HIS auld man's eye. An' I know sure as you do those fiends care nye for order - they just dig up what's rotten an' bury it even deeper.

Aloth presses his lips together, stifling the urge to respond with a more biting remark. In the end, all he says is:

"That is your opinion."

They've been over this countless times before. Whatever he says, Iselmyr will never accept it and simply keep at her own line of reasoning. He wouldn't have bothered with this discussion at all, had she not brought the Watcher — currently, their only hope — into the equation.

All I'm sayin' is, if she dinnae see they're foul, she's blind. An' if she saw it and liked it, mayhap we're better off finding a different Watcher.

"There won't be a different Watcher."

He can still barely believe they've stumbled upon this one.

Better nye Watcher at all than a wickt one.

"Izel's not wicked," Aloth says. "She's just… eccentric."

He doesn't want it to sound like a plea, but it does.

To his surprise, Iselmyr hesitates. He can feel the pressure behind his eyes ebb just for a moment, as if… as if her resolve had faltered.

Mayhap you're right, lad, she says finally. She was kind to us, an' mayhap I wirry for nothing. But if she tries somethin' with us, I'll brek those furry little arms.

"Please don't," Aloth says flatly.

Even if Izel did turn out to be evil incarnate, assaulting a woman half his height and half his weight is not the kind of blow his reputation can take.

Just keep an eye on 'er.

He sighs.

"…I will."

[yelly-ink]

well, happy st. waidwen's day to calendula and xoti and happy upcoming new year to @starlightcleric!! 2025 will definitely be a bright one for poe fandom :D and many thanks to @secret-st-waidwen-exchange for organizing this! <3

[joshbii]

8. As did the Saints in other times 👀

Prompts

As Did the Saints in Other Times

Did they expect a Dozen to stand against the Dawn their sins had wrought? Or merely to cast a shadow, starting strong and shrinking as the Sun rises, that the rest of them may slink about in the dying darkness and await Judgement elsewhere?

The Saint marched before his men, a marshal and martyr both. He did not march alone, nor did he ever, for in his heart, his mind, his soul, he felt the warmth of the blazing Sun. And yet, that warmth stopped shy of granting him peace, as if the Shining God held some deeper truth at arm’s length.

The Dozen before him, he would not let slip his moment of doubt. The Dawnstar’s light descended upon those who would oppose him, and in that instant one was cast ablaze, engulfed by purifying flame. But the Saint took no delight, nor even satisfaction, as another soul returned to the Wheel, for he knew now that something was amiss.

The ground trembled. Stone cracked underfoot, a tremor rippling through the ancient structure of Evon Dewr. It was not fear that the Saint felt in that moment; it was the burning. Not his god’s warmth – no, this was a white-hot, searing thing that crawled through him and held him there, his body no longer his own. It screamed within his mind, pulling taut like a thread about to snap. As the terrible, twisted light began to shine through the cracks in the stonework, he knew well that he was to die.

Eothas had known this would happen. He must have. And yet, the Saint found no anger as he drew his final breaths. It had not been Eothas who had brought him here; his god had been to him a father and a priest both; offering direction and counsel, but knowing all too well that one must be left to make their own choice, in the end.

A father and a priest both. A fitting description of a god, perhaps. Or a saint. But a father is willing to lay down his life for his children, and a priest for his beliefs. Perhaps the other gods would lay nothing down, but Eothas would. And so would he; he would be a martyr, as had the saints in other times.

It mattered not that his war was unfinished, nor that his name might be lost to time; all that mattered now was that they saw the light that followed, and took from it a lesson he was yet too blind to see.

If there was an answer here, it was not for him to know. Perhaps that was the final lesson, he pondered as the blast reached him; that we must walk willingly into the light, blindly at times, trusting that it will not consume us.

[adozentothedawn]

Since I am once again completely obsessed I need you all to see my favourite twitter thread.

Waidwen objectively hot confirmed.

[yanara126-writing]

a kiss on the back of the hand, Remastered

Mani Thilion fan Fürst, advisor to Divine King Waidwen, feels and fears.

-

I have finally reworked this four year old piece that has been annoying me for an eternity! I just did not know what a register was at the time and as a result the voice was horribly off. But! He I have not forgotten my boy Mani, he is not abandoned, I do love him. And I will continue to torture him for my enjoyment. Eventually.

I have also uploaded the new version to the collection on Ao3, if you prefer. I'm always happy about reactions on there as well (and if you like this, there is more like it in that collection. Have fun!

-

In the beginning it had been convenience. Certainly, it had been strange that a peasant farmer had succeeded in rattling the population as much as he had, and deeply disconcerting that he had accomplished a Woedica damned coup against the local government. Of course, he had been somewhat shocked in the first moments. But Mani was nothing if not cunning, and so he had decided to use the situation to his advantage and had pledged his loyalty.

Later it had been respect. The uncultured farmer had caused him quite a lot of frustration, but at some point they had found themselves on equal ground. What better way to unite than a shared hatred of establishments of power? What better way to unite than a shared disappointment in family? And for the first time Mani was put into a position of power by someone who expected and trusted him to fill it well.

And even later it was fondness. Mani did not know when exactly it happened, but at some point they went from king and councillor to friends. Perhaps it had been the first time someone had targeted Mani in an assassination attempt and Waidwen had stepped in front of him without hesitation, perhaps it had been when he had first seen those horrible scars on Waidwen’s back. Regardless of what it had been, it had made the situation personal. The man might be an uncultured oaf, but he was his uncultured oaf.

Now… now it had stopped being a game. Now it was no longer about playing his cards in the game of politics, about paying back every disgrace he’d had to suffer at the hands of the nobles back- no, not home, back in Aedyr. It was not even about helping his friend. No, now it was war, and now his friend, the uncultured peasant oaf, had grown into a god king. Now it was awe… Now it was love.

They were standing before the crowd of cheering peasants, the whole plaza full of people declaring their support, but Mani’s eyes were on his king. Gone was the unrefined fool who couldn’t brush his hair. Gone was the stubborn country bumpkin refusing to wear something that wasn’t old and tattered. Gone was the half feral young man who would flinch if someone dared step up behind him.

Instead there stood the god-king he’d tried so hard to portray before and had never quite been. Immaculate clothing, no matter how simple, clean, back straight, self-assured and confident, and completely in control of the situation. Calm. A leader.

One Mani would follow to the end of time and back if asked.

And one Mani wouldn’t follow, because he had been asked to stay.

He knew why, in fact in Mani’s opinion it was the most logical choice they could make. Someone needed to govern Readceras while Waidwen was gone, and he was capable and prepared for the task. Mani wasn’t a soldier, he could not do much good on the front lines, but back here he could keep the country together.

Mani hated it. He hated that he had to let go, and he hated that he would have to trust others to keep him safe. And he hated that it was the right choice nonetheless.

Mani watched peasants cheer out their approval, saw Broder standing not far to the side with a proud gaze on Waidwen, and felt inadequate. Now was the time to voice feelings, to show his admiration and pride, to demand he be careful. And still all those words he had always been so proud of failed him. How could he possibly explain this storm of conflicting emotions churning within his chest to someone else, when he could not understand them himself?

And so he didn’t. He buried all this confusion, deep within himself where no one would ever find it, banished all thoughts of logic or pride, and what remained was the only way of expressing love he’d ever known. And for the first time he found he really wanted to.

Mani stepped forward. The crowd quieted a little. Waidwen’s head turned as he watched Mani step before him, somewhat expectant, but without any unease.

His steps felt heavy and sounded too loud. All eyes were on him, and once again there was this confusion. It was strange, he felt like he should hate what he was about to do, and hate even more that people were watching, but he didn’t. It felt right. And yet his hands were sweating.

Mani knelt. His back to the people he looked up to Waidwen and held out one hand, his mouth feeling oddly dry for reasons he had no interest in examining. A few seconds passed, and suddenly Mani became aware that perhaps Waidwen didn’t know what Mani was trying to do. But before Mani could truly start panicking at his failure in properly teaching the appropriate etiquette, Waidwen slowly lifted his own hand and put it in his. For a second Mani was distracted at how unlike his own it was. Mani’s hands were soft, meticulously cared for and entirely unmarred. Waidwen’s were covered in calluses, small scars and rough spots, from years and years of being abused with manual labour again and again. This was a hand no noble would ever willingly touch with even their fingertips.

With all the care one would treat a new-born child with he lifted Waidwen’s hand, turned his head downwards and gently pressed his lips against the weathered skin. Without conscious decisions his eyes closed and all that was left was the sensation of warm, rough skin against his much softer lips. No sound passed through to him if there was any at all left, and the world had not suddenly seized to exist. As far as he was concerned, it might as well have.

He stayed like that as long as he could, dragging out what was supposed to be a short proclamation of respect into an intimate moment. Even as he slowly drew back from the kiss, he did not want to let go. He did not want to let this moment end and see what would happen afterwards. He did not want to give up this last shred of control he still had.

So Mani stayed on his knees, Waidwen’s hand still in his own, and pressed the back of it to his forehead, eyes still closed, denying their surroundings. He could not explain why this was so important to him, why he could not give up this last shred of connection, why he needed this physical tether so dearly, why he even did this in the first place. He’d kissed plenty of hands in his life, and he had hated every one of them. Hat hated having to grovel before others who thought themselves his superior, to bow to someone else. He didn’t hate this.

The hand against his forehead moved, and for one short moment Mani was tempted to hold on tighter and refuse to let go, but the hand didn’t pull back, instead moving to the side of his face, softly caressing his cheek. Against better judgement Mani opened his eyes, looked up, and met Waidwen’s gaze. The man (king, god, friend) was looking at him with a strange mixture of warmth, curiosity and understanding.

For just a second longer this moment was theirs, shared in intimate companionship, but all moments must end, and so this one did all too soon as well. The atmosphere was broken when Waidwen glanced to the side, and upon looking back to Mani pulled his hand from his face, instead holding it out in a clear offer.

Finally starting to notice the noise and people behind him Mani hesitantly grabbed the offered hand and let himself be pulled up to his feet. He already missed the warm contact.

Reluctant as he was to leave behind this strange comfort, Mani did as he had always done and seamlessly fitted himself back into the role of arrogant noble. Chin up and face smoothed out into indifference he returned to his place behind Waidwen. Warmth filled his cheek, a shadow of the feeling from before, that comforting touch, and he couldn’t help but desperately try to carve it into his memory.

A pit of dread formed in his stomach then as he watched Waidwen from behind. There was no reason for it, everything was going well, and still there was a nagging in the back of his head, this insistence that there had been something else, that this warmth that he was still feeling hadn’t been all. Mani knew this nagging well, he had carefully cultivated it over years, had honed his senses to all the subtleties of court, and it had never failed him. In that moment Mani prayed for the first time, to Eothas, to Hylea, to Woedica, to whoever would hear him, that just this one time it would. That this wouldn’t be the last kiss he was allowed to give his king, his god, his friend.