#war on hollow hill | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theonottsbxtch · 16 days ago

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MARNE LA VALLEE | MV1

an: so everybody look at @luvstappen and BLAME HER FOR THIS PAINFUL ANGST. kidding, this is something that will discuss some very sensitive topics and is based off a film i recently watched called vermiglio. please read the warnings before reading this. i had a lot of fun attempting to write this in the style of a cold film, i hope you guys like this as much as i loved writing it.

wc: 10k

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS: Mentions of war, death, suicide, murder, childloss? please tread with caution when reading.

THE WAR HAD MADE GHOSTS of men long before their bodies were laid to rest. Max knew this well. He had seen it in the trenches, in the hollowed eyes of soldiers who spoke in murmurs of home but carried death in their pockets. He had seen it in the streets of his own country, where hunger and fear clung to the air like fog. He had felt it in himself, that slow erosion of self, until he was no more than a name in a ledger, a rifle in trembling hands.

So he ran.

The border was not easy to cross, but desperation is its own kind of compass. He walked where roads would betray him, hid in barns where the straw was damp and the air thick with rot. He slept little, ate less. It was not death he feared, it was capture, the weight of another man’s orders pressing against his back, the certainty that the next bullet would be his own.

And then, the village.

It was small, forgotten, crouched in the hills of Le Grand Est called Marne La Vallee where the war was a distant, bitter echo. There were soldiers, but few. There was hardship, but it had not yet hollowed out the land. Smoke curled from chimneys. Bread still cooled on windowsills. It was a place that had learned to survive, not by fighting, but by waiting.

She found him first. Or perhaps he found her. A moment, a glance, a silent understanding. The village did not ask questions, nor did she.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

Charles was the first to welcome him in.

It was not kindness, not entirely, there was a wariness in his gaze, a careful assessment in the way he looked Max over, as if measuring whether he could be trusted. But Charles knew war. He had fought in it, had carried it home in his bones, had felt it unravel him from the inside until they’d sent him back, useless to the cause. His hands still shook when he held a cup of tea too long. His knee still stiffened in the cold. He knew what war did to a man.

And so he let Max stay.

Arthur was different.

Arthur had wanted to fight. He had watched men go off to war with their heads held high, had watched them march into something greater than themselves, and he had burned with the need to stand among them. But he had been too young. Too young to enlist, too young to do his part. Instead, he had been left behind to mend fences and stack firewood, to listen to wireless reports and write letters to boys who would never write back.

Now, he looked at Max with something colder than contempt.

A deserter. A coward.

He did not say it outright, not in those first days, but Max could feel it in the way Arthur’s gaze lingered too long, in the way his jaw tightened when he entered a room. Charles would speak to Max with quiet acceptance, a nod towards a seat by the fire, a mumbled instruction on where to find work. But Arthur? Arthur would let the silence stretch, would make a show of stacking wood in the yard with twice the force necessary, would scoff under his breath whenever Max turned away.

Still, the village did not send him off.

There was work to be done, and Max had hands enough to do it. He fixed shutters that had been rattled loose by winter winds, patched roofs before the rains came, carried sacks of flour to and from the mill without complaint. The old men who sat outside the bakery in the morning watched him with quiet curiosity; the women at the well spoke in hushed voices, glancing his way, assessing.

He knew what they saw. A foreigner, a man without a country, a man who had walked away from a war that had not yet walked away from him.

But she did not look at him like that.

She did not ask him why he had left, nor what he had left behind. She did not probe at the wounds he had carefully bound. Instead, she let him exist in the quiet spaces between things. When he passed her in the fields, she would smile. When she brought water to the men working, she would set a cup down beside him without a word. And when, one evening, Charles invited him to sit at their table, she did not flinch, did not look away, did not question why a man like him should be given a place among them.

Arthur, however, did.

"You’ve seen no trenches," Arthur said that night, the words slipping from his mouth like something bitter. "You’ve never fired a shot."

Charles exhaled sharply, setting his knife down. "That’s enough."

But Arthur did not stop. He leaned forward, fingers curled around the edge of the table, eyes burning. "Did you even try?"

Max did not answer.

He had learned, long ago, that there were no right words. No defence he could give that would not be spat back at him. He had tried once, had spoken of the men he had seen with their bodies torn apart, of the cold, of the hunger, of the way the fear had made his hands useless on the rifle. He had spoken of the moment he had realised he could not do it, could not march to a death that was not his own, could not fight for a cause that felt as distant as the stars.

And yet, to men like Arthur, there was no excuse.

Cowardice had no poetry to it.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then Charles reached for his glass, took a slow sip, and spoke without looking up.

"You don’t know what war is, Arthur. You think you do. But you don’t."

Arthur’s throat worked, his knuckles white against the wood. He pushed back from the table without another word, chair scraping against the floor, and left the room.

Max did not move.

She did not look at him with pity. She did not look at him with judgment.

She simply passed him the bread.

The days folded into one another, each passing like the slow turn of a page. Max worked where hands were needed, mending, lifting, carrying. He moved through the village as a man untethered, neither fully belonging nor entirely cast out. Charles treated him as one of their own, offering him work where he could, speaking to him in the steady, measured tones of a man who had seen too much to care for past grievances. Arthur remained distant, his contempt quiet but unwavering.

And she watched.

It was not a watchfulness of suspicion, nor one of curiosity. It was something quieter, something that did not press or pry. She passed him in the fields, nodded to him when he carried grain from the mill, handed him bread and water without ceremony. They spoke little at first. But when they did, it was in French, hers slow and careful, his rough and uneven.

"Tu n’es pas d’ici," she remarked once, not as a question but as a truth. You’re not from here.

"Non."

She did not ask where home was. Perhaps she knew better than to ask a man who no longer had one.

It was Charles who first noticed. "You speak it well," he said one evening, as they worked side by side repairing a fence post. "Better than most who pass through."

Max nodded. "I learnt young."

"And yet, you don’t write it."

The words were said simply, without malice, but Max still felt them land like something sharp-edged.

The realisation had come quietly, as all things did in small villages where news travelled fast. The baker’s wife had frowned when he hesitated over the chalkboard list of rations. The old priest had watched him too long when he signed his name with careful, deliberate strokes, each letter slow, uncertain. And Charles, observant as ever, had noticed the way Max never reached for a newspaper, the way he did not write down numbers when counting grain, the way his silence stretched a little too long whenever someone pointed to a letter, expecting recognition.

She had noticed too.

It was her father’s school that took in men like him. Grown men who had spent their lives in fields instead of classrooms, who had worked with their hands instead of books. The village saw no shame in it. After all, the war had stolen more than lives; it had stolen time, stolen youth, stolen the years where learning had been a luxury few could afford.

Still, when Charles first suggested it, Max hesitated.

It was one thing to be a deserter. It was another to be a fool.

"Come if you want," Charles said with a shrug. "Don’t if you don’t."

It was a choice left in the air between them, one Max let sit for days.

Then, one evening, he found himself at the threshold of the school, hands curling into fists at his sides. The room was dimly lit, warm despite the chill outside, the low murmur of voices filling the space. Other men sat hunched over desks, brows furrowed, chalk dust settling over rough hands. And at the front of the room stood her father, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, patience carved into his very stance.

She was there too, stacking books at the back of the room, moving with the quiet ease of someone who belonged in such a place. She glanced up when she saw him, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze. But she did not question why he was there.

She only nodded.

And so he stayed.

The lessons were slow. The letters did not come easily to him, twisting and blurring on the page, refusing to settle into meaning. But she was there in the evenings, sitting near enough that he could hear the scratch of her pen against paper, the murmur of her voice as she recited passages under her breath. When he struggled, her father guided him with quiet patience, tracing letters with a steady hand, never once letting frustration slip into his tone.

One evening, as the others filed out, Max remained behind, frowning at a page of words that refused to yield. She approached, glancing at the paper.

"C’est difficile?" You find it difficult?

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Toujours." Always

A pause. Then, she reached for his chalk, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. She wrote a word slowly, deliberately.

"Espoir."

Hope.

She tapped the page lightly. "C’est un bon mot à apprendre." It’s a good word to learn.

He looked at her then, and something settled between them, not a shift, not yet, but the quiet understanding of two people who did not need words to fill the space between them.

The days stretched into weeks, and still, Max stayed.

Autumn thickened into winter, the air sharp with frost, the village settling into the quiet rhythm of survival. Wood was stacked high against the cold. Bread was made in careful measure. And at night, in the dim light of the schoolhouse, Max traced letters onto paper, his fingers stiff and unsteady, his breath curling in the chill of the room.

She was there more often now.

She did not hover, nor offer help unasked, but he felt her presence like something steady, something sure. Sometimes, when the lesson was done and the others had gone, she would remain behind, tidying books, straightening chairs. And sometimes, when neither of them spoke, it did not feel like silence at all.

It was on one such evening, when the lamps burned low and the snow had begun to fall in slow, drifting flakes, that he found her beside him at the desk, her sleeves pushed to her elbows, ink staining her fingertips.

"You’re improving," she said, glancing at the words he had written.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Not fast enough."

She picked up the chalk, tapping it against the wood. "Then don’t rush."

There was something about the way she said it. Steady. Certain. As though she knew him well enough to understand that patience did not come easily to him.

He did not answer. Instead, he let his gaze linger on her hands, on the curve of her wrist, the delicate smudge of graphite along her knuckles. She noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she did not look away.

The space between them had narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

She was close enough that he could see the flecks of ink on her skin, the way her breath caught, just slightly, when he lifted his gaze to hers. He had seen war, had seen death, had seen the way the world could collapse in a moment. But this, this was something different.

A risk of another kind.

He moved first. Or perhaps she did. A breath. A shift. A closing of space. And then, before thought could intervene, before hesitation could creep in, he pressed his lips to hers.

It was not urgent. Not desperate. It was slow, deliberate, as though neither of them quite believed they had reached this moment. Her fingers curled, just slightly, against the desk. His hand found the edge of the chair, steadying himself against the sudden, impossible certainty of her.

And when they pulled apart, there was no rush to speak. No need to fill the quiet.

She only touched her fingers lightly to his, her thumb brushing over the calloused ridge of his knuckle, and in that touch, he understood.

They were married in the spring.

It was a small ceremony, the kind that did not require grand declarations or elaborate arrangements. The village gathered in quiet understanding, some watching with knowing smiles, others with wary curiosity. Charles clapped Max on the back with a gruff nod, his approval unspoken but present all the same. Arthur stood stiffly at the back, arms folded, eyes dark with something Max could not quite place, but he did not object. Not aloud.

When she took his hands in hers, when vows were spoken in soft, steady voices, Max did not think of the past, nor of the war that had shaped him.

He thought only of her.

The days moved forward, indifferent to the weight of war.

Max worked as he always had, his hands shaping the world into something steady. Fixing shutters that rattled in the wind, mending the fences that winter had broken, stacking wood for the months ahead. The village still stood in the shadow of the war, but here, in the quiet rhythm of daily life, there was something that felt like peace.

She was at the heart of it.

Their marriage was not one of grand gestures or endless declarations. It was built in small moments—the brush of her hand against his as she passed him a bowl at supper, the way her head rested against his shoulder when sleep found her, the unspoken understanding that tethered them together. It was not a love that demanded to be seen. It was a love that simply was.

And now, it was growing.

She told him on a morning where the birds chirped in the trees beside the house, her hands curled around a cup of tea, the warmth chasing away the cold. She did not say the words at first, only reached for his hand and placed it gently over the curve of her stomach, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

But he understood.

The breath left him all at once. He had not expected it—not now, not yet—but the weight of it settled in his chest, something fragile and terrifying and impossibly real.

He had not known what it was to belong somewhere, not truly. But here, in this quiet moment, with her beneath his hands and their child growing between them, he thought perhaps he did.

The war lingered still.

Men returned home in pieces. Some missing limbs, others missing something far worse. News came in whispers, names passed from mouth to mouth, a tally of those who would not be coming back. But in the village, life carried on. It had to. The cows still needed milking, the fields still needed tending. The earth did not stop for grief.

Max continued his lessons in the evenings. He was improving now, the letters less foreign beneath his fingers, the words coming with greater ease. When he wrote, she watched, sometimes offering corrections, sometimes only smiling to herself, as if pleased by the quiet determination that kept him at his desk.

Her father still oversaw the lessons, but now he looked at Max differently. Less like an outsider, more like something known. And yet, there was something else beneath it.

Something Max did not understand.

Not until he heard the conversation.

It was late, the schoolhouse quiet but for the faint rustling of papers. Max had stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air, when he heard them—her father and Charles, their voices low, serious.

"He should go back," her father was saying.

Max stilled.

"You think he would leave her now?" Charles’s voice was wary.

"He must," her father said. "His mother will believe him dead. He has a duty to her, if nothing else." A pause. "And perhaps, then he can come back to her."

Max did not move.

"Do you think he would?" Charles asked.

Her father sighed. "I don’t know."

The words settled, heavy and uncertain.

And then, before Max could think to step back, the door opened behind him.

She stood there, her breath caught in her throat, one hand resting against the curve of her stomach, her expression unreadable.

She had heard.

The war was ending.

And now, for the first time, the question hung between them. When it was over, would he leave?

The day he left, the air was thick with the weight of something unspoken.

Summer had begun to break through the last of spring’s cold hold, the frost fully retreating from the fields, the earth softening beneath cautious footsteps. Life stirred in the village—buds on trees, the hum of bees, the slow return of warmth. And yet, for her, the world felt caught between seasons, hovering in the space between what was and what would be.

Max was leaving.

Not forever. Not truly.

She knew this.

And yet, as she stood at the threshold of her home, watching him pull his coat tighter against the morning chill, she felt the ache of it settle deep in her bones.

"I will write to you," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "A long letter. Every word I can give you. They will be my words."

She nodded, her hands resting against the curve of her stomach, their child shifting beneath her fingers. "I will hold you to that."

Max exhaled, a small, unsteady breath, before reaching for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, rough and calloused, warm even in the cold. He had never been a man of many words, but she did not need them.

She had always understood him.

Charles stood by the cart, his expression unreadable. He had insisted on going with Max, though no one had asked it of him. It was his way, she supposed, a quiet kind of loyalty, the kind that did not need to be spoken aloud.

Arthur had said nothing. He had only stood at the doorway that morning, watching, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And then, without a word, he had turned away.

She did not go to the station.

She could not bear to watch the train take him from her.

Instead, she stood in the doorway of their home, the house still smelling of woodsmoke and morning bread, and watched as he climbed into the cart beside Charles.

Max turned back only once.

Their eyes met across the distance, something unbreakable passing between them.

And then, he was gone.

Two weeks passed, and the silence began to weigh on her like the heavy stillness before a storm.

At first, she had told herself it was only natural. The letters would come when they could, after all. Max was in Belgium now, a place torn by war and time, and perhaps the roads were not as kind as they once had been. Or perhaps he simply needed time to gather his thoughts, to find the right words. She had told herself this again and again, but with each passing day, the empty space between the world she had built and the world he now occupied seemed to grow.

She had not heard from him.

Not even once.

The doubt began to settle in her bones, thin and insidious, like a quiet chill that grew colder the longer it was ignored. She tried to shake it off, to tell herself there was nothing to fear, but every morning, when she stepped out into the quiet of her home, there was only the faint echo of absence, the ache of his absence in every corner. The house had once felt full of him, full of the promise of their future, but now it felt still, as if waiting for a sound that would not come.

And still, no letter.

It was late afternoon when her little cousin, Madeleine, arrived. She always had a way of filling up a room, her chatter endless and her laughter a steady hum of cheerfulness that cut through even the darkest of moods. Today, though, there was something else in her eyes. A glint of excitement, perhaps, or the way her footsteps seemed to bounce off the earth with a new energy.

"Don’t you look miserable?" Madeleine teased as she pushed the door open, all wide eyes and bright smiles.

She gave a small, strained smile in return. "I’m not miserable."

Madeleine raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over the half-empty room, the quiet that hung in the air like a thick veil. She knew. Madeleine always knew when something was wrong, even when she pretended not to. "You’re missing him, aren’t you?"

Her cousin had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

"I haven’t heard from him," she confessed, her voice tight, though she did not allow herself to dwell on it. "It’s been two weeks."

Madeleine frowned, then instantly brightened. "He’ll write soon enough, I’m sure of it." She tossed her bag onto the table and gave a determined little nod. "And even if he doesn’t, you’ve got me to keep you company."

The words were meant to comfort, but her cousin’s cheerful voice only highlighted the hollow ache she was trying to ignore. Still, she appreciated it.

Madeleine grabbed a chair and swung it around to face her. "So, tell me. Have you decided what to name the baby yet?"

The mention of the baby made her pause. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a quiet reminder that there was something to look forward to, something that would grow despite the world’s many uncertainties.

"I don’t know," she said after a pause. "I’ve been thinking about it, but... I don’t know."

Madeleine looked at her with wide, eager eyes. "Well, I think you should name it something strong. A name like... Jacques, or Henri."

"Henri," she repeated softly, turning the name over in her mind. "Yes. That’s a strong name."

Madeleine’s eyes lit up. "Henri! Yes! And for a girl..." She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the perfect answer. "Marie. It’s a classic, isn’t it? Marie Henriette."

She couldn’t help but laugh at her cousin’s enthusiasm. "Marie Henriette, you say?"

Madeleine grinned. "Yes. Very elegant."

Her laughter softened, but the edges of her worry still lingered. She had not expected to feel the absence of Max so acutely, not in the way she did now. She had thought, foolishly, that time and distance would not matter. But it did. It mattered more than she had ever known.

"You’ll get your letter," Madeleine added, sensing the shift in her mood. "And when you do, you can tell me all about the baby names. I’ll be here to help pick, of course."

Her cousin’s light-hearted chatter, so simple and full of life, was a balm she hadn’t known she needed. And for a brief moment, it felt like everything was okay again—like they could sit there, in the warmth of her home, and dream of names and futures and things that were still far from certain.

But just as the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows through the house, the door opened again.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his gaze flicking to the two of them, his expression unreadable. She hadn’t seen much of him in recent days. He’d kept his distance, ever since Max had left, as though he had quietly decided that his presence no longer mattered in their little world.

He had always been like that, closed off, his thoughts hidden behind that wall he never let anyone cross. But today, something felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air, a shift that she couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t speak right away, instead giving a curt nod to Madeleine, who was still sitting across from her with her bright, inquisitive eyes.

"Have you heard from him?" Arthur asked, his voice soft but heavy with something—concern? Or was it guilt?

She shook her head, the ache returning with the question. "No. Not yet."

Arthur paused, his eyes flicking to her stomach, then back to her face. "He’ll write. If he knows what’s good for him." The words were blunt, but they didn’t carry the usual edge of bitterness.

Madeleine, sensing something unspoken between them, stood up, stretching dramatically. "Well, I’m off, then. Don’t sit in the dark and pull faces, the minute the wind passes you’ll hate that your faces stay stuck like that!" She gave them both a quick, knowing smile before grabbing her bag again. "Remember, Marie Henriette."

And with that, she was gone, leaving behind only the soft sound of the door closing and the heavy silence that followed.

Arthur lingered, still standing near the threshold, his gaze turned toward the floor. Then, quietly, almost as if the words hurt him too, he spoke again.

"You’ll hear from him soon."

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The silence was a bitter thing now, one that seemed to stretch longer with every passing day. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she simply let the quiet sit, holding onto the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t the absence of letters that hurt most—, but the absence of the man who had promised to write them.

A week passed, and the silence was suffocating.

She had told herself it would be different, that he would write, that he would return soon, that everything would fall back into place. But the days bled into one another, each one heavy with the unanswered questions that hung in the air. Her thoughts, once clear, had turned into a constant murmur, a nagging hum at the back of her mind that she could not escape.

Still, she waited. Still, she hoped.

But as the days wore on, the silence between them seemed to grow louder, more oppressive. It was now nearly a week since Madeleine’s visit, and still no word.

She had tried to keep busy, to do the things she knew she needed to do, to care for the house, to tend to the garden, to keep the world turning despite the weight in her chest. But every moment without a letter from Max felt like an eternity, and every hour without him felt like a piece of herself slowly slipping away.

It was late in the afternoon when she heard it.The distant sound of hooves against the dirt road.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the wind, a memory of sounds past. But then it came again, unmistakable, the rattle of a chariot’s wheels, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves, a sound she knew well.

Her heart leapt in her chest.

Max.

It had to be Max. She knew it. He was coming back to her.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she ran downstairs. Her breath quickened with the anticipation, her pulse racing in her throat. She was halfway to the door when she saw him—or, at least, she thought she did.

But when the door swung open, her eyes met Charles’s somber face instead.

Her heart dropped.

Charles.

He stood in the doorway, his expression grim, his coat heavy with the weight of the journey. He didn’t smile, didn’t even look at her the way he usually did, with that familiar, steady warmth.

Behind her, Arthur appeared, his face unreadable, his movements stiff. He had heard the chariot, too, had followed her down the stairs with the same hope. But when he saw the look on Charles’s face, he fell silent, his shoulders tight.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes meeting hers briefly, before he looked away. He didn’t say a word at first, but in his hand, he held a single item. A newspaper, folded in half.

She reached for it, her hands trembling as she took it from him.

Her eyes flicked to the front page, and for a moment, her mind couldn’t quite process the words that stared back at her. The letters blurred, and the ink seemed to swim before her. But there they were, the headlines clear and cold: Max Verstappen, Dead at 28—Killed by His Wife in a Tragic Act of Honour.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

The article went on to describe the unthinkable. How Max had returned to Belgium after having deserted his post in the war, how he had started a new life in the Grand Est of France, had taken a wife, and had gotten her pregnant. And then, the piece de resistance—the final, damning words.

His first wife had found out. In a fit of rage, in a jealous fury, she had killed him. A matter of dishonour, they wrote, a wife who could not tolerate the shame of her husband’s new life, of his betrayal.

She read it again.

And again.

But the words didn’t change. They were the same.

Max was dead.

The life they had built together, the love they had shared, it was gone. The future they had planned for. It had never existed at all.

And then it hit her. The reality of it. The finality of it.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural cry of pain that tore through her chest like a knife. The paper slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor as she sank to her knees, her body trembling with the force of the scream that had escaped her lips.

Charles moved quickly, kneeling beside her, his arms wrapping around her. His strong hands held her tight, steadying her against the overwhelming storm of grief that had overtaken her.

And then, as if the world had stopped, Arthur was there too.

His arms around her, just as Charles’s had been.

The two men, so different in many ways, but here they were, their presence a quiet support, their strength a solace. But still, no words came. There was nothing to say.

She cried.

She cried for the man she had loved. For the man she had lost. For the future they would never share. For the baby that would never know his father.

She cried for the unfairness of it all. For the way the world had turned so cruel, so unforgiving.

And in that moment, she wasn’t sure if the tears would ever stop, or if she wanted them to. She didn’t know if she could bear this loss, this betrayal of the life she had dreamed of.

But Arthur’s arms tightened around her, and Charles’s hand pressed against her back, and she let herself sink into them, into the grief, into the feeling of being held by something that wasn’t quite enough to mend what had been broken.

She would never be the same again.

Time passed, but she did not follow it.

Days bled into nights, seasons shifted, but she remained unmoved, caught in the static of grief. The world outside carried on as though nothing had changed, but inside her, everything had unravelled.

She did not cry anymore. There was no use in it. Tears did nothing, solved nothing, brought no one back. And so, she stopped speaking, too.

Words were hollow things, useless things. They sat heavy in her throat, unwelcome. She let them wither away, let silence take their place. It was easier this way.

She left the house not long after that day. Left behind the ghosts of what once was, the warmth of home now foreign to her. Charles had tried to stop her, had begged her to stay, but she had only looked at him—empty, silent—and he had understood. Or maybe he hadn't, but he let her go anyway.

She moved into the school.

It was cold there, unfeeling. The walls held no memories of Max, no scent of him in the blankets, no echo of his voice in the halls. That was what she needed.

She did not sleep in a bed. She made a place for herself beneath the desks, curled beneath the wood like a child hiding from the world. Some nights, she sat upright against the bookshelves, staring at nothing until her body gave in to exhaustion.

She barely ate.

Food had no taste, no purpose. Her father left things for her. Bread, soup, fruit. But they would sit untouched for days until mould took them, and only then would she move them aside. Hunger gnawed at her, but she welcomed it. Let it consume her from the inside out.

She wandered through each day in a haze, drifting like a ghost through empty corridors. The sound of children’s laughter filtered in from the classrooms, but it never reached her. She did not teach, did not speak, did not live.

And she avoided Arthur.

She could not look at him.

There was something in his eyes, something that had been there from the start. A knowing. An unspoken I told you so that he never voiced but that sat between them like an unbearable weight.

Arthur had known. Somehow, he had always known.

And she hated him for it.

She hated that he had seen what she had not. Hated that he had been right. Hated that, in some way, he had been waiting for this, for Max to fail her. And now he was watching her crumble beneath the truth of it.

She was afraid of him, of what he saw when he looked at her now, nothing but a woman broken by her own blindness, by a love that had never been real.

She did not know how long she had been like this. Time was nothing now.

But one night, as the rain pounded against the school’s windows and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, there was a sound at the door.

A soft knock.

She did not move.

Then another. Firmer.

Still, she did not answer.

And then the door opened.

She knew it was him before she saw him.

Arthur.

He stepped inside, his coat dripping from the rain, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. He did not speak right away. He only stood there, staring at her, taking in the wreckage she had become.

She sat curled beneath one of the desks, her knees drawn to her chest, her hair tangled, her skin pale and hollow.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

And then, finally, Arthur exhaled, a slow, measured breath.

“This isn’t living,” he said.

She flinched. The words were soft, but they landed like a blow.

Still, she said nothing.

Arthur took a slow step forward, then another, until he was standing just before her. He crouched down, levelling his gaze with hers.

"You think this is what he would’ve wanted?"

She clenched her jaw, her throat burning.

He sighed, shaking his head. "No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear into yourself. You don’t get to do this to your child. You are still here. And you—" He stopped himself, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. "You are not alone, no matter how much you wish to be."

She let out a slow breath, her shoulders curling inward. She wished he would leave. She wished he would stop looking at her like that—like he still saw her, even when she was nothing but fragments of who she once was.

When she did not answer, Arthur’s voice dropped, quieter this time.

"Come home."

Home.

The word felt foreign, like something from another life.

She looked away, her eyes burning, her body trembling with exhaustion, with hunger, with grief.

Arthur did not move. He only waited.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something other than numbness.

It was not hope. Not yet.

But it was something.

Arthur did not leave.

The first night, she had ignored him. She had curled beneath the desk as she always did, her back to him, willing herself to disappear into the silence. But he had not moved.

She had thought, perhaps, that he would go home, that the rain and the cold and the weight of her grief would drive him away. But when she awoke in the grey hush of dawn, stiff and aching, he was still there, sat against the door, arms crossed, head tilted back, eyes closed but alert beneath his furrowed brow.

The second night, she had tried to tell him to go.

She had managed only a whisper "pars" but her voice was thin, barely there, swallowed up by the emptiness of the school.

Arthur had only looked at her.

"Nan," he had said simply.

And that was that.

Days passed in a slow, painful blur. He did not speak much. He did not force her to eat, though he left bread and water where she could reach them. He did not drag her home, though he could have. He only stayed, a quiet presence in the corner, as though he had decided that if she was going to waste away, he would not let her do it alone.

And then—

The pain came like fire.

It was deep and sudden, tearing through her as she lay curled on the wooden floor. At first, she thought it was nothing, another wave of exhaustion, another punishment from a body she had long neglected.

But then it came again. And again.

Stronger. Closer.

She gasped, her hands gripping the floorboards. A fresh wave of pain seized her, and a sharp cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Arthur stirred.

She did not see him move, but suddenly he was beside her, crouching at her side, his hands hovering over her as though he was afraid to touch her.

"What is it?" His voice was sharper now, edged with something unfamiliar, something like fear.

She could not answer.

The pain stole her breath, locked her inside her own body. And then it dawned on her, with a slow, creeping horror—

It was time.

She wasn’t ready.

"No," she whispered, her breath hitching. "Not yet."

Arthur swore under his breath. Then he was up, grabbing his coat, already halfway to the door.

"Stay awake," he ordered, his voice clipped, urgent. "I’ll be back."

And then he was gone.

The minutes that followed stretched into something unbearable. She curled in on herself, sweat slick on her skin, pain rolling over her in relentless waves. The schoolhouse blurred, the candlelight flickering, the world tilting.

Then the door burst open again, and there were hands on her, familiar, steady hands, voices murmuring, lifting her, guiding her through the storm of it.

Her father’s house was warm. Too warm. She had not been inside it for so long that it felt foreign to her now, the walls too close, the air thick with the smell of lavender and candlewax.

Then her mother. Her aunt. Hands pressing against her clammy skin, gentle voices cooing words she could not hear.

She barely saw Arthur, but she knew he was there. A shadow in the doorway, pacing.

Time twisted.

Pain consumed everything.

She heard them tell her to push.

"Non."

She clenched her teeth, shook her head.

"You have to, ma fille." Her mother’s voice was gentle, pleading.

"No."

She could not.

If she did, it would be real.

If she did, Max would still be gone.

If she did, nothing would change.

Hands gripped hers. Soft, warm, trembling.

Charles.

She hadn’t even realised he was there, hadn’t noticed him come to her side.

"I know," he murmured. "I know it hurts. But you have to."

Her breath shuddered. Her body trembled.

And then, with the last of her strength, she did.

A cry pierced the room.

Small, desperate, new.

And just like that, it was over.

She fell back, her body drained, her mind floating somewhere beyond reach.

She did not want to look.

She did not want to see.

But then there was a weight against her chest, a warmth, a softness.

And she saw her.

Blonde curls, wet with birth. A small, perfect nose. Eyes squeezed shut opening briefly to show crystal blue eyes, lips parted in a wail of protest.

She could barely breathe.

Max.

The child was Max.

His mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his shape.

Something inside her cracked.

She turned her head away.

Someone took the baby from her, and she did not stop them.

She did not want to see.

She did not want to feel.

She closed her eyes.

And let the world fade to black.

Time passed.

The world carried on, but she remained untouched by it. Days slipped into nights, and the child, her child, grew.

But not by her hands.

She kept away from the girl.

Her mother took care of her, cooing to her in hushed lullabies, stroking the blonde curls that were not hers. Arthur, too, had taken to the child in his quiet, steady way. She caught glimpses of him sometimes, holding the girl with a carefulness she had never seen from him before, as if she were something fragile, something precious.

She did not ask what they had named her.

She did not want to know.

The days were dull, empty things. She drifted through them like a ghost, neither living nor dead, lost in the spaces between.

And then one evening, the weight of it all became too much.

The house was suffocating. The candlelight too warm, the sounds of laughter, not hers, too distant, too cruel. She could not bear to be inside those walls any longer, where Max’s absence clung to every corner, where his daughter existed in a world he would never see.

So she walked.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to move, to be away, to escape the skin that felt too tight around her bones.

It was cold outside. The wind gnawed at her as she walked through the empty streets, as her feet carried her further than they ever had before.

And then she saw it.

The bridge.

She stopped at the edge, looking out over the water below.

It was dark, the river black and endless beneath her. The wind howled through the trees, rattling the wooden beams of the bridge, but she did not feel it. She did not feel anything at all.

She stepped forward.

Sat down on the ledge.

Her feet dangled over the edge, the fabric of her dress fluttering in the wind.

She thought, briefly, of how easy it would be.

How quiet.

How peaceful.

A step. A fall. And then—nothing.

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

And then—

Arms wrapped around her from behind.

Strong, desperate, shaking.

A gasp broke the silence, a choked, ragged sound, and then a voice—low, broken, breathless.

"Nan."

Arthur.

His grip was iron. He pulled her back, dragged her from the edge, his hands clutching at her like she might slip away, like if he just held tight enough, he could stop the world from taking her.

He turned her to him, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath uneven, his body trembling.

And then, something she had never seen before.

Arthur cried.

He let out a sob, raw and shuddering, and held onto her as if she were the last thing tethering him to the earth.

"Please," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "Please don’t."

She did not move.

She did not cry.

She only sat there, numb, hollow, weightless in his arms.

And as the wind howled around them, as Arthur clung to her with everything he had, she wondered—

Why did he care so much when she felt like nothing at all?

Arthur did not let go of her that night.

Even as she sat there, silent in his arms, distant and detached, he held her as though she might slip away again if he loosened his grip. His breath was unsteady against her hair, his fingers tight around her wrists.

And then, without a word, he pulled her up.

He carried her home through the dark streets, his arms steady, his jaw clenched. She did not protest. She did not have the strength.

When they reached the house, he did not hand her off to her mother, nor did he let her retreat into the shadows where she had been dwelling for so long. He led her up the stairs himself, into her room, and sat her down on the edge of the bed.

She felt the mattress dip beneath her weight, but she did not move.

Arthur knelt before her, unfastened her shoes with careful hands, and pulled the blankets up over her shoulders. She let him.

Then, he pulled up a chair, placed it in the corner of the room, and sat.

Watching.

Waiting.

He did not speak.

She turned onto her side, curling into herself, staring blankly at the wall. The room was heavy with the sound of his breathing, slow and deliberate, as if he were grounding himself with it.

Sleep did not come easily. But eventually, the exhaustion took her, dragging her into the depths of a dreamless slumber.

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky.

Arthur was still there.

He had not moved from his chair, though his eyes were no longer fixed on her. Instead, he sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with an unreadable expression.

She did not speak.

He did.

"Lève-toi." Get up.

His voice was quiet but firm.

She blinked, sluggish with sleep, confusion flickering across her hollow features.

He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and turned to face her.

"On part." We’re leaving.

Her brows knitted slightly.

She hadn’t left the house in days—properly left.

But Arthur wasn’t looking for a fight. He didn’t offer explanations, nor did he wait for her to question him. He left the room, and she was left with little choice but to follow.

She dressed slowly, without urgency, and when she finally made her way downstairs, he was already waiting by the door.

The journey was quiet.

Arthur did not tell her where they were going, and she did not ask. The train ride stretched on for hours, the countryside rolling past in a blur of greens and greys.

She watched the window, detached, her hands resting in her lap.

Arthur did not look at her. He sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze set ahead, his body still as stone.

It wasn’t until the train began to slow that she finally saw it.

A sign.

Hasselt.

Her breath hitched.

She froze.

Her pulse hammered in her throat, a cold, sharp dread settling in her stomach.

She turned to Arthur then, her first real movement in hours, her lips parting—

But he did not give her the chance to speak.

He took her by the wrist, guiding her off the train with steady, unyielding hands.

Outside, the air was cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter. Arthur wasted no time in finding a caddy, speaking to the driver in low, firm tones before helping her in.

She did not protest.

She barely breathed.

The carriage ride was long.

The silence sat thick between them.

And then—

The caddy stopped.

She knew before she even looked where they were.

Graveyard gates loomed before them, iron and ivy-clad, weathered by time. Beyond them, rows of headstones stretched into the distance, names carved into stone, lives reduced to mere dates.

Her stomach twisted.

Arthur stepped out first.

He turned to her, his gaze unreadable.

"Vas-y," he said. Go in

She did not move.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened.

"C’est le moment.” It is time

She swallowed hard.

Her hands curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms.

The weight of his words settled over her like a stone.

It is time.

To face what she had spent so long running from.

To look upon the grave of the man who had lied to her.

To stand before the earth that had swallowed him whole.

Her breath trembled.

She stepped forward.

And walked through the gates.

The grave was unremarkable.

A simple stone, weathered by wind and time, standing among countless others. His name was carved into it, the letters etched deep, final, unchanging.

Her breath shuddered.

She had not cried since that day. Since the newspaper. Since Charles caught her before she could collapse under the weight of it all.

But now, here, standing before the cold earth where he lay, something inside her cracked.

Tears welled in her eyes, thick and hot, blurring the words on the stone.

"Max."

It was the first time she had spoken his name in months.

She fell to her knees.

The grief struck her like a storm. Wild, relentless. Sobs tore from her chest, raw and unrestrained, pouring out all that had been festering inside her for so long.

She clutched at the dirt, her nails digging into the damp earth as if she could pull him back from it, as if she could unbury what had already been lost.

He was gone.

He had always been gone.

Yet now, for the first time, she felt it.

The weight of it. The finality of it.

And it shattered her.

She did not hear the footsteps at first.

Not until they stopped just behind her.

Slowly, she turned her head.

A woman stood there, watching her with sombre eyes.

She was not much older than her, perhaps the same age. Dark dress, fair hair tucked neatly beneath a scarf. There was something exhausted in the way she held herself, something heavy in her presence.

But it was not her that caught her breath.

It was the child at her side.

Small. Fragile. Barely past toddler years.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Eyes that she knew.

A sickening realisation twisted in her gut.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked from the child to the woman, her mind reeling, piecing together a truth she had not been prepared to face.

The woman’s lips parted.

"Je suis désolée." I’m sorry.

The accent was off. The words clumsy, unnatural.

She had not spoken French for long.

Her throat tightened.

"Why," she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying, "would you be sorry? He left you to fend for yourself and I took him from you."

The woman exhaled sharply, something bitter in the sound.

"Your only crime," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "was falling in love with a man who was not honest with you."

The words struck like a blade, but there was no malice in them.

Only truth.

She should have hated her.

Should have despised the woman who had killed the man she had loved.

But she didn’t.

Because she knew—she knew.

She had seen the truth in that newspaper.

Max had not been the man she thought he was.

He had belonged to someone else.

Her hands trembled as she wiped her damp cheeks, her breath still uneven, but her words came steady.

The air between them grew still.

The woman looked at her for a long moment, as if searching her face for something she could not name.

Then, silently, she reached into her coat.

Pulled out a stack of letters.

She held them out.

"Il t’a écrit." He wrote to you.

She stared at the bundle, her chest tightening. The pages were worn, the edges curled and soft with use.

"On his journey back to Hasselt." The woman’s voice wavered slightly, as though she were speaking of something that still pained her. "He never wrote to me."

Her fingers closed around the letters hesitantly, as if they might disappear the moment she touched them.

"He couldn’t even spell his family name when he left," the woman murmured, something almost wry in her voice.

She swallowed thickly.

Of course.

He could not write.

She had spent months teaching him, watching him fumble with letters, struggle to form words.

"I suppose," the woman said, a quiet sigh in her voice, "he truly loved you."

Her breath shuddered.

She did not know what to say.

Did not know how to respond to a truth that should have comforted her, yet only made the loss feel sharper.

So she did not speak at all.

She only clutched the letters to her chest—

And let the weight of them settle into her bones.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.

The wind moved through the graveyard, rustling the brittle grass and carrying with it the distant toll of a church bell.

She clutched the letters tightly, as if they were the last pieces of him she would ever hold, but her gaze had fallen to the child standing beside the woman.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes.

Max’s face, staring back at her with quiet curiosity.

She swallowed, her throat raw.

"Comment tu t’appelles?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The boy blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. His lips parted, his voice small, yet eerily familiar—

"Emilian."

The breath left her lungs.

It wasn’t just his eyes, his hair—it was his voice too. The same soft lilt, the same gentle way Max had once spoken to her in the quiet of the night.

She felt the weight of it press against her ribs, tightening around her heart.

The woman exhaled, a sound almost bitter, almost tired.

"For a while," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the child, "I couldn’t look at Emilian without seeing Max."

Her fingers curled slightly.

"I hated him." A pause. "Myself. Everything."

The words landed like a blow.

Her breath caught.

Her mind spun, twisting, unravelling, until the truth struck her with brutal clarity—

It was exactly what she had been doing.

To her daughter.

To the child with his eyes.

She had kept away, had let others raise her, because every time she looked at her, it was not just her daughter she saw.

It was him.

And she had hated her for it.

Her stomach twisted, her grip on the letters trembling slightly.

The woman’s words echoed in her head, reverberating through the hollow spaces she had carved out of herself.

She had not even asked for her own daughter’s name.

She had not wanted to know.

A sharp pang of shame coiled in her chest, cold and unforgiving.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Because for the first time in months—

She did not know who she was grieving.

She did not know how long she satthere, rooted to the earth, the weight of the past pressing down on her like an unforgiving tide.

The woman and the boy lingered a moment longer, then turned away, disappearing into the quiet streets of Hasselt.

She remained, clutching the letters, staring at Max’s name carved into the stone.

She was not sure what she had expected to find here. Closure, perhaps. Answers.

But all she had found was herself, reflected back in the grief of another.

And for the first time, she did not run from it.

She let it settle, let it ache.

Then, slowly, finally, she turned away.

Arthur was waiting just beyond the gates.

He had not paced, had not fidgeted. He had simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed ahead, as though he had always known she would return to him.

When she saw him, something in her crumbled.

She moved to him without thinking, closing the distance between them in a few short strides.

And then she was in his arms.

Arthur stiffened for the briefest moment, as if caught off guard, but then his grip tightened, his arms locking around her.

She pressed her face into his chest, the sobs wracking through her once more, but this time they did not tear her apart.

Arthur said nothing.

He only held her.

Not as he had that night on the bridge, when he had caught her from the edge of the abyss—when he had held on as though she might slip through his fingers.

But as a brother does.

Steady. Constant.

As though he had been waiting for her to come back.

The train rocked gently beneath them, the countryside rolling past in a blur of muted greens and greys.

Arthur sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the window, arms folded.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then, at last, she did.

"I’m going to Paris."

Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

She exhaled, her hands smoothing over the letters resting in her lap. "In the week. I’ll find work—maybe in one of the grand houses, a governess, a maid—something with a rich family." She swallowed. "And I’ll come home on the weekends. To her."

Arthur’s eyes flickered to her then.

"I will raise her." The words came steadier than she expected. "I will be her mother."

For a moment, Arthur said nothing.

Then, a slow breath left him.

And he nodded.

"Je suis heureux de te retrouver, sœur." I’m glad to have you back, sister.

A lump formed in her throat.

She turned to the window, blinking hard.

Outside, the world blurred past, shifting, changing.

She was not the same girl who had arrived in Hasselt.

And when she returned home—

She would not be the same girl who had left.

The months that followed were slow and unsteady, like learning how to walk again after a great fall.

She found work in Paris, just as she had planned. A grand house, high windows, polished floors that never scuffed beneath hurried footsteps. She was a governess to the children of a family so rich they barely saw them, her days spent teaching soft-spoken boys their letters, combing through tangled curls, buttoning coats that would never feel the bite of winter.

It was a quiet life, a measured one. And yet, it was not hers.

Hers was the life waiting for her beyond the city, in a house worn by time and war, in the arms of a child she was learning to love.

She returned each weekend, stepping off the train with a bag heavy on her shoulder and the weight of the world lighter in her chest.

On the weekends she could not come, Charles brought her daughter to her. He never let her miss more than a week, never let the distance stretch too wide between them. He would arrive at the door of the grand house, his cap pulled low, her daughter bundled against the cold, and the moment she saw her, everything else fell away.

Arthur was the one who raised her in the days between. He never spoke of it, never boasted, never asked for thanks. But he was there, always there. Holding her daughter's small hands as she took her first steps, lifting her onto his shoulders when she refused to walk, murmuring stories into her ear when the night grew too dark.

At first, she had been afraid. Afraid that when her daughter looked at her, she would see the ghost of a man who had lied to them both.

But she did not.

She saw her mother.

And that was enough.

She did not let her daughter suffer the sins of her father.

She let her be her own.

And though grief lingered, though it always would, in some quiet corner of her heart, it no longer held her captive.

One evening, as she sat in the schoolhouse, letters spread before her, candlelight flickering against the ink, she thought of Max.

Not as he had been. Not as the man she had once loved, nor the man she had lost.

But simply as someone who had passed through her life.

Someone who had given her something more than pain.

Something that would outlast him.

She dipped her pen in ink, her fingers steady.

And for the first time in her life.

She wrote his name without shaking.

THE END.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @carlossainzapologist @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn @iamred-iamyellow @obxstiles @iimplicitt @oscduck81

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gelenka-daria · 24 days ago

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there’s been this persistent little phenomenon, this tendency people have to take melkor, the most powerful of the ainur, the architect of darkness, and gently pat him on the head like he’s some misunderstood genius who just needed a little patience and a warm beverage. it’s kind of fascinating, honestly. they look at the guy who spent multiple ages wrecking creation with obsessive precision and go, “oh, poor thing. he felt fear. he was hurt.” like fear is something only the unjustly persecuted experience and not, you know, a natural consequence of trying to wrestle the universe into submission and slowly realizing it won’t budge.

there’s this dramatic streak in how people frame him, a sense that the real tragedy was not the wars, not the ruin, not the grief etched into every hill of beleriand, but the fact that melkor was made to feel small. that his “individuality” wasn’t celebrated. but melkor’s individuality wasn’t a quirky refusal to follow rules. it was an all-consuming need to dominate, to possess, to unmake. he didn’t want a seat at the table—he wanted to flip the table, melt it down, forge it into a throne and sit on it alone.

and the idea that the other valar somehow “crushed” him? that they collectively failed him? no. if anyone was failed, it was the song he was meant to be a part of, it was the valar themselves, it was the children of Ilúvatar.

it was manwë.

because manwë never stopped trying. he never stopped believing in melkor, even when every sign told him not to. even when the darkness had already begun to bloom, when melkor’s pride had metastasized into cruelty, manwë still held out his hand. he hoped. he forgave. he gave melkor freedom again when everyone else expected and advised him not to. and melkor took that chance and immediately used it to devastate the light of the world and still manwë grieved. he never hardened, never turned bitter. he remained open, even when he had every reason to close himself off. and that’s the real heartbreak of their story—not the punishment, not the fear, not some illusion of an undeserved, cold crown. it’s that manwë never stopped seeing the brother he once loved, and melkor never looked back.

now, the fear part. let’s actually talk about that, because it’s important. melkor is the only valar who “knew fear,” yes, but not because he was targeted or excluded. it’s because fear, real fear, requires something to lose. it comes from the knowledge that you’re vulnerable, that you can’t control everything, that things exist outside of your will and might never bend to it. melkor wanted everything. he wanted to shape the world after his own imagination. but deep down he knew he couldn’t. he wasn’t eru. he couldn’t create life. he couldn’t bring forth new flame, only twist existing fire. and that gnawed at him.

he feared eru, the one thing he could never reach or rival. he feared tulkas, who bested him, he feared the music of the ainur itself, which moved with beauty he couldn’t comprehend or redirect. he feared the dissipation of his own essence as he poured it into arda, trying to control every piece of it and slowly draining himself in the process, his wasting away a making of his own hands. and maybe, maybe most of all, he feared the idea that he might be wrong. that harmony and love might actually be more powerful than control. that the others, in their peaceful submission to the music, had something he never would.

the rest of the valar didn’t know fear because they didn’t need to. they were anchored. not docile, but aligned. they trusted the music. they didn’t feel the same hunger because they were whole in ways melkor refused to be. and in cutting himself off from that wholeness, melkor made himself not just alone, but hollow. and fear fills hollow things and festers in isolation.

this doesn’t mean melkor wasn’t a tragedy. of course he was. but not the kind people try to make him into. his tragedy wasn’t that he was cast out. it was that he cast himself out, again and again. it was that he took the incredible, singular potential he was given and used it to consume rather than create. the world was full of beauty waiting for him to shape it with his gifts, and he chose to break it instead, because if he couldn’t own it, he didn’t want it to exist.

and yet—and this is where tolkien breaks from the usual storybook pattern—there’s still a thread of hope. tolkien doesn’t write villains as lost forever. he said himself that he didn’t believe any being created by eru could be irredeemable. evil, in his world, is not a rival force, it’s a distortion. and what is distorted can, at least in theory, be healed.

when arda is remade, when the second music plays, we’re told that all will know their parts and sing them aright. and there’s no fine print saying “except melkor.” no cosmic asterisk. the athrabeth tells us that arda won’t just be destroyed and replaced, it’ll be healed. made whole. and that implies that even the deepest wounds, melkor among them, have a future that isn’t just silence or fire.

maybe, in that distant dawn, when the music rises again, melkor will choose differently. not because he’s been forced, not because anyone finally broke him into submission, but because he sees. because he understands. because he no longer fears the music, but wants to be part of it. maybe then, the voice that once screamed against the harmony will join it instead, and the song will be greater for it. maybe, after everything, he’ll find his way home, not as a king, not as a god, but as a brother.

and yeah. maybe that’s when he’ll get his hugs. but they won’t be for what he suffered. they’ll be for what he became.

#melkor is not your little meow meow #manwë didn’t bully your blorbo and he deserves better than to be slandered like this #yes I love him OBVIOUSLY but I do not excuse him #he burned the world and y’all are like “aww”#melkor #manwë #tolkien #rant

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stormhearty · 1 year ago

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Parings: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 2k+

Triggers: angst, mentions of war and death

Summary: The after-effects of your death hit Prythian hard, the loss of your light indefinitely, leaving the world less bright, and the loss of your power echoed throughout the land. Azriel now has to cope with the loss of his mate — the hollow feeling of the mating bond leaving him nothing but a shell of his previous self. The Inner Circle have to rebuild the trust they had with the other courts along Prythian — especially concerning Day Court. Helion, acting as your father, has to bury your body within the warm soils of Day Court as his people pay tribute to the loss of the Seer of Prythian.

Note: The epilogue to “Pushed to the Edge”! I am very happy to be ending this one-shot-turned-series! Thank you guys so much for supporting this!! This epilogue also included a little insight on the reader’s POV of the last section of part 3. I hope it sheds some light on why she decided to do what she did. Also, I am always happy to write more about Seer!Reader if anyone would like more. But please do enjoy the epilogue.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist

The dark wind bellowed through your hair, a deathly chill running down your spine as you watched the shadows guide Azriel through the streets of Valeris. You stood on the hill that you had winnowed to, watching him wreak destruction against the Death-God’s army. Feeling a slither of shadow against your arm, you looked down and gave a tiny smile — a rare one that tugged on your lips after your resurrection — as you brought it to your lips and pressed a kiss against the flutter of shadow, “Take me to him… It’s time…”

You had known of your connection to the Death-God the moment you had been resurrected from Death. The feeling of the ancient, tattered cord that connected your two beings — one that was hollow and empty. You were unaware of what that bond meant, whether it connected your souls to eternal servitude or something else, you kept that bond a secret — weaving shadow and darkness around that cord, hiding it from the Death-God.

The only time you realized the importance of the connection was during a vision — the only vision you ever had since your revival.

One that would take not only your life but the very life of the Death-God — one that was by the hands of the person that had broken you.

You kept that vision close to your heart, hiding it within shadows from the Death-God, using it as an arsenal against him. You watched as destruction and death seeped through Prythian and you felt the distress bite your very soul.

This isn’t what you had wanted, you never wanted Prythian to be destroyed — all you wanted was revenge against those who struck against you — those who had betrayed you. Not all this loss of life.

Not against Helion, or Thesan, or Tarquin… not against the rest of the High Lords.

No… you had to put an end to this.

You had used the bargain with Azriel to your advantage, using him to fight for you — the vision you kept so close to your heart started to sing alive as if you were walking down the correct path to end this destruction.

And so when the shadows winnowed you to where Azriel stood, the shadows cloaking his body, the Truth-Teller rightfully in his hands, another smile tugged on your features.

This had been it. The vision that came to pass — that last vision — of you and Azriel, finally ending the rein of darkness that Kosechi planned to coat your world in.

You had stepped closer to him, watching his body stiffen, his Spymaster instincts taking over his form. You heard the whispers of the shadows in his ear and you couldn’t help but look down at your chest, the shadows finally unraveling themselves from the last piece of light in your soul — the final mark where Azriel would strike.

Lifting your head, you watched the Shadowsinger lunge for you, the Truth-Teller stabbing you in your light, the shadows around it shrieking in agony, pain, and sadness. A gasp escaped your lips at a vision passed behind your eyes — the same pain rushing down the now open bond between you and Kosechi, the same wound inflicted on his immortal body.

It has been done.

Your knees buckled and you felt the shadows slip from Azriel to your own body, feeling the whisps chill on your skin. Eyes looked up at Azriel, seeing the disbelief and agony in his features. It was satisfying to see… to see him in so much pain.

Everything passed in a blur, not knowing that the Death-God had come and gone. All you can focus on is your mate — former mate. You felt his hot tears on your cooling body and you just stared up at him, pouring all your emotions out — inflicting as much pain as you could with your final breaths.

It was done. It has ended. And your time as Prythian’s Seer, its unknown Seer, has finally come to pass.

Your duty is done.

Helion felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He felt as if his whole world was being taken away from his very eyes as he watched the Spymaster hold your dead body, howling at your loss. The Day High Lord felt his body shake as he took a step forward, looking around at the piles of corpses — of Kosechi’s followers on the ground — before focusing back on you.

He heard the winnowing of Rhysand and the rest of the High Lords, as they surrounded the breaking Spymaster.

“… Azriel…” Rhysand’s voice cracked, trying to call his brother out of the agony he was feeling.

The Spymaster looked up, seeing all the High Lords before going to his knees, continuing to clutch your body close to him, “Please… I beg all of you. Please bring her back… the kernel of life…” He begged, tears dried on his cheeks, determination in his hazel eyes.

Rhysand’s face pinched with pain at the request and Helion’s hardened.

“How dare you, Azriel…” Helion’s was hard as steel, the Spymaster’s body flinching, “To plead to bring her back to life when you had been the one to break and hurt her… Forcing her hand to kill herself…”

Azriel shook his head, pressing his forehead against your own, your body cool, devoid of life, “I know… I know. Give me a chance… give me a chance to do everything again. To make things right with her. Give her a chance to live again. That’s all I ask. I’d do anything, give anything for her to be alive again.”

He wailed, pleaded, and whispered against your skin, hoping that the High Lords would listen to his request. All he wanted was to feel your heartbeat again, bask in your light, to hold you in his arms again. To love you again. He knew it was possible, the High Lords have done it twice — with Feyre Under the Mountain, and with Rhysand after Hybern. Using that kernel of life to bring you back from the dead — to bring you back home, bring you back to him.

Azriel waited, but all he heard was silence, the blow of the wind loud in his ears. He heard footsteps towards him and he looked up to see Rhysand, his features pained as he kneeled to his brother.

“We can’t… Azriel…” he confessed, his voice pained as he saw the light dim in Azriel’s features, “She has already been resurrected once… Twice is against Mother’s will. There’s… nothing we could do…”

“No… that can’t be. Please, Rhysand!” he looked up at his High Lord, “I’d do anything… anything to bring her back…. Take mine! Take my life, to give to her! A life for a life…! That will work right?” He was frantic, thinking of anything… any way to bring you back to living.

“Stop, Shadowsinger…” Helion’s voice ordered, the command echoed through every fae in that spot. Rhysand closed his eyes, fighting back every urge to follow that command. The High Lord of Night stood up and stepped back, feeling Helion’s presence behind him.

Azriel growled and looked up at Helion, instinctively wrapping his arms tighter around your body.

“You had multiple chances to make it up to her. You watched as she begged you to listen, to listen to your mate. But you ignored it, you pissed off your chances for her. You do not get another shot, not in this life… and probably not in any other lifetime you will have with her.”

With a snap of his fingers, your body was winnowed from Azriel’s arms to his own, Helion gently holding you in his arms as he looked down at you with so much sadness and regret.

The Shadowsinger tried to scramble back up, to want to fight the High Lord, only to be held down by Cassian and Rhysand, “Don’t…” Rhysand commanded him, “…We have no right to her anymore. Not after everything we have done…”

“What did you do?” Azriel snarled at his High Lord.

“Your High Lord made a bargain…” Helion disclosed as he turned his heels, stepping back from the Inner Circle, “You and the rest of Night Court have no claims over her body, not when (Y/N) was originally from Day Court. Her body will be buried in Day soil, where she rightfully belongs. And you, Shadowsinger, are banned from entering my Court. And so will the rest of your family… The only person that I will allow to visit her body will be your High Lady. As Night Court’s emissary…”

Azriel felt his heart drop to the ground. No. He already lost you, and now he cannot visit your grave, to mourn for you.

“I will have no bargaining with you, Shadowsinger. Not when your High Lord was the one who allowed it,” Helion looked over his shoulder at the three brothers, “No matter what you do, this bargain will be the last with the Night Court. You have lost all my trust with this matter…”

And with that, Helion winnowed away — with your body in his arms.

Azriel stared at the spot that Helion winnowed away from as he felt hands come off his body. He collapsed, pressing scarred hands into the dirt. He felt his whole body continue to shake, the sadness, the anger not leaving him — he felt as if his anger was never-ending; anger at Helion for taking your body from him, anger at him for banning him from Day Court; anger at his High Lord for creating the bargain in the first place; anger at you for dying in his arms, forcing him to be the one to take your life.

“Azriel…” Rhysand called his name before he stepped back away from his brother when a growl escaped Azriel’s chest.

“Why… Why would you make that bargain, Rhysand…” he murmured, tilting his head up to look at his High Lord with a glare, hazel eyes blazing with that anger he felt throughout his body.

Rhysand sighed and knelt once more to be eye-to-eye with his brother, “I had to, Azriel. I couldn’t argue with Helion, not after everything we did to (Y/N)… She was originally from Day Court, she is tied to Helion’s Court — - “

“But she’s been with us for five hundred years, Rhysand… She had a home with us… She was my mate…” Azriel tried to reason with his High Lord, hazel eyes shifting from anger to absolute despair.

“— - You have no right to claim her as your mate… Not anymore. Not after cheating on her with Elain…” Rhysand reprimanded his brother, “I have no claim to her to be under my Court after I had failed to protect her. We have lost her, Azriel. We lost her the moment we had failed as a family to notice her pain… We had failed her entirely. I regret immensely on how we have treated her the last moments of her life… I regret every moment since her death on how I treated her as her High Lord, as her friend, as her family…”

There was so much pain in Rhysand’s voice and Azriel let out a painful cry, one that echoed so deep in his soul.

“I let Helion take her body to let her body be at peace in her home, her real home, Azriel. A place where she is not in pain, one where she isn’t surrounded by those who had betrayed her. Your banishment from Day Court was part of that bargain — I didn’t want to do that to you, brother — -” he placed a hand against Azriel’s trembling shoulder, “— - I didn’t want to separate you from her, but I had to… For her.”

Another sob escaped Azriel’s lips as he dropped his head, his forehead resting against the cool ground, “How can I continue to live?” he whispered, “My whole soul is breaking, Rhysand… The echo of that bond hurts so much. I never knew how much it would hurt… If I knew, if I knew this would be the outcome of my infidelity towards her, I would never have done it. If I knew my infidelity would cause her to die in my arms, I would have never done it.”

Rhysand sighed and looked up to Cassian, the General looking at his brother with so much sorrow. The two looked at one another before reaching toward Azriel to heave him off the ground. All Azriel wanted to do was collapse, but he knew he couldn’t — he didn’t have any right to do so. He was the cause of this, he was at fault.

“You will continue to live…” Rhysand urged, “You will continue to live and mourn and regret. We all will. That’s all we can do for (Y/N)…”

Azriel looked at Rhysand, before glancing at Cassian, who nodded, “We all will continue to live with our betrayal. Live and regret.”

And all Azriel could do was tilt his head back, looking up at the gray sky as raindrops fell — as if the universe knew how he felt at that very moment.

Feyre stood in the back of the ceremony, watching as Helion lowered your body into the ground — one decorated so beautifully, in a simple white tule dress and on top of your head a halo that mimicked the sun. You looked gorgeous, lying in the casket as if you were just sleeping.

The High Lady listened to Helion’s speech — the love and admiration evident in every word he spoke about you; on how he had found you, protected you — he told your story, every happy moment but also every sad and devastating moment.

She could see how Helion held back so much anger when he brought up your time at Night Court and Feyre couldn’t help but pang of pain in her chest. She regretted every moment of listening to it all over again — Feyre knew she could have made a difference. She tried to help you, tried to reach out to you — but her effort wasn’t big enough. She could have tried harder, to fight for you — but she failed at that.

Everything was a blur after the speech, people had slowly filtered out after they had paid respect to the loss of your light, the loss of your life. Feyre felt her feet bring her to your grave. She looked at the statue that stood at the head of your grave, one was a mirror of your body that was now in the ground. That same dress, that same crown on top of your head.

You were like a goddess that glowed under Day Court’s sun.

Feyre felt a figure next to her, turning her head to look at Helion who looked up at that statue with sadness.

“… That was a wonderful speech, Helion,” Feyre complimented, her gaze returning up at the statue.

The Day High Lord did not say anything back to the High Lady.

And Feyre continued, “… — - I know that no matter how many times we apologize, you will never forgive us. And I understand… (Y/N)… was the best thing that you had given us, the best thing that Azriel had in his life — “ Feyre watched from the corner of her eye that Helion’s hand fisted tightly against his side at the mention of the Shadowsinger, “— - We will do our very best, to gain your trust again. We will mourn for centuries for what we had done to her, we will continue to regret.”

Helion let out a broken chuckle and shook his head, “… I don’t think I can trust any of you again, Feyre… Not when you had taken her away from me. This child was the best thing that has happened to me, besides knowing that Lucien is my son… (Y/N) was my daughter, I raised her as my daughter… And it hurts, knowing that she passed before I did. You… never want to bury your children… And that’s what I had to do today. And I will never forget how that feels…”

He turned his head towards Feyre, “… Be glad you were able to be part of this ceremony, High Lady of Night Court… It was for (Y/N), she would have wanted you to be part of her burial. If it was me, I would never let you in my Court again, but this is all for her.”

Feyre nodded her head, “And I am, and forever will be, thankful for your kindness…”

Helion gave a stiff nod of his head before looking back up at the statue for a moment before turning on his heels and walking away.

The High Lady sighed and looked up at the statue as well, “I hope you are at peace, (Y/N)…” she whispered a prayer one more time before turning as well, walking out of the wards of Day Court before winnowing away, the echo of a sad lament for you singing through the lands.

#acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar angst #azriel x reader #( .one shot : pushed to the edge )#azriel angst #azriel

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 months ago

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In Another Life, You Still Would've Turned My Head (ao3)

For @sjmromanceweek day 5 and the trope of... uh... white knights?

It's 1461, and after fighting in the bloodiest battle England has ever seen, Yorkist knight Cassian sprints from the battlefield in order to persuade the woman he's loved secretly for three years to come away with him. But now that the crown has switched hands, Nesta Archeron is the daughter of a run-away traitor, wanted by the king, and still the most stubborn person Cassian has ever met. And in such dangerous times, all he can do is hope that she just takes his hand. (Wars of the Roses AU)

England, 1461

There would be ballads, someday.

Poems and songs and epic-fucking-tales told by candlelight; a minstrel’s wages paid tenfold if he’d sing about the battlefield Cassian had just turned his back on, with the mud of the killing field still clinging to his greaves.

Like it mattered, now.

Thirty thousand dead and a river of blood spilled in the name of a crown that Cassian had just plucked from the ground and handed to his brother with both hands. He’d marvelled, at first, at the weight of it balanced between his fingers, but as he looked at that hollow crown, the metal smooth and polished, he wondered if it had always been so lacklustre. If the shine had always been so dimmed, or whether that was just the light of the afternoon sun, clouded by the smoke of the hundred small fires burning before a thousand canvas tents.

He hadn’t ever thought that when he made Rhys king, it would feel so empty.

Because what did gold matter, now? What diadem mattered, when the crown on Rhys’ brow meant that the woman Cassian had loved from afar, in secret and in silence, had just been hauled into the firing line?

The blood had been so thick that Cassian had been able to fucking taste it. The plate armour Rhys had paid handsomely for— dented now, scratched. The hilt of his sword, practically bruised from his grip. Everywhere there was blood and mud and shit, the screams of the injured and the dying. Broken spears had jutted up from the ground like broken wings, and all across the field lay the battered remains of men who had fought and died for what they believed in— the king they had believed in, whoever that might be.

Rhys was king, now.

In a victory that was so complete and encompassing it was almost dizzying, his brother was the king now, and Cassian might have smiled at the victory had the blood not been so thick on his hands or his heart not one second away from beating right out of his chest.

Other things mattered, now.

So Cassian had kneeled for his new king for all of one moment before rising to his feet, throwing aside the helmet that was battered beyond repair, and calling out until his voice broke for a horse to carry him— any horse at all.

Right then and there, he’d been willing to give his brother’s newfound and hard-won kingdom for a fucking horse.

Because a white rose was sewn into the tunic that covered his breastplate, and hammered into the steel beneath too, decorating his pauldrons and vambraces both. But she lived under the banner of a red one— a Lancastrian rose to his Yorkist. Cassian had woken that morning as a rebel about to wage war on the king, but Fortune had saw fit to turn her wheel on that field today. As the sun set, he was the brother of the man who wore the crown now, and where Nesta Archeron had woken that morning as the daughter of one of the wealthiest members of the gentry… she was ending it as a pauper.

His rise had been her fall; his good fortune her destruction.

He couldn’t let that stand.

Wouldn’t let that stand, especially not when Rhys ordered all of the old king’s most loyal adherents to be rounded up and brought before him to kneel, and Cassian glimpsed her father at the edge of the field, already running for the hills. So Cassian had bowed to that crown - nearly five hundred years old already, with a patina of age and glory that ought to have brought him to his knees with awe - and then turned away, telling his brother in no uncertain terms that he’d be back to help secure his new kingdom once he’d dealt with something far more pressing.

Then he’d raced like the devil himself was at his back, and kept going and going and going, long after the sun had set.

And now his spurs clattered on the cobblestones as he dismounted, his stiff muscles protesting each move as he tied his horse to a post with hands aching from holding the reins for more hours than he’d bothered to count, and a sword for even more before that. He tipped his head back to feel the cold night air brush against his neck; a welcome relief given the plate armour and heavy chain mail that he still wore.

God, not even Rhys knew how much of the world Cassian would let burn for her.

Not a single soul alive knew how much Cassian had yearned for her since the very first day he’d glimpsed her across the hall at one of the old king’s Christmas banquets, when the entire court had been gathered, before they’d descended into war. He had spoken to her since, small snatches of precious conversation they’d stolen when backs were turned, but none of them knew just how madly, desperately, and irrevocably devoted he was to Nesta fucking Archeron.

Perhaps it would have changed things, if Rhys had known exactly how much Cassian cared for the girl whose father had just refused to swear allegiance to the new king. But there had been no time to explain, and it didn’t matter now, anyway.

Before him, the moonlight was a shard of silver splitting through the clouds, bathing the Archeron manor in an eerie, ethereal glow. Roses climbed the pale walls, and all was in darkness. Not a single candle shone inside, every window void of light, like those inside had stopped waiting for the master of the house to come home and were already expecting the enemy to come hammering on the door.

Cassian was the enemy, he supposed. With that white rose on his chest, so at odds with the red one he’d glimpsed on Nesta’s father’s banner today, as crimson as freshly spilled blood… yes, technically Cassian was the enemy.

But he could never be her enemy.

It was why he’d raced to that manor, allowing neither hunger nor thirst nor fatigue to slow him. He’d switched horses thrice, determined to let nothing on this God-given earth stop him. He hadn’t even wasted the time it took to change from his armour and it glinted weakly now, the moonlight glancing off the planes of it that weren’t covered in blood.

Because Rhys would arrest them - arrest her - as soon as daybreak came. Cassian would bet his life that there was already a contingent of soldiers on the way, ready to apprehend the daughters of Sir Henry Archeron and bring them to court, where they could be kept an eye on and ensure their father’s loyalty. And Cassian knew what that meant. Each of the three sisters would be married off to some minor, inconsequential lord and shipped off to whichever corner of England was the least likely to rise up in rebellion against the new king. They would be sold off into marriage to lessen their value, their threat, and though the part of Cassian that had led Rhys’ vanguard in battle knew it was the right move…

He couldn’t let it happen.

So he didn’t bother to quiet his steps as his spurs rang out against the stone of the courtyard, an announcement in and of itself, and he didn’t bother, either, to knock on the thick wooden door with the skin of his knuckles. No— Cassian banged his armoured wrist against the door, loud enough to wake the dead.

And within moments, as though she had been waiting as soon as his horse crossed into the courtyard, Nesta Archeron pulled open the heavy door on creaking hinges, a scowl on her face that was enough to send him to an early grave as she stood on that threshold between them, half concealed by the shadow, with the moonlight only barely gracing the angles of the face that had haunted his dreams ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

And though she tried to keep that scowl in place, her pale hand fluttered to her chest as she took in the sight of him, silvered fully by the moon, and surely looking as wild as anything. And as though there was nothing else she could think to say, Nesta breathed,

“You shouldn’t be here.”

***

“Where else would I be?”

His words were smooth, and the smile that pulled at his lips was wry with a hopeless sort of sincerity, but still there was an edge in his voice, serrated by exhaustion, like the hours of travel and battle both had taken their toll on a body that simply refused to give in to the need for rest.

God, he was a mess.

The armour, moulded so perfectly to every plane of his body, was dulled instead of polished, and somewhere along the way he had discarded his helm and his gauntlets, as if preferring to feel the wind on his face and the leather of the reigns against his palms as he raced to her in the dying light, crossing miles like they were inches. His surcoat was covered in blood and dirt, and Nesta didn’t know what it said about her that instantly she began to pray that it wasn’t his own. God save her, she didn’t even think to ask after her father, not until—

“Your father escaped,” Cassian said, almost as an aside as he took a step forward. His eyes were fixed to hers, like she was a cardinal point he couldn’t hope to navigate himself without, and as he moved, the sword at his hip clinked against the armour he still wore. Idly, casually, he balanced his wrist on the pommel, curling his fingers around the decorated handle, and when Nesta noticed a fresh cut right across his knuckles - like he’d taken off his gauntlets during battle and been caught short - she didn’t like the way her focus centred on that one cut. Not when it was clear by the look of him that he had left a string of more serious wounds in his wake today.

How many lives had he ended on that battlefield today? How many women had he made widows?

But his eyes were unfailing, his gaze steadfast. Like he was her most devoted servant.

She forced herself to think of the matter at hand. The danger facing them now, without her father to protect her name or that of her sisters. Deep down, she’d always known that he’d abandon them to their fate if the battle went south for him. That he’d save his own skin before thinking of theirs.

“He fled the field?” Nesta asked.

Cassian snorted. “He never entered the field, love. He spent the entire battle at the edges and when it was clear his side was losing, he fled. He’s probably half way to France by now.” He took another step forward, his face turning grave as shadow fell across half of his frame. “You need to come with me.”

Nesta blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You need to come with me.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “Please.”

The entreaty alone was almost enough to make Nesta agree. Here was a man who begged for nothing, who asked for nothing, standing before her and saying please.

And yet she could not accept.

No matter how much her heart yearned, how much her soul ached.

She could not accept.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly, her eyes rising briefly to the lintel above her head, the stone carved with the Archeron family crest. The seat that had been occupied by an Archeron for centuries, ever since the Norman Conquest. What would become of it, if she were to vacate it now?

The scar that split Cassian’s eyebrow was pulled taut as he frowned. His hand darted out, closing around her arm, his fingers warm through the fabric of her sleeve as he held her. As though he hadn’t thought the better of it, hadn’t bothered to check himself. And it didn’t matter what future Nesta might have imagined once, in the dark when she was alone. It didn’t matter that, once, she might have harboured dreams of him being the one she slept beside each night and woke up to each morning. None of it mattered; he should not have been touching her.

Not like this.

She pulled back, stepping entirely into the shadow.

His hand dropped into the empty space between them, a void that felt impossible to bridge.

“Your father is enough of a landholder in this county to make his loyalty imperative to whichever king sits on the throne,” Cassian said slowly, keeping his voice low. “And since he’s made it clear that he won’t accept any king save the old one…”

“My father is one of the king’s chief moneylenders—“

“Not anymore, sweetheart,” Cassian interrupted. His armour clinked as he took another step, as he reached for her again, his fingers falling just short of hers. He left his hand there, hanging in the air for a moment, as if waiting for her to reach for him. She wanted to. God in heaven, she wanted to. But the moment stretched and in the end his fingers curled towards his palm as he let his hand drop back to the pommel of his sword, leaving neither of them satisfied. “And your daddy isn’t powerful enough or wealthy enough anymore to warrant Rhys keeping him alive. He’ll make an example of him, and it won’t be long before he throws him in the Tower.”

Nesta paled.

Her relationship with her father was… complex. It was her duty as a daughter to obey him, and yet… the man had proven himself a fool on more than one occasion since her mother’s death. He had been lucky, lately, that his ventures had given him enough revenue to loan his gold to the king in order to fund this godforsaken war, but it was luck, not strategy, that kept him in a position of influence. And if Cassian was right, her father’s luck had just run dry.

Fortuna no longer smiled upon the Archerons or the Lancastrians, and they would all of them go down with that ship unless they abandoned course and chose another.

“Rhys won’t let your father live,” Cassian repeated, eyes wide and silvered by the moon, like he was hoping to convey each ounce of his desperation with his gaze alone. “And I won’t let you die with him.”

He shook his head, errant curls escaping the leather band he’d used to keep his hair back from his rugged face. His scar was stark in the moonlight, evidence of all that he had fought for, and when he held out his hand again, bloodied fingers and all, Nesta could have sworn there was a tremble there, an apprehension that said he didn’t know what he’d do if she refused him again.

“Please, love. Come with me.”

There it was again. That word— please.

His brother had just taken the crown of England with both hands. He was one of the most powerful men in the entire kingdom now, and yet he stood before her and said please.

“Come with you where?” Nesta asked, her voice rising even as she looked at that proffered hand and felt herself leaning towards it. “What will you do, secret my sisters and I away somewhere where Rhysand - your brother, your king - won’t find us? How long will you lie to him for?”

Cassian’s face was hard. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Ever the tactician, I see.”

“When it comes to you?” he said, his eyes clashing with hers, as sharp as the blade at his side. “Sweetheart, you ought to know by know that I am never fully in possession of my faculties when you’re around.”

She turned her face away.

She couldn’t bear it. The honesty in his voice, the earnest drag of his eyes across her face.

“It would ruin me, Cassian. And both of my sisters.”

Another step forward, another inch she allowed him closer. “I won’t let it. Just allow me to do this. Allow me to make sure you are safe.”

Nesta swallowed. She could feel her resolve wavering, melting like wax above a candle flame. And when she looked at him, taking in the marks of battle as if for the first time, she felt her heart splinter and crack. To think she could have lost him— that he could have been felled on that field today, and she would never again have seen those eyes, or that smile, or wondered what it was to feel his touch.

“My father won’t ever kneel,” she said in a whisper. “He’ll never kneel for Rhys, no more than you would for the old king.”

“No,” Cassian mused, reaching forward boldly, as if he could sense the erosion of every last one of her reservations, and with gentle fingers he tucked a piece of her unbound hair behind her ear. Her skin sparked at the touch— his bare fingers against her skin. “But then, the only person in this world I’ll truly kneel for is you.”

Her lips quirked, a smile trapped at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell Rhysand that.”

“He’d forgive me,” he said softly, an echoing smile gracing his own face, curving his lips and revealing a flash of teeth as he tilted his head, studying her as if she were the sunrise after an endless night. And when neither of them moved and the silence stretched, Nesta felt her heart pounding in her chest like a drum and suddenly felt the need to touch him too, for nothing else than to remind herself that he was alive.

His armour was cold against her fingers as she trailed her hands over his shoulders, the smooth silver plate a chilling contrast to the warmth of his fingers when he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of her knuckles with his own. Her heart keened when she trailed over the tops of his arms, feeling each dent in the metal where a sword or spear or arrow had tried to pierce his skin. There was sickening scratch, too, stretching from his ribs to his stomach that Nesta knew would have been the end of him had the armour not been there to save his life.

But he wasn’t dead, she reminded herself.

He had survived, when so many hadn’t.

Survived, and raced like the hounds of hell were at his heels to reach her.

“Was it terrible?” she asked quietly, tracing that deadly scar along his breastplate before her eyes dipped to his wounded hand; that thin line across his knuckles a shard of glass piercing her heart, like she was the one who had been dealt the injury. Without thinking, her hands slid from his armour to take that hand and lift it up into the moonlight, her thumb tracing a delicate path along the bones of his fingers. They had never been so close as this— skin on skin, her fingers swallowed by his as he turned his hand over and pressed their palms together, the heel of her hand sitting so perfectly in the centre of his.

He didn’t need to ask what she had meant.

“It was battle,” he said, with a blithe shrug that didn’t quite land as truthfully as he had hoped. His eyes shuttered, like he had seen true horror on that field today and wished, now, to chase away the memory with something sweeter. “Battle is always terrible.”

His voice quieted, his lips parting on a breath as he lifted his free hand and dragged the back of his curled fingers down her cheek. Nesta savoured his warmth, but felt a shiver crawl along her skin as he reached her jaw; felt the fingers that were still wrapped around hers flex as he added,

“But I knew what I was fighting for.”

“And what was that?”

“A world where you and I don’t have to be on opposite sides. A world where I could finally be worthy of you.”

Because before, when Rhysand had only been the king’s cousin and Cassian just a household knight, her father hadn’t even spared him a glance. When she had first seen him, at the Christmas festivities three years previous, there had been no hope of them even speaking together in public. When he had first asked her for her name, it was on a chance meeting in an empty courtyard, when she was on her way to find her father and he was on his way to the stables. When he had first smiled at her, it was from beneath a helmet, just before he closed his visor at the Easter joust. Touching him had been out of the question then; a fantasy she reserved only for the darkest of nights.

But as the adopted brother of the new sovereign, Cassian had suddenly been elevated to one of the most eligible men in the entire kingdom.

Not that Nesta had ever really cared about any of that. Not really.

“You were always worthy of me,” she whispered, feeling herself slipping farther and father down a slope that she knew there would be no hope of climbing back up.

His fingers still lingered at her cheek, his face tipped down so that the tip of his nose was just barely separated from hers. She could feel his breath on her skin, could see each and every scar he’d ever earned.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he whispered. “Just— come with me. Tell me you’ll come with me.”

Her eyes closed, his thumb running back and forth across her cheekbone in a slow, measured caress. It was one she wanted to savour, a feeling she didn’t ever want to be without. Because how could this man end lives with those hands and yet hold her so tenderly, like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, even when his fortune had changed so drastically today?

As if he could tell what she was thinking, he said,

“None of it matters as long as you are safe. The crown, the riches. I care for none of it.”

“Don’t you have a mighty coronation to prepare for?” Nesta asked, opening her eyes and raising a brow. “Ermine robes to be measured for and golden spurs to be fitted?”

He laughed, and the sound rumbled from deep in his chest and through hers, until she felt it like an ember, glowing in her very centre.

“For all I care the kingdom can go to hell, now.”

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed.

“I do if it means losing you.”

And good God, how could she ever withstand that? How could she ever hope to defend herself against the way he looked at her? The way his touch was so soft against her cheek? The way he all but signed his heart over every time he asked her to come away with him?

And the truth was - the terrible, damning truth was - that she didn’t even want to deny him.

Not anymore.

So when he looked at her again, his thumb sliding down from her cheekbone to trace the curve of her lips…

Nesta nodded.

There were no words between them; none were necessary. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, throat left exposed by his lack of a helm, and as her hands travelled back to his shoulders, he nodded once too, lips curving as understanding passed between them like a current. There was no going back now, not as Nesta felt the hand that had lingered by her mouth moving to her neck, Cassian’s fingers spanning her nape as—

All at once, he hauled her mouth to his.

Nesta felt her gasp get caught in her throat, felt it die as his lips moved against hers in a kiss that was neither tender nor tentative but far more substantial— something alchemical, turning even the most innocent of touches into a brand. Shock gave way to something sweeter, surprise yielding to hunger as she melted against him, her fingers slipping on the silver plate at his shoulders and coming to rest right above his heart as he banded an arm around her waist to steady her, to keep her standing as her knees threatened to buckle. Her fingers curled against the metal, cursing the barrier between her skin and his as she searched for something to grasp, wanting to feel the planes of his chest beneath her palms and settling, instead, for cool, hardened steel. Still, as Cassian tilted her head back and kept her pressed tight against that armoured chest, pouring every ounce and facet of his desire for her into that one, singular, kiss…

She caught fire.

That first kiss, so destructive and beautiful and certain to be the making of her and the damnation of her at the same time. Because, she thought as his thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat, how could she ever hope to kiss another after this? How could she hope to ever forget it, the way his touch sank into her skin? Or the way he pulled back to let her breathe, only to pepper her jaw with a hundred more kisses, soft and sweet this time, yet fervent enough to have her chasing his lips all over again, like it wasn’t sin itself to let herself fall.

And all she could think was…

He’s not dead.

And this… God, this felt like living.

And so when Cassian pulled back to study her face, it was her, this time, who grabbed him by the neck and pulled his face back down, demanding another kiss, one he was all too willing to give. Demanding more, when her back arched and his fingers splayed at the base of her spine. Demanding everything he had, in return for everything she was in return.

And he met her, stroke for stroke for stroke.

Like this was a battle of a different kind, but one where there was no losing side. There was only his body and hers, and the slow surrender of every single one of her defences, yielding, parting, lowering with every swipe of his hand across her spine, every brush of his tongue against hers. Suddenly it didn’t matter who she was or who he had been; didn’t matter that his brother had just taken the crown and her father was on the run. Her hands skated up the column of his neck, searching for whatever skin she could find, and when his lips dropped to her collarbone, smiling against her as he nipped at the skin he found there, Cassian’s broad palms dropped to her waist, holding her in place as he looked up at her with a glint in his eye that wouldn’t have been out of place if he had been the one to win the crown today.

“Say it,” he whispered, before lowering his mouth back to her neck, lining her throat with more kisses until he reached her jaw. “Let me hear you say it.”

She quirked a brow. “Say what?”

“Say that you’ll come with me. That whatever happens tomorrow and beyond, we’ll face it together.”

Nesta placed a palm against his cheek. “Together,” she nodded.

And then, with an insatiable sort of hunger driving her to madness, she let herself smile properly for the first time in an age as she dragged a hand over that damned plate armour and hummed.

“Now,” she said as Cassian tilted his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to come inside and let me take off that armour, or are you going to stand in the doorway all night?”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie @jmoonjones @unlikelypersonalknight1

#nessian #sjm romance week 2025 #historical au #as always full authors note on ao3

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dee-writes-anime · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY In a village consumed by sickness and fear, you, an accused witch, are captured by a desperate mob and dragged to face judgment before the King of Curses, Sukuna.

CONTENT WARNINGS detailed depictions of a village struggling with disease, starvation, and decay, mentions of sickly children, livestock death, and human mortality, tense interactions between the narrator and villagers, including verbal accusations and implied mob violence, scenes of witchcraft involving blood and incantations, implied religious conflict, subtle criticism of faith and its intersection with fear and blame.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The village had always been a brittle thing, teetering on the edge of ruin long before I was born. It was nestled into the crook of a valley, cradled by sinking hills that slumped like jagged scars against the horizon. It wasn’t a place you’d stumble upon by chance- hidden away from trade routes, tucked between forests thick with bramble and treacherous rives prone to flooding. The isolation had once been its greatest strength, a sanctuary from the wars and chaos that riddled the lands.

And then the sickness came.

It began as a quiet invader, seeping through the village like a shadow, causing soil to grow stubborn. Clinging to the roots of crops like a jealous lover, dark and heavy with clay. Even in the best seasons, it gave little, forcing villagers to rely heavily on cattle and scrape by on meager harvests of bitter greens, barley, and the occasional patch of onions.

Then those shadows curled through pens, infecting the cattle that the village had once praised. Once sturdy beasts began to collapse in fields, their bodies bloating under the summer sun, they milky eyes staring blankly into the void. The surviving livestock, fewer in number each year, were gaunt and skittish, their hides stretched thin over sharp bones. They too seemed to sense the growing death in the shadows as their milk soured and their offspring grew weaker and weaker.

And finally, shadows of sickness- of death- slipped through the cracks of straw roofs, finally having curled into every corner. The village itself was a patchwork of survival—wooden homes leaning against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, its bitter scent a constant companion, mingling with the acrid tang of unwashed bodies and the faint, coppery smell of blood from the butcher’s hut. A well sat at the heart of the village, its water once fresh and clear, now tinged with a faint, metallic aftertaste that no one dared question too closely.

The people bore the signs of its slow, merciless grip. Their skin was sallow, stretched thin over angular bones, their hands chapped and cracked from work that never seemed to end. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told stories of sleepless nights and empty stomachs. Their clothes, once simple but serviceable, were now threadbare and patched so many times the original fabric was hardly recognizable. Loose tunics hung over narrow shoulders, cinched at the waist with frayed cords, and the occasional shawl or cloak—woven from coarse, undyed wool—offered meager protection against the cold.

The children fared no better. Their bare feet left prints in the mud as they scurried between homes, their laughter thin and fleeting. Many of them had red-rimmed eyes from coughing fits that never quite left, their small hands gripping sticks or scraps of wood as makeshift toys. Even the strongest among them looked frail, as though the village itself drained the life from them as payment for their survival.

Generations had lived and died here, their lives marked by toil and prayer, yet little else. The temple at the edge of the village was the tallest structure, its roof patched with mismatched tiles scavenged from who-knew-where. Its wooden beams sagged, and the faint chime of its bell at dusk carried a mournful note. It stood as a monument to the villagers’ faith—faith that had grown brittle over the years, much like the wooden beams that groaned under its weight.

Said temple was led by the “elders,” who could be considered a different breed entirely. They were wiry and hunched, their backs bent from years of labor in the fields and the weight of authority they carried like millstones around their necks. Elder Kazu was their figurehead, his face a web of wrinkles that deepened every time he spoke. His hair, sparse and snow-white, framed a narrow face with sharp, calculating eyes. He walked with a gnarled staff, its wood polished smooth by years of use, and though his voice cracked when he spoke, it still carried the weight of command.

Beside him were the others—Elder Masami, with her thin lips and perpetually furrowed brow, and Elder Daiki, who had long since lost his teeth but none of his sharpness. Their clothing was slightly more intact than the rest of the villagers’, a sign of their status. Masami’s long tunic was adorned with faded embroidery at the cuffs, a hint of red thread that might once have been vibrant. Daiki wore a heavy woolen cloak draped over his narrow shoulders, its edges fraying but still imposing in its bulk.

The market square was little more than a dirt clearing where merchants used to come, though their visits had dwindled to nothing in recent years. Even the well, the village’s lifeline, bore signs of decay. Its stone walls were cracked, and the water within tasted faintly of iron, as though the sickness had poisoned even the earth.

The sickness only worsened from there as fevers stole both the strongest and weakest, the oldest and youngest, with seemingly no pattern, leaving behind far too little with scars in the shape of coughs that lingered like unwelcome guests. They seemed to move through this dying world like ghosts, their footsteps quiet, their voices softer still. A people clinging to the remnants of a life they no longer believed in and no matter how many stories the elders told, their eyes stayed empty. At first, they blamed the river, its waters swollen and brackish after a summer storm. Then they blamed the traders who passed through, though fewer came with each year. The blame shifted like the wind, but the sickness stayed, digging its claws deeper with each passing season. The village had limped through years of disease, desperation a constant companion whispering in the ears of the villagers as they eventually turned their gaze to me.

“Her,” they whispered. “It’s because of her.”

They never said it to my face, of course. They feared me too much for that. When I walked through the market square, their conversations would drop into hushed tones, their gazes shifting quickly to the ground. Mothers pulled their children close as I passed, shielding them as if my shadow might curse them. The few merchants brave—or desperate—enough to trade with me kept their words clipped and their hands trembling as they handed over what I bought. I never bargained with them. I paid full price or not at all. It wasn’t charity. It was control. They’d seldom leave small offerings at my doorstep —half-eaten loaves of bread, broken beads, wilted flowers. Apologies, or perhaps bribes, to keep my wrath at bay.

To them, I was an outsider, not because of where I came from but because of what I could do. They feared me, but they needed me, and that fragile thread had kept their hatred at bay for a while.

But it wasn’t always this way. Once, I had been one of them, tolerated if not entirely accepted. My knowledge of herbs and remedies had been a boon when the sickness first came. I had eased their fevers, soothed their children’s aches, and kept the worst of it at bay for a time. But the lands were sick—sicker than any tincture or spell could fix—and my small successes weren’t enough. The people needed someone to blame, and it was easier to point to the witch who lived on the outskirts of the village than to face their own failures or the cruelty of the world.

Their fear, though, was not entirely misplaced.

I was no saint. My patience had worn thin years ago. The first time someone dared to accuse me outright, I made a spectacle of it. I hadn’t harmed them—no need to dirty my hands for a fool—but I had spoken their name during a storm, loud enough for the thunder to carry it, and left dried bones where they would find them. I let their imagination do the rest. The next morning, they left the village, and no one dared to follow.

Now, they called me a monster behind closed doors, muttering their curses to their gods, but they still came to me when they had nowhere else to turn. When the children coughed too hard to breathe. When their crops failed, and they needed someone to tell them it wasn’t their fault. I helped them—sometimes—but not without reminding them of what I was capable of. They needed the fear as much as I needed them to feel it.

For all their hatred, they couldn’t help themselves. It was easier to fear me than to admit their gods had abandoned them, that the sickness in the lands had no cure.

Despite their fear, the village clung to its routines like a lifeline. The blacksmith’s hammer still rang out in the mornings, dull thuds echoing through the square. Children still played near the well, their laughter sharp and fleeting, as though they knew better than to let it linger. The temple bells still chimed at dusk, their hollow tones calling for prayers that no one truly believed would be answered.

But beneath it all, the air was thick with tension, like the pause before a storm. The villagers had spent years shouldering their burdens, but even the strongest beams splinter under enough weight. And when they broke, they would come for me.

The village was a place that could survive anything, but it would never thrive. It was a monument to endurance, a lesson in scarcity. It had stood against the odds for generations, but I could see the cracks spreading, could hear the creak of its foundations. These people had long since forgotten how to hope, how to dream. I’d watched it happen, year by year. All they knew now was fear.

And fear, I had learned, could only be contained for so long.

“Morning, Elder Kazu,” I said as I passed, my tone polite but edged with sharpness. My hands clutched the woven basket at my side, filled with bundles of herbs I had spent the morning collecting. The elder gave a stiff nod in return, but his jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth pulled downward.

“Witch,” he said finally, his voice low, as though afraid it might carry. “The land suffers, and you—” He hesitated, his lips trembling before he found the courage to finish. “You walk as if it doesn’t touch you.”

I stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. The others near the well froze, their eyes darting between the two of us like rabbits scenting a wolf.

“You think I’m untouched?” I asked, keeping my voice calm, almost pleasant. I stepped closer, slow enough to watch him shift uncomfortably. “Tell me, Elder Kazu, how untouched I must be when you’ve come to me five times this year for teas to ease your cough? Or when your grandson came to me, pale as death, because nothing the temple priests did could break his fever?”

Kazu’s jaw tightened further, and his fingers curled around the edge of his walking stick. “And I paid you for those things.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice like silk. “You did.”

I let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating. One of the other elders shuffled uncomfortably, the sound of his sandals scraping against the dirt breaking the quiet.

“I’ve done no harm to you or this village, and yet you speak of me as though I brought the sickness upon the land myself.” I leaned in just slightly, enough to make Kazu stiffen. “Perhaps you should stop looking for devils in the shadows and instead ask why your gods have turned their backs on you.”

The crowd around us sucked in a collective breath, their fear palpable. Kazu’s face turned red, anger mingling with something sharper, something he wouldn’t dare admit to himself: fear.

I straightened and turned to go, my basket swaying lightly at my side. “Let me know if your grandson’s cough returns,” I said over my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to suffer for your pride.”

Later that day, as I sat outside my small home on the outskirts of the village, I saw her approaching. I recognized her as one of the people in the crowd from earlier in the morning, she had been clutching the rosary at her chest as she watched the whole ordeal, shaking like a leaf. The woman’s steps were hesitant, her child clinging to her skirts. She wasn’t the first to come here, and she wouldn’t be the last. Still, I didn’t move, watching as she stopped a few feet away.

“Please,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted around as though she feared being seen. “My son—he hasn’t been able to breathe all day. The priest said... said it’s in the hands of the gods now.”

The boy’s face was pale, lips tinged blue, his breaths shallow and uneven. It was a cruel sight, one that tugged at the edges of my mind, though I wouldn’t show it.

“And you think my hands will do better than theirs?” I asked, leaning back against the doorframe. My tone wasn’t kind, but neither was it cruel. It was deliberate.

She hesitated, clutching the boy tighter. “Please,” she said again, desperation cracking her voice. “I’ll pay you.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her fear to blossom. Then I stood and pushed the door open with a creak. “Bring him inside.”

She hurried past me, her steps unsteady but driven by urgency. The child let out a wet, gasping cough as she lowered him onto the cot near the hearth. I ignored her trembling, focusing on the boy. He was far gone, but not beyond my reach. Not yet.

“Wait outside,” I said, not bothering to look at her. “You’ll only make it worse.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it, retreating reluctantly. The door creaked shut behind her, and I let out a slow breath. Alone at last.

I crouched beside the boy, studying his face. His breathing was shallow, his small chest rising and falling unevenly. Reaching into my basket, I pulled out a bundle of herbs and laid them on the table, their pungent aroma filling the room.

I worked quickly, grinding the leaves into a thick paste with a mortar and pestle. The rhythm of the grinding was steady, almost hypnotic. With a knife, I nicked my finger, letting a few drops of blood fall into the mixture. The paste hissed and darkened as my blood met the herbs, a faint shimmer rippling across the surface.

“Breathe, child,” I murmured, my voice low and steady. “Breathe deep.”

I smeared the paste across his chest, the dark substance soaking into his skin. His body jerked, his back arching slightly as his lungs fought against the weight pressing down on them. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand over his chest as I muttered an incantation under my breath. The words were old, their cadence sharp and commanding, filling the space with a thrumming energy that crackled in the air.

The room grew still, the tension thick as the boy gasped suddenly, his breaths deep and ragged. The blue tint in his lips began to fade, replaced by a faint flush of color. His chest rose and fell evenly now, the rattling gone.

I wiped my hands on a rag and sat back, watching him sleep. The paste on his chest had vanished, absorbed into his skin, leaving only the faintest trace of its presence. I felt the pull of exhaustion settle into my limbs, but it was a familiar weight, one I had learned to carry.

The door creaked open, and the mother stepped inside. She froze when she saw him, her hands flying to her mouth. “He’s—” Her words broke into a sob as she dropped to her knees beside the cot, gathering the boy into her arms.

She turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you.”

I should have known they wouldn’t leave it at whispers. Fear has a way of festering, and tonight, it seemed ready to boil over.

It had only been hours since I sent the woman back on her way that I heard a knock at my door. It was sharp, relentless, and entirely unwelcome.

I didn’t answer at first, letting it echo through the quiet of my home. Only a fool would come to my door so late, but then again, this village was full of fools. When the knocking didn’t stop, I sighed, setting aside the herbs I’d been drying by the hearth. The hour was late, and I wasn’t in the mood for their desperation tonight.

When I opened the door, I was met with the gnarled face of Elder Kazu. Behind him stood three men, their faces half-hidden in the dim glow of lantern light, their expressions tight with unease.

“Elder Kazu,” I said, my voice flat. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”

The elder’s gaze darted past me, as if searching for something—or someone—inside. His knotted hands gripped his staff tightly, and his jaw was set with a determination I hadn’t seen before. Behind him, the men shifted uncomfortably, their fingers tightening around the tools they carried: a shovel, a rusted scythe, and a length of rope.

“The child died,” Kazu said, his voice cracking like dry wood. “Despite your... efforts.”

I stiffened, the words sinking like stones into my chest. The child from earlier. His mother had come to me, begging for help, and I had given it. My craft was strong, stronger than their faithless gods. But sometimes, even I could not bend fate.

“And you think that’s my fault?” I asked, my voice calm, though I could feel the simmer of heat beneath it.

“You said you healed him!” one of the men snarled, stepping forward. I recognized him—Hajime, the father of the boy. His face was twisted with grief, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “You lied! You cursed him, just like you’ve cursed this whole village!”

I met his glare, unflinching. “Your boy was dying when you brought him to me. I bought him time, nothing more. If you want to blame someone, blame the sickness in the land. Blame your gods for abandoning you.”

Hajime surged forward, but Kazu caught him with a firm hand. “Enough!” the elder barked. His voice wavered but held enough authority to make Hajime fall back, trembling with fury.

“It’s not just the boy,” Kazu said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, almost steady. “The crops failed again. The cattle are dying. More children are sick. And yet, here you stand, untouched. Unharmed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think my survival is proof of guilt? Perhaps it’s just proof that I’m smarter than the rest of you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The men moved as one, lunging forward with clumsy but determined hands. I fought back, my nails raking across flesh as I twisted and kicked, but there were too many of them. Rope snaked around my wrists, biting into my skin as they wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone grabbed my hair, forcing my head down as they shoved me into the dirt.

“Let go of me!” I snarled, my voice cutting through the night. “Do you think this will save you? Do you think your gods will return because you’ve tied up the only one who ever helped you?”

“Quiet!” Kazu barked, his staff slamming into the ground with a dull thud. “We’ve had enough of your poison, witch. You’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

They hauled me to my feet, the rope biting deeper as they dragged me into the square. My bare feet scraped against the ground, the cold seeping into my skin as the village came alive around us. Doors creaked open, faces peering out, and soon the square was full of murmurs and nameless faces.

Shadows danced wildly across the thatched roofs of the village as torches flickered in trembling hands. They gathered around me like vultures circling a corpse, their whispers rising into a chant, fueled by fear and hatred that churned like poison in their veins.

I stood in the center of it all, bound at the wrists, my face cloaked in shadow but my eyes unyielding. The ropes dug into my skin, rough and unrelenting, but I refused to show pain. My gaze swept over the crowd, unwavering, as if I were the one passing judgment. Their anger faltered when I looked at them—cowards, every last one of them. Some shifted uneasily, others clutched their children closer, as if I might lash out and curse them where they stood.

“She brought this on us!” Kazu’s voice cracked like dry leaves, his bony finger trembling as it pointed in my direction. “The deaths! The sickness! It’s her witchcraft!”

I tilted my head, letting the ghost of a smile curl my lips. “Witchcraft?” My voice was low, but it cut through the din like a blade. “Is that what you call your own failures?”

The crowd rippled with unease, torches flickering as if the flames themselves feared me. I could almost taste their panic, a bitter tang that fed the growing ember of defiance in my chest. They wanted to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in their miserable little lives. They wanted a villain. And here I was, bound and ready to play the part. Their silence wasn’t just fear—it was a storm gathering strength, waiting to break.

“She has no shame!” a woman screeched, clutching her rosary so tightly it threatened to snap. “We must end this before her evil consumes us all!”

The crowd closed in, their faces a blur of fear and hatred, their torches casting wild, flickering light. I felt the first tendrils of panic claw at my chest, but I shoved them down, keeping my gaze sharp and my spine straight.

“If you think fire will save you,” I said, my voice ringing out over the square, “then you’ve already lost.”

The words did little to calm them. If anything, it seemed to embolden them, their cries rising into a unified chant: “Burn her! Burn her!”

Kazu raised a hand, silencing them with a single motion. “We’ll do nothing without the lord’s permission,” he said, his voice steady now. “Sukuna will decide her fate.”

The name hung in the air, heavier than the smoke. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who ruled over life and death in this land. I had heard the stories—the whispers of his cruelty, his insatiable hunger for destruction, his throne built on blood and fear. A chill ran through me at the thought of standing before him, but I didn’t flinch. Not here. Not now.

The crowd parted as Kazu motioned for the men to drag me forward. My knees scraped against the dirt, my wrists burning against the rough rope. But I kept my head high, meeting their hateful glares with the same sharp defiance I always had.

The forest loomed ahead, its shadows deep and foreboding, swallowing the torchlight as if even the trees feared the lord who reigned over this land. I kept my eyes forward as they pushed me forward, every step deliberate. Each one echoed my silent vow: If death awaited me at the end of this road, I would meet it standing tall.

But deep in my chest, something stirred. Not hope—not even fear—but curiosity. A dark, creeping curiosity. If Sukuna was truly the monster they said he was, perhaps he would see what I already knew. That I didn’t belong in this crowd of cowards and fools. That my place wasn’t here, bound and powerless, but somewhere far greater.

The flames of the torches dimmed as we disappeared into the forest’s embrace. With them went the last remnants of my old life. Whatever awaited me on the other side, I wouldn’t bow to it. Not to Sukuna, not to anyone. If the King of Curses wanted to break me, he’d need far more than rope and cowardly men.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE what better way to ring in the new year than posting the first chapter to a new series? Hope you enjoyed this one, my loves! More is coming very soon… hopefully 🩷🩷

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #gege when i catch you gege #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna #jjk ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #jjk #witchcraft #witches #witch #witchcore #witch aesthetic

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sunflowersandcherryblossoms · 6 months ago

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I'm sorry but ...

That sounds like mostly you extrapolating from inexistent facts.

Never in the narrative are we given the information that Ichigo is still fighting or struggling to accept his Quincy side.

Did we see the same episode on cour 1?

You did see the 13th episode, "The Blade Is Me" right?

That amazing episode where we see Ichigo finally accepting Shiro (the hollow that was ACTUALLY Zangetsu. The one he had issues connecting with.) as his Shinigami/Hollow Zanpakuto spirit and accepting that Old Man was also a part of him and forging both of them into his blades. (A fucking mistake if I may say... Should have purged the imposter and kept only Shiro)

There's no doubt.

No infighting with the spirits.

No lack of acceptance of the Old Man.

If anything, further down the road, he uses his Quincy powers to awaken Shiro. (Why? Who knows. Kubo doesn't explain shit. That's too much work.)

His Bankai is still incomplete at the end of the series because he's relearning how to use the full potential of his powers. But never is this caused by any resistance towards his Quincy powers.

It's just that, for the first time in his life, he's aware he must learn this slowly with time (Byakuya was right all along, eh? The "fake" Bankai was just that. And now, even though he's got his new Bankai, he needs the normal 10 years to master it perfectly... I think... extrapolating from actual canon information.)

Nothing in the narrative supports your statements that imply that his Quincy side is stronger than the Shinigami side or even the Hollow side.

In fact it should be the weaker and therefore, by logic, Yhwach shouldn't be able to control him like that. His hollow powers alone should be overriding every bit of Quincy influence as soon as it became a threat towards Ichigo.

So, I'll politely disagree with all you just said, because there's no narrative evidence that your headcanon is true.

"The Blade is me" and "The Quincy blood in you will not permit the Soul King to exist" are two fundamentally contradicting statements, and it's frustrating that people don't seem to understand that.

Which is it: Has Ichigo mastered himself and is in control of his powers in totality, regardless of where that power comes from, or is he enslaved to their whims like he always has been?

If "The Blade is Me" was a factually correct statement, Yhwach should have no power over ichigo whatsoever. Ichigo should've been able to pull out the sword at no risk to himself, or baited Yhwach by pretending go along with the compulsion before attacking him instead.

But the statement is factually false by Yhwach declaring "The Quincy blood within you will not permit the Soul King to exist" turning Ichigo's own Quincy side against him, declaring it will kill the Soul King regardless of Ichigo's own desires. Which narratively speaking tells us Ichigo has NOT mastered himself and never will.

I ask again: Which one is it?

What was the point of introducing that whole concept, and the Quincy parasite pledging fealty to Ichigo, if the idea was immediately contradicted by having the parasite betray him?

Kubo, pick a fucking lane, you hack.

#bleach #Ichigo isn't at war with himself #Kubo just nerfed Ichigo to make Machete 2.0 seem more powerful than he is...#I'm dying on this hill #As long as Hollow powers and poisonous/toxic for Quincies the Old Man should have no more power to override Ichigo's will

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arcane-vagabond · 1 year ago

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Amhrán na Farraige

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Selkie!Reader

Summary: For centuries there have been legends of beautiful women who disguise themselves as creatures from the sea, only coming to land to sate their curiosity about the world above. Bradley was a simple man who had a taste for simple pleasures. A whole life spent at sea meant he was accustomed to these tales, but nothing prepares him for the reality of them.

Content Warning: ANGST, smut (brief, p in v), Pregnancy, References to the supernatural, Third person narrative, Some fluff, Dub-con, Kidnapping, Forced marriage (kind of, you'll see), Stockholm Syndrome, Some domestic violence (against spouse and towards children. Nothing heinous, just some grabbing and shaking), Anger, Celtic myths/legends, Celtic songs, Depression, Lies, Men driven mad, Descriptions of blood. I think I got everything, but PLEASE let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 13.2k

Helpful pronunciations (not exact, but close):

Amhrán na Farraige - [oh-ron nuh far-ig-uh] "Song of the Sea"

Sidhe - [She] "Fairy" (Also there's a whole etymology thing with this but yeah)

Mo Chroi - [moh khree] "My heart"

Mo Ghrá - [moh graw] "My love"

Mo Mhuirnín - [moh wor-neen] "My beloved"

Mo Stóirín - [mo store-een] "My Little Treasure"

Song One (The cliffs) || Song Two (The end)

God was not real, of this Bradley Bradshaw was sure and certain. At the very least, if he had existed at all, he was surely dead now. Or perhaps he was a neglectful deity. Bradley had seen too much death and hardship in his life to think otherwise.

He had seen men gasp for an unhearing god as they lay on battlefields, blood coursing out the holes in their bodies as tears streamed down their unseeing eyes. He had seen children starve, begging their still mothers for food that would never come, not while hardship endured in the land. He had heard the wails of women as their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands never returned home, hand reaching out for an embrace that would never be returned.

All eyes looked to God, but God did not look back.

The only thing Bradley was sure of, was the existence of the fair folk, the Sidhe his mother had always called them. The beings who walked the between, never staying long in this world or the next.

“That shadow that lingers in the corner of your eye?” She had smiled, stroking the hair out of his face. “That’s the fair folk, honey. Always watching, but never seen. If they do let you see them, Bradley, then it’s already over. They’ve gotten you.”

His mother had done her best to keep him sheltered from the horrors of the world, but death and famine followed the people along the coast. His father had died in a shipwreck off the coast when he was young, and while his mother had done her best to keep her sorrow hidden, Bradley often caught her eye turned towards the sea. She disappeared when he was only sixteen.

Bradley had heard stories of people being taken by the fair folk, lured to the hills beyond the town, some never to be seen again, while others came back different. He wondered if the men who had gone off to war had been taken, replaced with something hollow, something not quite all there. Had his mother been taken by the Sidhe? Taken to the land beyond to be with his father? Or had her sorrow and longing for her long-dead husband become too much all at once, the grips of the icy waters too tempting an offer to resist?

It didn’t matter anymore, though. Bradley was alone and took work where he could, soft hands of youth turning to calloused hands of adulthood. His once bright eyes grew dull from the monotony of the jobs at sea, life becoming routine as day after day he boarded a ship to earn his livelihood.

As he grew older, the wages from the odd jobs allowed him to purchase his own vessel, a small boat that rocked in the choppy waves as he hunted the seals that littered the coasts.

He remembered watching from the small house he and his mother lived in as the creatures hopped out of the water to lay on the rocks. He would inch towards the door until she caught him, a stern look on her face as she scowled at him.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” she scolded him, hands on her hips. “You leave those creatures alone. They’re not doing anything to bother you.”

“Elijah’s da’ hunts them,” he remarked once, only serving to deepen her scowl.

“He does,” she muttered. “And he’s a lucky man that the selkies are a forgiving lot.”

“What’s a selkie?” Bradley had asked, eyes lighting up in intrigue. His mother regarded him for a moment before gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Bradley settled in, eyes eager as he waited for his mother to explain.

“The selkies are fair folk of the sea,” she began, eyes serious as they darted above his head to look out the window towards the beach. “They may look like seals, but underneath their blubber and fur, they look like people just like you and me. They’re beautiful, Bradley, but curious to a fault. They walk on land in human form, shedding their seal skin once every seven years.”

“Why seven?” He had asked, voice small with wonder.

“Just the way the magic works,” she had replied with a shrug. “You can always tell when a seal is a selkie based on the size. The bigger the seal, the more likely it is to be a selkie, Bradley. Killing it and taking the skin will earn you pay, but you’ll have blood of the fair folk on your hand. Remember that.”

And he had remembered, for a while at least. He would watch the seals as they basked on the rocks, always wondering if the ones that met his curious gaze were one of the fair folk - a selkie.

Now the years had passed, grown from a small boy into a man of large stature. He commanded respect from those in the small, seaside village. Long had the days passed when his mother had warned him of hunting the seals and long had passed the days when he took those warnings seriously. He had joined the few who hunted the creatures around the rocky shores, braving the misty seas to earn himself a living.

He sat in his boat, the waves rocking him side to side in the way they often do during misty weather. Bitter cold clawed at his skin, numbing his fingers as he waited. Waited for something to come out of the water. Waited for any sign that he would earn a meal.

He fiddled with the ropes that lie around the floor of the boat, tying knots that he would need later. Undoing them, tying them, undoing them again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he lay in wait.

His breaths came out as white puffs of clouds, matching the ones surrounding him. Ice water clung to the whiskers on his upper lip, dripping down to run along his jaw and throat. He shifted, burying himself further into the warmth his coat provided. It was worn. He would need a new one soon. All the more reason to keep hoping for a prize catch.

The sound of disturbed water drew his attention towards the shore, and he slowly crept forward to peer over the side of the boat. A large seal bobbed at the surface, taking slow, deep breaths of the cold air that surrounded them. Slowly, Bradley reached for his harpoon, watching as the seal floated closer and closer. He raised his arm slowly, taking aim. He took a breath. Then another.

He released the harpoon just as a wave crashed into the side of his boat, sending the weapon veering off course. The harpoon struck the seal’s side, creating a gash that seeped blood into the water. The seal gave a pained cry, diving down into the murky depths of the sea, and Bradley cursed.

He stared at the spot where the seal had disappeared, already feeling the pangs of hunger stab at him. His nostrils flared as the desperate sense of anger welled up within him. How could he have been so careless? The size of that pelt would have brought in enough money to last him months. He heaved a sigh, pulling the rope to bring the harpoon back towards him. His fingers dipped into the icy water, the pain of it distracting him momentarily from his despair.

Bradley tossed the harpoon to the floor, the item landing with a thud as he slumped onto the bench. He buried his face in his hands, mind moving with blinding speed. He could still earn enough money to survive, he thought to himself. He could still do this. He just had to be more careful next time, should wait until he’s closer so he doesn’t miss. Still, his mind wandered back to the seal. The sheer size of it had his mind drifting back to the stories his mother had always told him. Of course, Bradley was older now, and he wouldn’t be scared by tall tales. However, the foolishness of youth still clung to him, for though he was now considered a man, he was barely twenty-two summers old.

Bradley heaved a sigh, sitting up and rubbing his hands together to create some warmth that would awaken his freezing fingers. He gripped the oars in his hands and began to row back to shore, the sun already dipping towards the horizon. He was always tempted to stay out past dark, but the older fishermen and hunters warned him of the dangers that came about at night. While Bradley was a fool, he wasn’t stupid.

He neared the dock that stood on the beach outside his home, moving to secure the boat to one of the posts when something caught his eye.

It floated in the water, a silvery grey blob that moved with the tide. Bradley’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place what it was in his mind. The blob slapped up against the side of the boat, and it was then that he realized what he was looking at. It was a perfectly preserved seal pelt, much like the one he had just seen. He supposed that it had fallen off a cart on the way to market, the winding roads by the cliffs being one of the few ways to make it into town. It wasn’t unusual for things to be knocked off of carts, finding their way onto the beaches and eventually into the sea.

Bradley wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after his blunder. He scooped the pelt into the boat, laying it out to dry before lifting himself onto the dock. It would be days before he could take it to the market to sell, and he hoped no one recognized it when he did make his way into town.

An odd feeling overcame him in that moment, a feeling of unease and tension winding up his spine and gripping his throat. The feeling told him he was being watched, but by what, he did not know. His eyes darted around, expecting to see one of his neighbors by the house, but no one stood atop the cliff. The wind picked up around him, the cold of it stealing the breath from his lungs, and he curled in within himself to try and preserve some of the warmth he had left. The feeling told him he was making a mistake, but he ignored it, surmising that what he felt was guilt at having come into fortune from another’s strife.

Bradley shook his head to rid himself of the feeling, taking one last look around before trudging across the beach and up the path to his home.

The house was cold, but not for lack of warmth. Bradley kept the rooms heated well. No, the house lacked the happiness that made it a home, and this was something he was keenly aware of. It had been a home once, way back before his mother had disappeared.

Now, Bradley existed within its walls, hoping one day that he would find himself ready to settle for one of the pretty girls in town, the ones that smiled at him sweetly whenever he deemed it necessary to venture in. Perhaps he would finally give in to Orla’s flirting. She was a sweet thing, always filling his cup more than she ought to, setting it down in front of him with a bat of her eyes. She wasn’t a bad choice.

Bradley shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t entertain the idea of taking a wife, not when his circumstances were so uncertain.

He settled further down into his chair, feet propped up by the fire, the glowing embers serving to help warm him from his time out in the cold air during the day. The wood cracked and popped as the fire consumed it, and Bradley soon found himself dozing off. Exhaustion seeped down to the very marrow of his bones, his muscles stiff from the hours spent hunched over on the boat. His eyes began to flutter shut, urging him to embrace the sweet oblivion that came with sleep.

His body jerked, eyes snapping open. He wasn’t sure what had startled him at first, his heart hammering away in his chest as he let out a shaky breath. His ears perked, eyes darting as he waited for whatever it was that had roused him. He didn’t have to wait long, a second cry sounding from outside.

It was one of pure, unadulterated sorrow. The cry of someone so grief stricken, they sounded almost like an animal. A chill ran down Bradley’s spine at the sound, and cautiously he moved to stand, heading towards the front door. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to leave well enough alone, but he worried that someone might be heart or in trouble. Grabbing his coat, he slipped back into his boots and walked out the door.

The cold was something he thought he should be used to at this point, but it still shocked his system every time he stepped foot out into it. The moon was the only source of light save for the faint, orange glow that filtered out of the windows of his house. The air stung his lungs, and he suppressed a shiver that threatened to run up his spine. The cry had sounded far, coming from towards the beach if he had to guess. He began to walk, boots crunching against the dirt path as it gave way to sand. The waves crashed against the shore like thunder, so loud that he almost didn’t hear the faint cries coming from further down the strip of sand.

He almost missed her huddled in the sand, back pressed up against one of the large rocks at the edge of the shoreline where sand met grass. Her head was buried in the crook of her arms, shoulders shaking as she cried, quiet whimpers wracking her body.

“Miss?” He called out once he was a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

Her head snapped up, hair falling in her face as sorrow filled eyes peered up at him. The look of her knocked all air out of his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t focus on anything but how beautiful the woman in front of him was.

“Can’t find it,” she croaked. Her voice was still sweet sounding despite the hoarseness of it, and Bradley found himself captivated even further by her. His eyes left her face then, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, rushing forward as he shrugged off his coat. “Here, take this.”

He wrapped the coat around her smaller frame, the material dwarfing her. Her lips trembled, though Bradley suspected it wasn’t from the cold. She didn’t seem to see him as she continued muttering to herself, eyes darting wildly between her hands and the sea.

“Can’t find it,” she said again, her voice growing in pitch as the desperation took hold.

“Can’t find what?” Bradley asked, brow furrowing in confusion as he glanced around the beach. “Did someone hurt you? Where are your clothes?”

A choked cry spilled past her lips as a fresh wave of tears began to stream down her face. She shook her head wildly, hands darting out to grasp at his shirt. Her fingers seemed to push him away and pull him closer at the same time as another wail climbed up her throat.

“Can’t find it!” She shrieked, eyes growing wider as she stared at the water. “Wanna go home.”

“Where is home?” Bradley asked, his own anxiety beginning to peak as he gripped onto the woman’s shoulders. Her eyes glanced to his, but they did not see him.

“Between the light, between the dark,” she whispered, eyes boring into him. “Between the cold, between the warmth. Between the moon, between the sun. Between the north, between the south.”

The between was something Bradley’s mother had always cautioned him about.

“It’s where the fair folk live, Bradley,” she had told him. “They don’t live here, but they don’t live fully in the other. They’re from somewhere in between.”

He shook the thought from his head. He knew he was being superstitious, ridiculous even. The fair folk were prideful beings, surely one wouldn’t be sitting here talking with him like this.

And yet, as Bradley looked upon this woman, heard how she spoke, a voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that there was something strange about her. Something…otherworldly.

“Are you alone?” He settled on, trepidation clear in his tone. “Is there someone I can go get for you?”

“Can’t go home,” she muttered, eyes turned longingly to the sea as tears streamed down her face. “It’s too late.”

Bradley heaved out a sigh. He would have to take her home, let her rest and try again in the morning.

“Can you stand?” He asked her. She said nothing, nails biting into the skin of her arms as she continued to stare out at the water. Bradley reached out to her, Taking her arms gently to help her stand. Her lips curled in a wince, hand flying to her side. His eyes flickered down, and for the first time noticed the dried blood on her side.

“You’re hurt,” he frowned, moving closer to inspect the wound, but she shied away from him, her own frown tugging on her lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own nervously, as he glanced from her to the house.

“My house is a bit of a ways up the hill,” he started, nodding towards it. Her gaze was more focused now, eyes flickering towards where he gestured. “Do you think you can make it?”

She didn’t respond, instead tilting her head to the side as she regarded the distance. Finally, she nodded, and Bradley felt his shoulders sag in relief. The wind whipped around them, and he was reminded of how cold it was. It would be best to get her inside as soon as possible, though he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed holy unaffected by the freezing temperatures even though she stood in nothing but his coat.

He waited for her to move towards the house, but she remained still, watching him watch her. Finally, he pressed his lips together and began to walk towards the house, boots crunching against the ground once more. The woman made no sound as she moved behind him, her gaze fixated on him the entire time.

He paused outside the front door, hand hesitating above the knob. Slowly, he turned to look at her once more. Her eyes stared back at him, eyes that reflected the orange glow cast into the night, eyes that swirled with knowledge that Bradley could only dream of. She said nothing as they watched each other, those sorrowful eyes watching him with curiosity, so much like seals that littered the shores. Bradley sucked in a quick breath before turning around to push the door open.

The warmth was welcome, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he stepped into the main room, turning to watch as the woman stepped across the threshold. Her eyes darted around, taking in the various pieces of furniture and decorations that were scattered about as Bradley closed the door softly behind her. She took a few more tentative steps into the house, head cocking to the side in such an unusual way as to further confirm what Bradley was slowly accepting.

She walked past him, eyes glittering with intrigue as she came up to the fire. She crouched down, head still tilting to one side, and Bradley was captivated by the sight of this beautiful woman bathed in the light of the fire in his home. Before he could react, she reached a hand out into the flame, letting out a startled, pained yelp as she retracted it. A whimper left her lips as Bradley rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and taking her hand in his.

“Why would you do that?” He asked, no real heat behind his tone as he inspected her fingertips. “Don’t you know it’s hot?”

Her fingertips were a little pink, but otherwise no real damage had been done. She stared at him with an unreadable expression, eyes still studying him. He hesitated for a moment before moving to stand, keeping her hand in his.

“I can show you to your room,” he told her, tugging on her hand lightly. Her eyes scanned him from head to foot and then back again before allowing him to pull her to her feet. The two padded down a small hallway before he pushed the door open to a bedroom that had long stood unoccupied. He tugged her inside, motioning for her to sit on the bed. She sat obediently, watching and waiting for him to make his next move.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he exited the room. He made his way to the washroom, grabbing bandages, a cloth, a bowl, and a pitcher of water. He returned to the room quickly, finding that the woman had not moved an inch in the time he was gone. He sucked in a breath as their eyes once again met, wary meeting curious. He set the items on the bedside table as he gestured at her.

“You’ll need to take that off so I can see the wound,” he murmured, heat rising to his cheeks as he glanced at her uneasily. She paid no mind to his discomfort, easily shedding the coat and exposing her naked body to him as simply as if he had asked her to close the door. He cleared his throat, eyes darting down to look at the angry-looking gash on her side. The wound appeared to be superficial, but he couldn’t be sure until he cleaned it.

He turned to ready the cloth, keeping the bowl of water close so he could rinse if he needed to. Tentatively, he reached a hand up, running his fingers over the dried blood upon her skin, eyes darting up to search for any sign of distress. Her face remained impassive as she watched him, and Bradley’s jaw clenched as he began to wipe gently at the wound.

He had been correct in his initial assessment, the gash was more of a flesh wound and thankfully wouldn’t require stitching. He grabbed some of the salve he had brought in, applying a decent layer before wrapping a bandage around her midsection. Bradley tried not to think of how close he was to the woman, of how beautiful she was, especially when she seemed wholly unbothered by his presence.

“I, um,” he stuttered, cursing his nervousness, “I can bring you something to wear. I still have some of my ma’s things.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she would give him one if the last half hour had been any indication. He made his way down the hall to the door he had not opened in years, taking a deep breath to steady himself before pushing inside.

The room was just as his mother had left it all those years ago, the only thing having changed was the layer of dust that coated everything. Bradley moved quickly to the wardrobe on the far side of the room, opening it to reveal several different clothing options. He grabbed what he could carry, making sure to grab some of the sleeping garments before heading back down the hall. The woman sat unmoved once more as he appeared, draping the options on the chair to his left by the vanity.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said lamely, gesturing towards the clothing, “so I grabbed what I thought might look nice.”

The woman’s gaze moved slowly to the clothing before she rose to her feet. She padded across the room, not a sound from her as she walked over towards where he stood. Her eyes darted up to his for a moment before back down to the clothes. Small hands reached out to pick up one of the nightgowns he had grabbed, eyes studying it with a frown. Her hands tightened on the fabric, a look of despair washing over her face and disappearing just as quickly before she slowly eased it over her head, letting it drape down her form. She reached her hands up to pull her long hair out of the confines, letting it run down her back as she stared up at him.

There was something inherently wild about her, something that sent Bradley’s heart racing as he looked at her standing there in the room. She looked so out of place but so at ease with her surroundings, and he could hardly stand it.

“My room is just down the hall,” he told her, shoulders pulling back a fraction as he regarded her. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

He gathered the things he had brought in, moving to leave when she grabbed his shirt, stopping him. He glanced at her from over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to speak.

“Do you hear them?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re calling for me.”

Bradley listened in the silence that followed, and it was a second before he heard the quiet, distant barks of seals mixed with the keen of something he could not place - something not quite human, not quite animal. He looked at the woman, her eyes having grown distant once more as a tear slid down her face. Bradley sucked in a quick breath as a shudder ran up his spine.

“You should get some sleep,” he whispered, breaking the silence. “You seem like you’ve had a long day.”

The woman looked at him once more, sadness swelling within her eyes before she slowly nodded, letting him go. She turned towards the bed, padding silently across the room once more.

Bradley closed the door behind him as he left, hands shaking as he listened for the click of the latch before putting away the items in hand. He put out the fire, washing the room in darkness as he dragged a hand over his face. With a glance towards the hall, he crept towards the front door, opening it and shutting it behind him carefully as to not make a sound. The cries from before could be heard louder now, and Bradley thought his heart would burst from his chest from the unease that enveloped him.

The moon still shone bright, lighting his path down towards the dock and his boat. The waves lapped against the shore, the cries louder the closer he came. His boat knocked against the wooden stands of the dock with every crash of the waves, and sitting there, on top of the bench, lay the pelt.

Bradley’s heart quickened at the sight, a sense of dread filling him at what he might find once he inspected it. His boots clicked against the wood as he made his way down to the edge. He kneeled down, snatching the pelt from its perch and into his hands. It was soft, nearly dry. He ran his hands over it, inspecting it closely as he squinted in the dark.

He was lost in the sensation of the pelt, how smooth and soft it felt in his hands, and for a moment he allowed himself to close his eyes and compare it to how soft the woman’s skin had felt under his fingertips earlier. He was pulled from his thoughts as the soft fur transformed into a matted and cracked mess. His eyes flew open, breath catching in his throat as he took in the bloodied tear down the side of the pelt.

Right where the gash on the woman was.

There was no denying it in his mind now. The woman in his home was one of the Sidhe - a selkie.

The cries grew louder, and Bradley’s head whipped up to stare out into the water. He couldn’t see them, but knew they were out there, searching for a sister that was lost to them. His grip on the pelt tightened, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He scrambled back to his feet, boots stomping against the wood and then the ground as he ran back to the house. His mind raced with thought after thought as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His hand reached out to open the door, but he stopped short, fingers hovering over the knob.

The cries off in the distance sounded as he stared at his front door before looking down at the pelt in hand. He could return it to the woman, let her return back to the sea she called home. But a more sinister thought crossed his mind. Why should he give it back? The woman was safe with him, after all. He could protect her from those that wished to hunt her, keep her warm and fed like a man should. He could love her, give her a life beyond what the sea had to offer. The memory of her skin under his fingertips once again rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Yes, he would keep the pelt. Keep it hidden away where she nor anyone else would ever find it.

He turned on his heel, running towards the small shack just a few yards away from the house, ripping the door open and stepping inside. The structure held mostly items necessary for fishing and repairing his boat, but an old trunk sat in the back, practically hidden by various tarps and other objects. The cries of the other selkies grew louder, almost like they could sense the pelt in his hands and were coming to find it.

Bradley pulled the trunk out into the open, moving to the workbench and grabbing one of the keys that sat in the top drawer. He kneeled down in front of the trunk, unlocking it and opening the lid with a quiet creak. Inside lay old photos and trinkets that his father and mother had collected over their years together. He pulled a few items out before placing the pelt gently into the trunk, covering it back up with the aforementioned items.

He closed the lid, locking it. The wailing cries coming to an abrupt and sudden stop as he did so. He stayed there for a moment, the only sound to be heard being his heavy breathing and the waves crashing against the shore below. Slowly, he moved to stand, shoving the trunk back where he found it and hiding it away once more. No one would think to look in there. No one would know what he kept hidden. He tossed the key back into the top drawer, stepping out of the shack and back into the night.

The air was still around him, eerily so, and Bradley made his way quickly back to the house. His fingers were numb, whether it be from cold or nerves he wasn’t sure, but the tension didn’t ease as he closed the front door quietly behind him, his back pressed against it for a moment as he listened for any sound that the woman might have heard him. Hearing nothing, he toed his boots off, setting them by the door before making his way quietly towards his room, noting that no light shone under the woman’s door. He changed quickly for bed, crawling under the blankets as if they might shield him from the consequences of his actions that evening. He took a few calm, steadying breaths before closing his eyes.

Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

The first morning had been awkward, Bradley rising with the dawn to find the woman already sitting at the dining table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of the nightgown. Her eyes darted up to meet his as he entered the room, stopping short at the sight of her.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, shock clear in his voice as they stared at one another. She blinked at him, saying nothing. She seemed perkier this morning, albeit still cautious as she watched him walk further into the room. Bradley grabbed the box of matches from the shelf, taking one out and striking it with a pop. The woman jumped at the sound, eyes flickering to the watch as he leaned down to light the stove, shaking the match out once he was done.

“What is that?” She asked, and Bradley turned to look at her in surprise.

“What is what?”

“The colors,” she supplied, nodding at the burnt match in his hand. She pointed towards the fireplace. “They were in the cave over there last night as well.”

Bradley’s gaze flickered over to where she pointed before landing back on her.

“It’s called fire,” he started slowly, a frown tugging on his lips. “I use it to cook things and keep the house warm.”

“Fire,” she repeated, testing the word out on her lips. “It hurts.”

“It can,” Bradley agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

She nodded solemnly, clasping her hands out in front of her. She watched as he began to prepare breakfast, turning on the toaster and slicing up the fish to cook in the pan.

“I like those.”

Bradley turned back around to find the woman sitting with most of her torso on top of the table, her legs stretched to accommodate her. Eyes shone with delight at the sight of the fish, and Bradley arched a brow at her.

“Yeah?” He hummed. She nodded enthusiastically, tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

“There’s lots of them,” she told him. “They swim in groups and they’re easy to catch. The fishermen catch them using nets.”

“They do,” Bradley nodded, laying a strip of the mackerel down in the pan. It began to sizzle, and he was struck with how hungry he truly was.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning to look where the woman now stood, eyes wide as she watched the fish cook down. He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the fish, flipping it over before it burned.

“I’m cooking,” he told her. The woman leaned forward, sniffing at the food before wrinkling her nose.

“It smells weird,” she muttered, and Bradley laughed.

“It smells fine,” he smiled, sliding the fish onto one of the plates on the counter. “You’ve just never had it cooked, I’ll bet.”

He ushered her back towards the table, setting the plate down at the spot she just occupied and handing her a fork. He turned back towards the stove, laying another slice of the fish down as the woman took a tentative bite. Chewing slowly, she perked up as the taste rushed over her, shoveling more into her mouth with a satisfied purr. Bradley soon joined her, chuckling as he watched her. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so light, the last time he laughed so freely.

“You should slow down,” he smirked, taking a bite from his own plate. “You don’t want to choke.”

She peered up at him, pausing in her feast as she considered his words. She cocked her head to the side in that curious way before taking a slower bite, looking up at him for approval. The two ate in silence for a few moments before Bradley cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“My name is Bradley,” he said, glancing up at her as he swallowed a mouthful of fish.

“Bradley.”

“What should I call you?” He asked, and she frowned in confusion.

“What do you want to call me?” She asked him.

“Don’t you have a name?” He chuckled, disbelief coloring his voice. Surely even the fair folk had names to give. Her face drew tight in sorrow once more, and Bradley felt a twinge of pain in his chest at the sight. Her gaze slowly turned towards the window where the sea lay just out of sight.

“Only the water knows my name,” she told him, grip loosening on her fork as it clattered against the plate. “Only it can say it.”

Bradley watched her. Watched how her breathing grew ragged. Watched how her eyes glistened with unshed tears for a home she would not return to. Her lips trembled, and Bradley cleared his throat.

“I need to head into town,” he said. “Need to see a man about a job. Do you want to come with me?”

She turned to look at him, eyes still hazy from wherever she had let herself wander. She blinked once, twice.

“I suppose,” she whispered finally. Bradley nodded, clearing the plates from the table.

“You’ll need to change,” he told her. “You can’t go out wearing that.”

She looked down at her nightgown with a frown before looking back up at him.

“It’s, uh,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not appropriate for others to see you dressed like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just,” he blew out a breath, “please pick a different dress?”

She gave him a sour look before standing and disappearing down the hall. Bradley blew out a breath before moving to clean the kitchen area. The woman reappeared, wearing a simple, blue dress. Bradley nodded in approval before his eyes landed on her bare feet.

“Stay here,” he told her, walking down the hall to the far bedroom. He walked in, straight up to the wardrobe and began rummaging through until he found a pair of his mother’s old shoes. He reappeared in the kitchen, handing the woman the shoes with a shy smile.

“I don’t know how well they’ll fit,” he started, “but they should work until we get you some new ones.”

She eyed them distastefully, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I don’t want them,” she said finally, moving to hand them back to Bradley. He shook his head.

“You need them. They’ll protect your feet, and people will expect you to wear them.”

She scowled, pushing them forward once more, but Bradley stopped her.

“Please, mo chroi,” he pleaded. “Just while we’re in town. You can take them off as soon as we’re home.”

Her gaze softened at the endearment, and reluctantly, she shoved her feet into them. He helped her lace them, calloused fingers making nimble work of them, and soon they were ready to go. He grabbed a thin jacket for himself while he made sure to hand her the heavy coat to combat the frigid air outside. The walk to town took about an hour, and the weather was sure to still be cold and damp as it often was during the time between spring and winter.

Bradley turned to her, a thin-lipped smile on his face as his hand rested on the door. He gave her a once over.

She looked like any other person upon first glance, but if you stared too long, something wild shone on her person that drew you in. Like it would suffocate you if you stared too long. He sucked in a breath, torn between keeping her in his sight and making her stay. If she came, the townsfolk would surely be able to guess that she was not a mere human girl, but if she stayed? If she stayed, she might find the one thing he hoped she never would.

“Alright,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

Weeks had passed, and the two had developed a routine of sorts. Bradley had started work as the lighthouse keeper, walking every day down the path along the cliffs to clean and polish the light that guided ships to shore. When he finished, he began work on the nets for when he ventured out into the sea to catch fish. It was a steady source of food, and food was not something Bradley took lightly. Memories of what it felt like to go hungry when there was so little to go around, fueled his drive to ensure there was enough, always enough and plenty to spare. He showed mo chroi how to prepare and salt the fish they couldn’t eat, showing her how to store it for future meals.

She was a quick learner, performing the tasks diligently as the days passed, and soon she took over most of the household chores. The widow Callahan checked in on them from time to time, her wise eyes studying the new woman of the house every time she came by.

“Be careful, young man,” she’d always say, dark eyes narrowed up at him. “You may have tamed her now, but the fair folk were not meant for gilded cages. Don’t give her what you cannot spare.”

Bradley would assure her that he wouldn’t, but in truth, he had no idea what she was telling him. He was content with how things were, content to have a partner by his side to help with the work he had done by himself for years. He still caught her staring longingly out at the waters she once called home, but the longing looks grew farther and farther apart the longer she stayed with him, resigning herself to her new life on land.

He was mending a tear in one of the nets when she appeared beside him, silent as always. He was used to it now, no longer startling every time she appeared around him without a sound. He became attuned to her presence, sensing when she came and when she left.

She said nothing to him at first, content to watch him as he worked, and he was content to keep working. It wasn’t until she kneeled beside him, gentle hand placed on top of his arm that he stopped.

“What is it, mo chroi?” He asked, gazing up at her. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting a faint golden glow onto the summer evening. Bradley couldn’t help but to admire her beauty in the dimming light, eyes glittering and skin smooth as porcelain as they looked at him. She wore only a white chemise, something she was prone to do when it was just the two of them. She didn’t like the heavy, scratchy feel of the dresses, only wearing them when there was company or when the two ventured into town. Bradley complied with her whims, finding it hard to say no to her.

“Why do you not have a woman?”

The question caught him off guard, eyes widening as his jaw went slack.

“What?” He blinked, scrambling to make sense of her question. She hummed, pressing closer to him. Bradley found it hard to think with the feel of her soft, warm body so close to his, one hand tracing over the planes of his chest as she continued.

“The men in the village,” she pressed, eyes never wavering as they bore into his own, almost hypnotic in the way they captured him, “they all have a woman to keep them company, to hold them, to love them. But you do not.”

Bradley’s eyes darted back and forth between her own, words failing him. She lifted a leg, resting it in between his own as she straddled his thigh. The hand that rested on his arm trailed up to play with the curls at the base of his skull, her body flush with his now as his hands came up to rest on her thighs. The hem of her chemise rode up to reveal smooth thighs that had Bradley reeling with lust. She leaned forward, a purr on her lips as she trailed her nose along his jaw and up to his ear.

“Is it me?” She asked softly, hand splayed on his chest as her lips brushed along the shell of his ear. A shudder ran up along Bradley’s spine at the sensation, mind growing hazy and clouded with lust for the creature before him.

“Am I yours?” She breathed, meeting his eyes once more. The air between them was charged, and for a moment Bradley could think of nothing but the way she felt against him. The way her lips hovered over his.

He lunged forward, pulling her impossibly closer as their lips melded against one another. He was spellbound, captivated, obsessed. His hands tightened on her thighs, and she sighed against his mouth, spurring him on to nip at her bottom lip. She granted him entrance, gasping as he licked hungrily into her mouth, the sweet taste of her driving him mad as a hand slid up to press against her lower back.

She wasted no time lifting herself off of him long enough to free him from the confines of his trousers, small hands gripping his hardening length. He let out a pleasured groan, head tilting back as she stroked him slowly before positioning herself atop him. There was no buildup between them, Bradley gripping at her as she slowly eased herself down onto him. A keen left her lips as he stretched her, mind numbing pleasure coursing through his veins as her velvety walls fluttered around him.

Her eyes were closed tight as she rested on top of him, her hips flush against his as her hands rested on his chest for balance. Bradley had never seen a more beautiful sight. Slowly, she rolled her hips against his, breathing ragged as she built a rhythm. Bradley laid against the wood of the dock as he watched her take her pleasure from him, a hand running up her stomach to rest between her breasts. He could die a happy man right then and there.

Her pace grew faster as she approached her climax, whimpers and cries spilling past her lips as she rode him, and Bradley pushed himself into a sitting position, careful to not disturb her. A hand rested on her back as he nuzzled into the space between her breasts where his other hand had just been. The sleeve of her chemise fell off her shoulder, and Bradley lifted his face to nip and lick at the skin there. He could feel his own high approaching as she ground down on him, and his free hand rose up to wrap around her throat, squeezing gently. She froze, hips stopping as they locked eyes. The only sound to be heard between the two of them was their ragged breathing.

For a second, Bradley thought he had crossed the line, but she made no move to remove his hand. The two stared at one another for a long moment before one of her hands came up to rest atop his own, squeezing them lightly as she began to move her hips once more, slower this time, drawing out the inevitable. He groaned at the sensation, feeling his stomach tense as her eyes never left his, her gaze intense as she chased release. Her walls fluttered and tightened around him, and with a final cry, she came, her head thrown back and her hot, wet cunt milking his own orgasm out of him with a shout. His spend coated her walls, leaking out around him as he shuddered and fell back against the dock with eyes pinched closed. Her hips still moved against his, drawing out every ounce of pleasure she could, giving herself to him with every movement.

She was his now, he had marked her.

Her hips finally stilled against his, and he could feel her staring at him. Her fingers trailed up his chest, along his jaw, before finally stilling on his lips. Bradley peeled his eyes open slowly, and he would have sworn he had died and gone to heaven for if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking at an angel. The setting sun cast a halo around her head as her hair blew in the wind, hypnotic eyes boring into him as the golden glow of the evening enveloped her. His lover smiled down at him softly, fingertips stroking his lips before leaning down to press her own against them.

She didn’t look to the sea much anymore, her longing gazes turned to brief flickers as she went about her days. Still, there were nights when her eyes would glaze over as the sound of seals calling out in the night made their way up to the confines of the house. Bradley would watch as her lips trembled briefly, the look in her eyes growing farther away until suddenly she would snap back to the moment, offering him a loving smile as she continued her mending.

Her stomach began to swell in the autumn months, and Bradley often found himself reluctant to leave her side. He would place a hand on her stomach, eyes lighting up in delight every time he felt a kick to it. He’d rest his head on top of her, muttering sweet words and promises to the babe that grew within. She would rest her hand on his head, stroking his hair soothingly as the fire crackled in front of them.

They were happy.

There was one night, however, when Bradley came back from the village to find his wife no longer at home, and panic overtook him. He tore through the house, ripping open every door he could find until he was faced with a horrifying possibility. He ran outside to the old shack, nearly ripping the door off of its hinges in his haste to open it. His eyes scanned the dark interior, his lantern casting shadows across the walls as he sighed in relief at the realization that his secret was still hidden underneath tarps and old traps.

His brow furrowed as he stepped back out onto the open cliffs, the wind whipping around him as he scanned the dancing grass. His eyes stopped at the edge of the cliff, terror gripping him once more at the thought that his lover might have done the unthinkable. Had she tried to return to the depths from where she came? Her body would not survive the plunge, not without the skin that lay hidden in shadows. He trudged towards the edge of the cliffs, the wind biting his skin and seeping to his bones as his heart thundered in his ears. He peered down at the rocks below, stopping only when a song sounded on the wind.

Little sister, sister hu ru

My love, my sister hu ru

Can you not pity o hol ill eo

My grief tonight hu ru

The voice was beautiful and full of sorrow, cries carried on the wind and out to the sea. Bradley swung the lantern towards the rocky path that led up to the lighthouse, the moon casting ribbons of silver that silhouetted the tall structure.

I am a poor woman hu ru

Sad and miserable hu ru

I climbed up o hol ill eo

Ben Sgrìobain hu ru

Bradley moved quickly through the grass and up the path, the sound of the song growing louder with each step he took. The stone structure stood proud against the backdrop of the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks below, almost drowning out the song as he rounded the walkway, finding his wife standing on the edge of the cliff.

I didn’t find there hu ru

What I wanted hu ru

A girl o hol ill eo

With hair like a daisy hu ru

Tears streamed down her face as he watched her, her hair whipping in the wind as her hands cradled her heavily swollen belly. Her feet were bare, and she wore a thin chemise that did little to protect her from the gusts that enveloped her body. No sobs left her as she finished her song, only the look of someone who had been lost, lost and never found in a world that was not her own. Bradley sucked in a breath, lips pressing firmly together before he stomped towards her. He dropped the lantern at his feet, the flame within dying at the impact as he gripped her shoulders and whirled her around to face him. Her eyes grew wide as his rage flooded to the surface, nostrils flaring and fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“What were you thinking?” He hissed, shaking her with every accusation. “You scared me half to death! What are you doing out here dressed like this? It’s too cold for you to be out here with nothing to protect you. I thought you had-”

He gestured towards the cliffs, the words dying on his lips as he choked on a sob. The tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly, rolling down his cheeks as his hands gripped onto her even tighter. If he held on tighter, she would never leave, would never return to the sea, would never leave him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again, not when he had tasted a life that was shared.

She stared at him, eyes wide and searching as the wind danced around them. Her hand slowly reached up to cup his jaw, thumb smoothing over the stubble that grew there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice almost lost on the wind. She leaned forward, and Bradley lurched back, eyes wide and scared as they watched her. The two stayed like that for a moment before she moved once more, hand holding his face in place as she brushed his nose with hers before pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. Tears continued to stream down Bradley’s face as his eyes flickered closed, embracing her as different emotions swirled inside him.

“Never leave me,” he begged in a whisper against her, one hand dropping down to cup her stomach as he rested his forehead against hers. He opened his eyes to find her already looking at him, black water dancing in her gaze.

“Never, mo ghrá.”

Their son was born a month later, loud cries spilling into the night as Bradley waited outside with some of the older men from the village. His head perked up at the first wail, eyes shining with excitement as her screams were replaced by those of the infant. The widow Callahan opened the front door moments later, apron covered in blood as she wiped her hands on a rag.

“You have a son,” she announced with a small smile, and Bradley grinned so hard, he swore his face would split in two. The men around him clasped him on the back, cheers ringing out in the night as they opened up spirits brought with them for the occasion. Bradley was keen to see his wife and son, but one of the men shoved a mug into his hands.

“Have a drink first, lad,” he hollered with a laugh. “The misses and the wean will still be there after.”

Bradley downed the drink as quickly as he could, much to the amusement of the others. He shoved the cup into the hands of the man nearest to him, not waiting for it to be refilled as he made his way into the house. The widow Callahan was cleaning up her supplies along with her apprentice when Bradley entered the room. His wife lay propped up in the bed, a small smile on her face as she cooed at the small bundle in her arms. Her eyes flickered up to his for a moment before back down. He crossed the room, easing down gently beside her on the bed. The babe gurgled, eyes closed as he yawned, and Bradley felt his heart swell.

He reached a hand over to run a finger over his son’s hands, heart dancing in his chest when the babe gripped it, small hand so strong for someone who was only moments old.

“What should we call him?” Bradley asked, cuddling into her side, exhaustion seeping through her.

“I thought we might call him Ronan.”

Bradley paused. The meaning of the name was not lost on him, and his gaze flickered to her profile for a moment before nodding.

“Ronan,” he murmured, eyes turning back to his son, nodding. “Aye. I like it. Ronan it is then.”

The babe gurgled once more, and Bradley reached over to take him in his arms, cooing softly as the bundle fussed.

“We should let your mother rest,” He whispered to the baby, a small smile on his wife’s lips as she nestled into the inviting warmth of the bed, her eyes drooping as she fought to remain awake. “She’s had a long day, don’t you think? It’s not easy bringing someone into the world.”

He tore his eyes away from his son to gaze at her, adoration shining bright as he reached a hand to smooth the hair out of her face.

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, bouncing the baby lightly as he moved to stand, his eyes already fixated back on the bundle in his arms. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the door, lips curled into a smile as she slipped further and further into oblivion.

Bradley offered her one last smile as she fell asleep, walking towards the main room and sitting down by the fireplace, the orange glow of the fire bathing the two in the warm light. The men outside still celebrated, and Bradley rolled his eyes, smiling down at his son.

“I wanted to talk to you, man to man,” he started, rocking the baby in his arms. “I can’t guarantee you an easy life, Ronan. In fact, it might be a hard one. What I can promise is that I’ll be by your side as only a father can be for his son.”

Ronan cooed, opening his eyes for the first time to look up at his father, and Bradley’s heart soared.

“You’re born from two worlds, you know,” Bradley continued, a small frown tugging on his lips as he considered what this would mean. “A living bridge between the seen and unseen, but what does that mean for you, I wonder.”

The fire popped as it consumed the wood, the crackling the only thing heard besides the faint sound of Ronan breathing. The men had left to continue their drinking in the village, and soon even the widow Callahan and her apprentice left, bidding him a good night as they did. Bradley said nothing to them in response, eyes trained on the baby in his arms even as the sun rose above the horizon.

Ronan grew quickly, much to Bradley’s surprise, and soon he was toddling around and talking, a smart lad whom Bradley found he never had to instruct more than once, eager to take on the responsibility of being the eldest. Two years after he was born, another bundle joined their home, a boy they named Rían who grew to fill the house with peels of laughter everywhere he went. His wife showed no more signs of longing for the sea, too enamored with her children to pay much mind to the sea which she once called home.

Three years after Rían was born, they welcomed Cillian into their fold, a quiet babe who grew into a curious and bright little boy. Bradley was happy with his life and even prouder of his family. He soon began teaching Ronan how to weave nets for fish and how to fix the traps they used to catch the migrating salmon, and it wasn’t long until Rían joined them. Cillian was too young, staying behind with his mother as the other three made their way out to sea to bring home food for the next day.

Their evenings were spent sitting by the fire, the boys playing with their toy soldiers as their mother worked on her mending, Bradley resting from a hard day’s work as he smoked a pipe, a habit he had picked up to help ease the tension he often felt these days as he grew older. It was on one such evening that Cillian pulled on the skirt of his mother’s dress, eyes so much like hers as they gazed up in curiosity.

“Ma,” he chirped, earning her attention. She smiled down at him, setting down her latest project to give him her full attention.

“What is it, mo mhuirnín?” She asked.

“The people in town say you’re not from here,” he continued, earning the attention of the two other boys and Bradley as well. “If you aren’t from here, then where do you come from?”

The silence was heavy in the room, not a soul moving as the words hung in the air. His mother’s eyes glazed over slowly as she thought about the home she left behind so many years ago. A look Bradley had not seen since before their first son was born made its way onto her face, and his heart began to thunder in his chest. Time seemed to stand still as she considered her words.

“Between the here, between the now. Between the day, between the night. Between the land, between the sea. Between the awake, between the asleep. Between the real, between the myths. That is where I am from,” she told him, a hand coming up to cup his chin gently. In that moment, Bradley remembered the wild that dwelled within his wife, the constant call from within to return back to the sea. He remembered that while he grew older, she remained forever the same, never changing. He remembered the fear that gripped him each night at the thought that she might leave, and rage filled him.

“Enough,” he snapped, drawing all four pairs of eyes to him. Bradley was a kind, easygoing man, not prone to anger, and the sight of him now shocked his children, fear flashing in their eyes at the look of anger that clung to his face.

“I won’t hear another word,” he hissed, grip tight on the pipe in hand. He gestured wildly at his children as they sat, paralyzed with fear. “To bed, all of you!”

They did not need to be told twice, scrambling to their feet as they hurried down the hall, the sounds of doors shutting behind them. Regret filled Bradley almost instantly, but it was not enough to quell the fear that still raged on inside of him. His eyes watched the hall before sliding over to look at his wife. Her head was bowed submissively, an impassive look on her face as she continued her mending, and Bradley settled back into his chair, an air of unease settling in around him.

It was a few weeks later when Bradley had taken the two older boys off that his world turned upside down.

Cillian was a curious boy, too curious for his own good, one might say. He loved to experience the world around him and oftentimes found himself in more trouble than he could handle. His father had warned him to stay away from the old shack that stood by the cliff, telling him that there were things in there that could hurt him if he wasn’t careful. Cillian heeded the warning, but grew more and more curious the longer it remained unexplored. It was for that reason he found himself opening the door, the creeks of the old hinges causing him to turn around to make sure he wasn’t heard. Confident that his actions still remained a secret, he crept into the dark shack, eyes wide as he took in the different trinkets strewn about.

It was nothing of import, mostly old tarps and broken traps his father had not seen fit to fix yet. An old desk sat against the far wall, and as Cillian crept farther and farther into the room, he noticed how more and more things lay stacked atop one another, as if trying to convince him to turn back. There was something that called out to him though, and the need to find what it was became stronger with each passing second. The pull pulsed around him, almost like a heartbeat as he inched closer and closer to the far side of the shack. It wasn’t until he came upon an old chest that the energy suddenly calmed, almost like it disappeared and Cillian reached out his little hands to try and pry the lid open. It did not budge, locked so that prying eyes would not find what was not theirs to seek.

Surely there must be a key? His eyes scanned the area around him, frowning when one couldn’t be found. His gaze landed upon the desk, and he stumbled over the items strewn about as he made a beeline for the lone piece of furniture. His hand reached up to drag the top drawer open, little legs stretching as far as they could to allow him to look inside. There were several keys that lay on the bottom of the drawer, but only one was carved ornately enough to match the old chest. Grinning at his prize, he seized it in his little fist, scrambling back over to the chest.

He let out a giggle as the key slipped easily into the lock, twisting it until a click could be heard. Looking behind him to make sure he was still alone, he lifted the lid of the trunk slowly. He vibrated with excitement at the thought of the treasures he might find, only to be met with the sight of trinkets tossed haphazardly inside. He reached a hand in to rummage through the piles of junk, frowning at the piles of nothing. He was about to close the lid once more when his fingers brushed against something soft, and his breath caught in his throat. He gave it a tug, but the object did not move. Huffing, he wrapped both hands around the object, grunting as he tugged it free from the confines of the trunk. He fell back with the force, landing against an old crate with a thud and a shout. He scowled at the crate, rubbing his backside before turning his attention to the prize at hand.

It was a seal pelt, the silver reminding him of the moonlight that danced through his window at night, the same beams that glittered atop the water of the sea. His hands ran over it, delighting in how soft it felt against his skin, and with a grin, he wrapped it up in his arms and ran out of the shack into the late afternoon sun.

His mother was hanging laundry out to dry, the sheets billowing in the wind as she pushed hair out of her face. Her stomach was swelling once more, just enough to be noticeable through her dress.

“Ma!” He cried out, running to her quick as his little feet could carry him. “Look what I found!”

She smiled down at him, gaze adoring before landing on the item in his hands. Her smile faded, the faraway look from that terrible night when his father had lost his temper returning to her face as she beheld the pelt in his hands.

Bradley and his sons walked up the path, smiling amongst each other as they hurried home, eager to be reunited with their mother and brother. Bradley’s eyes darted up the path, itching for a glimpse of his wife when his eyes landed on the scene unfurling before them. Her hands reached out to the pelt his youngest son held up to her, and his stomach dropped as he blanched.

“No!” He shouted, breaking out into a sprint up the path, but it was too late. Her fingers wrapped around the pelt, and something awakened inside of her, something long thought dead. A grin stretched across her face as she snatched the skin into her arms, letting out a delighted cry as she ran down the path, narrowly avoiding her husband’s arms and past her children. Bradley stopped short, turning on his heels to chase after her, legs pushing as hard as they could in a desperate attempt to catch her, hand reaching out to grab her. He was so close, fingers brushing the ends of her hair, but the call of her nature was stronger than any love he carried for her. She threw the pelt around her shoulders, a laugh leaving her as her feet touched the water, and with a leap into the air, the woman was once more a seal, landing in the water with a quiet plop. Bradley continued after her, feet pushing through the resistance of the sea as he clawed his way forward.

“Come back,” he cried, water up to his waist now. “Come back!”

It was no use, his wife was gone, stolen back by the sea, and tears streamed down his face as he scanned the surface for any sign of her. The water was oddly calm given how frantic he had become, and the despair inside him rose to a fever pitch, released in a guttural cry as he unleashed his anguish for the sea to hear.

“You promised!” He screamed, throat strained with the force of it. He let his face drop into his hands, clawing at the skin of his face as his eyes darted wildly all around like he was a man possessed. Sobs wracked through his body as the reality of what happened settled over him.

“Come back.”

Bradley was not the man he once was, and he would never be again. The house felt cold and empty with his wife gone, and he could not find it in him to do much of anything. Numbness filled his bones, the sorrow of losing that which he loved too much for his mind to bear. Most days were spent along the shore, desperate eyes searching for any sign of his wife before one of his children was able to coax him back to the house, usually well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

He didn’t eat much, sullen gaze turned down towards his plate, but never eating more than a mouthful or two of whatever was placed in front of him. His face grew gaunt as the weeks turned to months, dark circles growing under his eyes.

A house that was once filled with laughter now served as a tomb, the once happy memories enshrined within its four walls. The children no longer laughed, no longer played. The love of their mother was no longer there to keep them warm. Few words were uttered amongst each other, and no one was quite able to meet the eyes of another.

Utensils scraped against each other, not a word spoken as all eyes remained cast downward.

“I saw a seal today,” Rían whispered, jumping as the sound of metal dropped against a plate. Bradley’s eyes bored into his son, a haunted look on his face as he turned to him.

“What did you say?” He asked, leaning forward, tears gathering in his eyes. Rían stared at his father before casting a nervous glance to Ronan. Bradley pushed out of his chair, kneeling in front of his son as his hand gripped his shoulders painfully. Rían whimpered, trying to get out of his father’s grasp.

“Where did you see it?” Bradley rasped, voice croaking from under use. His nails dug into the boy’s skin, a pained cry spilling out of Rían’s lips. Ronan scrambled up out of his seat, hand wrapping around his father’s arms to try and pull him away from his brother.

“Tell me where you saw it!” Bradley shouted, shaking the boy roughly, eyes wild and unseeing.

“Da please!” Ronan hollered, pulling with all his might, and Bradley’s grip loosened, sending Rían flying back into his chair with a cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at his father, limbs trembling from fear. Bradley’s eyes focused, seeing his son for the first time in that moment.

“Rían,” he whispered, eyes darting around to look at the other two. Cillian sat on the opposite side of Rían, tears streaming down his own face as his bottom lip trembled in terror. Ronan stood behind him, face unreadable as stone as he watched his father.

“I’m,” Bradley breathed, stumbling to his feet as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t wait for a response, exiting the room in a hurry.

The next day had them returning to their new normal. Ronan took charge of the fishing, bringing home what he could, which was just enough to keep everyone fed. Rían had taken up the housework in the absence of their mother, Cillian helping where he could at his young age.

Bradley’s days were spent at the shore, watching and waiting for a love that would never return to him. His thoughts often turned to the happier memories, of days spent in her embrace, the feel of her lips against his, the way she smiled at him. He longed for it. Longed for the time when he didn’t feel so alone, so listless.

The children had changed in the months since their mother left as well.

Ronan had taken up the mantle of provider, taking what he could to the village to barter and trade, but few would do dealings with someone who was not wholly human, mistrustful eyes that had once been focused on his mother now turned to him with disdain.

Rían’s once bright laughter was now nothing but a memory, something thought about only in passing now as he worked his way through the chores that needed doing. He slowly forgot how it felt to smile.

Cillian, who had once been the most inquisitive of the bunch, now never strayed far from his brothers, never moving far from sight. He did only as he was told, and his brothers started to wonder if he ever used to talk at all.

Much like every other night, it was Ronan who bade his father to return to the house once the sun set, frost hanging in the air now that winter was upon them. Bradley allowed himself to be pulled back to their home, head hung low as he trudged up the path behind his son. He sat in his chair by the fire, hand stretched out to hold someone who was not there as he stared into the flames, eyes unseeing, and his children wondered if they would forever see the unseen.

One by one, the boys left for bed, Ronan being the last to bid his father a goodnight, a frown tugging on his lips before shaking his head and disappearing around the corner.

Bradley sat motionless as the minutes turned to hours, still as a statue as he continued to mourn.

A knock sounded at the door, and he shifted in his seat. Another knock had his head turning in that direction. Who would be calling at that time of night? Slowly, he rose from his chair, walking towards the front door. He grasped the handle, twisting it and pulling it open.

The night was dark, the moon, which normally cast light onto the path that led down to the beach, was hidden behind the clouds. Bradley stared into the night, unfeeling and unmoving. He moved to close the door when a song rang out, the voice so alarmingly familiar.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mairg san tìr seo, 's mairg san tìr 'G ithe dhaoine 'n riochd a bhìdh Nach fhaic sibh ceannard an t-sluaigh Goil air teine gu cruaidh cruinn

His eyes alighted in recognition, tearing out of the house and onto the path as fast as his feet could carry him. The voice grew no closer as he ran, breaths coming out ragged as he gulped for air. The waves crashed against the shoreline as loud as thunder but never drowning out the voice he had longed to hear.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mise nighean Aoidh mhic Eòghainn Gum b' eòlach mi mu na sgeirean Gur mairg a dhèanadh mo bhualadh Bean uasal mi o thìr eile

He stopped, spinning wildly in search of her, crying out in frustration when he saw no one. A scream ripped its way through him, desperate and haggard as he continued to spin, only stopping when he caught sight of something on the dock. The same dock he and his lover had spent countless afternoons on, basking in the glow of each other and sharing stolen touches. He walked slowly towards it, boots crunching in the sand and then knocking against the wood as he came to the end of the dock. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he kneeled down beside the small bundle.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

Thig an smeòrach, thig an druid Thig gach eun a dh'ionnsaigh nid Thig am bradan thar a' chuain Gu Là Luain cha ghluaisear mis'

His hands reached out, stopping when the bundle moved, a gurgle sounding. His heart skipped a beat, the cold seeping through him in the winter’s night. It was then that the clouds moved, allowing the moon to shed light down on where Bradley crouched.

It was often said that Cillian was the son that bore the largest resemblance to his mother, but gazing at the babe in front of him, Bradley knew that this was the child his wife carried before she left. His hands crossed the distance to pick her up, hands gentle as he cooed down at her. He was struck then by the discovery that she was wrapped in silvery grey fur, the same size as a seal pup.

The baby let out a tiny cry, and Bradley shushed her softly, rocking her gently. He and his wife had discussed different names before that fateful day, but only one stuck out to him as he gazed at the babe in his arms.

“Aisling,” he whispered reverently, holding her tighter to his chest as tears streamed down his face. Aisling let out another cry as Bradley moved to stand, never taking his eyes off of her.

“‘s alright now,” he cooed, turning back towards the house. “Your da is here now, mo stóirín.”

His fingers wrapped around the fur with a frown. The small bundle in his arms would never leave him, not like her mother had. He would see to it this time.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

A/N: I kid y'all not, this fic has been on my mind for MONTHS ever since someone suggested it. Selkies have always been one of my favorite stories from Celtic legends, and I really hope I did this justice because it was such a pleasure to write and pour my heart and soul into. I highly recommend you check out the stories if you have time because a lot of the inspiration for this fic came from them!

Another quick note as I wrap up here, I wanted to touch on the meaning of the names I chose. Ronan actually translates to "seal" or "oath, promise." Rían (pronounced Ree-on) means "king" or "ocean" depending on the etymology. Cillian (pronounced kill-ian) means "war, strife." Finally, Aisling (pronounced Ash-ling) means "dream, vision."

The first song I actually looked up the English translation, but it's a song sung by a woman who was stolen by the fae, calling out for her sister to come and help her. I thought it would be interesting to see it used in the reverse. The second song is actually one said to be sung by the selkies themselves, very fitting for this fic, I think.

Thank you all so much for reading this one! As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. You can also find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

#amhran na farraige #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster fanfiction #rooster top gun #top gun rooster

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takusan-no-ai · 9 months ago

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Scream King

PAIRING: Koleda/Grace/Mana x Male Reader (Romantic) (Separate)

SUMMARY: (Y/N) is a major horror fan, and intends to introduce his girlfriend to the wonders of fear.

It was just a simple horror movie night. You wanted to introduce Koleda to a well-renowned franchise; “The house on the hill in the hollow is haunted by my ethereal family.” You showed the movie to Koleda, her face completely confused by the scary cover contrasting the weird title.

After hearing that title, she thought it’d be easy to handle. Horror movies didn’t necessarily scare her, but your tastes were always more…striking, as Koleda would put it. Surely her boyfriend would spare her, right?

Once it started though, she knew it was a mistake to watch it with you. The soundtrack, cinematography, acting, and overall quality was outstanding. In any other genre this would be a delight, but for horror, this was Koleda’s nightmare.

She doesn’t scream, all fear being internal. But you can tell from her overly sweaty palms that she isn’t comfortable. Koleda has a hard time sleeping later, filled with paranoia, and requires a cuddle session with you.

You decided to be a little cruel to your girlfriend with this movie marathon. She never suspected her sweet, caring boyfriend to pick a horror movie where kids are brutally slaughtered.

She ran out of the room before the first killing could even finish, bawling her eyes out to Koleda. “Sweet pea! (Y/N) is a monster!” At first Koleda didn’t get what Grace meant, then she saw the movie herself and realized what had happened.

You showed her a horror movie where robots were being slaughtered. “Can’t Protect Us” it was called. The movie was quickly blacklisted from ever being shown to Grace again.

She’ll forgive you…eventually. Just give her some time and she’ll get over it, realizing how silly she was for getting that upset at a fictional characters death.

Bring it on. Mana has seen way worse. It was a thing that sparked the start of your relationship. Your interest in the morbid horror and Mana’s thick skin led to heated “debates” about the best horror films. Just don’t have those discussions near Anby.

None of your horror films really phased Mana, even ones with thiren cats or street kids being the victims didn’t work. She’d always have the same smug smile on her face, tails swaying in the air behind her. “Can’t think of anything scary right meow, handsome?” She’d say.

Well now was a day that she would soon regret that smug attitude; if she’d at least pretended to be scared once then she maybe could’ve avoided her current predicament. You picked a 3D horror movie with high quality cgi and practical effects. The whole shabang.

Her tail was puffy, ears flattened down, and hands clutching her swords. You turned off the movie after she kept swinging them around, for fear of your safety and furniture (the furniture didn’t make it). You won the battle but lost the war.

- Fin

#headcanon #zenless zone zero x reader #male reader #koleda belobog x reader #koleda belobog #grace howard x reader #grace howard #mana nekomiya x reader #mana nekomiya

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hrizantemy · 14 days ago

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Worldbuilding Hybern

Geography and Climate

Hybern lies on a large island west of Prythian, across a storm-tossed and “violent western sea.” Its geography is remarkably varied – rugged mountains and windswept moors dominate the interior, while the coasts are marked by towering bone-white cliffs that rise high above crashing grey waves. Near the northeastern shore where the King’s castle stands, flat grassy clifftops give way to sloping, barren hills inland. The land carries an eerie emptiness; Feyre described an “overwhelming sense of nothingness” in Hybern, as no animal life stirs in its wilderness. Indeed, aside from the immortal faeries themselves, one would find little in the way of birdsong or beast – it is as if the natural world recoiled from Hybern’s centuries of dark magic and bloodshed.

The climate is cool and damp. Gale-force storms blow in from the sea year-round, lashing the island with salt spray and rain. Thick fog often clings to the cliffs and hollows at dawn. Summers are brief and mild, bringing gusty winds and drizzling rains that keep the hills a pale green. Winters are long, bleak, and windy, though snow rarely falls except on the highest peaks. In the interior, patches of hardy thornbrush and dark ivy cling to life, but much of Hybern’s terrain is treeless moor and rock. Some whisper that the soil is tainted by the island’s violent history – that nothing but coarse grass and poisonous thistle will grow where so much blood has soaked the earth. Beneath those desolate hills run rich veins of a rare mineral called faebane, a magic-dampening substance that Hybern has learned to exploit. These faebane deposits are as much a part of Hybern’s landscape as its cliffs and crags, and the toxic ore’s presence further contributes to the uncanny stillness (few living creatures can long thrive in a land laced with faebane’s nullifying power).

Despite its dreary aspects, Hybern can possess a stark, haunting beauty. On rare clear days, the western sun breaks through the clouds and paints the sea in bands of silver and gold. Misty green highlands roll across the horizon, and ancient standing stones crown a few hilltops – silent witnesses to ages of faerie presence. But even this beauty is somber and wild. The very air carries a chill of foreboding. Hybern’s people have a saying that “the land remembers.” Every bitter winter wind, every empty moor and black crag, serves as a reminder of glories lost and a harsh future promised – a reflection of the kingdom’s own hardened heart.

Culture and Society

Hybern’s culture has been forged in isolation, resentment, and unyielding pride. For five centuries since the War, the kingdom stewed in its hatred, cut off from allies and denied the slaves that once sustained its luxuries. As a result, its society values strength, loyalty, and ruthlessness above all. Mercy and compassion are viewed as weaknesses; cruelty is not only normalized but celebrated. Many High Fae of Hybern even exhibit physical markers of this ingrained brutality – eyes that are pitch-black, appearing “soulless and cold from centuries of indulging in cruelty,” even among nameless courtiers at the King’s own castle. In Hybern, to be cruel is to survive.

Values and Traditions

From a young age, Hybern’s citizens are taught an ethnocentric creed: Hybernian supremacy. They believe their kingdom represents the true, pure might of the faerie race, unfairly diminished by the Treaty with the mortal realm. Humans are slandered as vermin or cattle, fit only for servitude, and the very idea of treating mortals as equals is anathema. This extreme viewpoint was only hardened by the War’s outcome – rather than accept defeat, Hybern chose to slaughter every human within its borders rather than free a single slave. That bloody choice is held up as proof of Hybern’s resolve and used to instill pride (and fear) in each new generation. Never bow, never yield – better to destroy what you possess than let it fall into enemy hands. This is the Hybernian way.

The kingdom’s long isolation has bred a culture of bitter nostalgia. The centuries before the War, when Hybern was wealthy and humans were in chains, are remembered as a golden age. Bards at court sing grim songs of those “better days,” and storytellers recount the deeds of ancient Hybern warlords. One popular tale is the Tragedy of Princess Clythia, a cautionary legend about the dangers of human treachery: Clythia (sister to Amarantha) was seduced by a mortal general and fed him information, only to be brutally betrayed and murdered – “crucified with ash wood and cut to pieces” by the human she loved. Her shattered body was left for her sister to find, and Hybern’s people say that in that moment, any illusion of human innocence died forever. Parents invoke Clythia’s story to frighten younglings: “Show kindness to a human and you’ll end up like her.” Thus, hatred is passed down like an heirloom.

Ritual and tradition in Hybern tend to glorify conquest and endurance. There are holidays commemorating wartime events – though these “celebrations” are solemn, vengeful affairs. For instance, on the anniversary of the Treaty’s signing (an agreement Hybern considers a day of humiliation), the kingdom observes a Day of Oaths. On that day, Hybern’s citizens dress in black and bone-white and gather in town squares to burn effigies of the Treaty. Nobles renew their blood-oaths to the King, swearing that their children’s children will remember the injustices until the mortal Wall is shattered. Rather than mourning defeat, Hybern turns the occasion into a collective vow of revenge. Conversely, they hold a Victory Rally each year on the date of a famous early battle where Hybern forces had triumphed over human armies. During this rally, war horns echo from the castle ramparts at dawn, and the names of Hybern’s honored dead are recited before the assembled crowd. There are no joyous feasts – only a fierce, grim pride as the people shout ancient war-cries and toast with bitter faerie wine to “the next victory, may it come soon.”

Blood sport and trials of strength are common traditions as well. In the capital, the court sometimes amuses itself with ritual duels or contests. Young nobles prove their mettle in knife fights or dangerous hunts. (It’s said that in older times, they hunted live humans for sport, but with no humans left in Hybern, the nobles now must settle for hunting each other in carefully staged war games.) Coming-of-age rites often involve tests of cruelty: a Hybernian youth might be tasked to execute a captured enemy spy or to withstand torture without screaming, as a way to demonstrate loyalty and hardness. Success is rewarded with recognition at court; failure brings shame (and sometimes fatal consequences, if the King deems the youth too weak to serve him). Even Hybern’s humor is cruel – jests and pranks tend to be barbed, sometimes literally. A “jest” among young courtiers might involve slipping a mild poison into a rival’s goblet to watch them squirm, or releasing scuttling faerie spiders into someone’s bed. Laughter in Hybern often has an edge of malice.

Yet amidst this brutality, Hybern’s people do value loyalty and honor – in their own warped sense. Loyalty is expected first to the Crown, second to one’s family, and never to outsiders. Oath-breaking is one of the few crimes universally despised; if a Hybernian swears an oath (especially a blood-oath or magical bond), they will go to extraordinary lengths to keep it, or else face severe punishment and social ostracism. There is also a stern code of honor in warfare: not honor toward enemies, but toward one’s comrades and superiors. Cowardice in battle is the ultimate disgrace. A soldier who flees or surrenders is likely to be executed by his own commander before the enemy can even touch him. By contrast, acts of extreme bravery or vicious effectiveness are celebrated. Warriors proudly recount how many enemy heads they took in a skirmish or how they torched a village in the last war. This grisly boasting is socially encouraged – it’s not seen as ghastly, but rather as each warrior’s duty to add to Hybern’s legend.

Hybern’s social etiquette reflects its values. Courtesy exists, but it is a cold, formal thing. Bow too low or use overly flowery flattery, and you’ll be mocked for sycophancy; show the proper respect due to rank, but no more. In Hybern’s court, fear and respect are intertwined. For example, it is customary for lesser fae to bare their necks when a High Fae lord passes – ostensibly a gesture of deference, but in truth a holdover from the days when a dissatisfied lord might physically grab and punish a servant. Similarly, at royal audiences, courtiers kneel on both knees (not just one) and keep their eyes lowered until spoken to. This tradition began as a way to remind everyone that the King could snap their neck if he pleased. Over time it has simply become protocol. Through countless such practices, Hybern’s culture continuously reinforces a singular message: strength and obedience are life, weakness and mercy are death.

Social Hierarchy

Hybern’s social structure is strictly hierarchical and authoritarian. At the pinnacle stands the King – an absolute monarch wielding all political, military, and magical power. Unlike Prythian, which is divided among multiple High Lords, Hybern entrusts everything to one throne. The current King (an ancient, malevolent High Fae whose name is rarely spoken aloud) rules unchallenged, supported by a small inner circle. Directly beneath him are a handful of high-ranking nobles and military commanders who form his Inner Court. Historically, this included figures like Amarantha (once his chief general) as well as the King’s own kin, such as Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh. These individuals serve as the King’s lieutenants, enforcers, and advisors. They carry out his will across the island, command segments of his army, and oversee the enforcement of his laws.

Below the royal inner circle are the rest of Hybern’s noble houses. Several powerful High Fae families hold titles equivalent to lords or governors, each controlling a region or vital function of the kingdom. These nobles maintain private estates or fortresses on the island and have their own retinues of soldiers and lesser faeries. In theory, they owe total fealty to the King, and most are indeed fiercely loyal (both out of genuine belief in Hybern’s cause and fear of royal wrath). In practice, noble houses compete constantly for the King’s favor. There is endless jockeying to be named as one of his Commanders or to have one’s son/daughter marry into the royal line. The King encourages this competitive fealty – it keeps the nobles focused on currying his favor rather than plotting rebellion. A lord who brings him a valuable prize (like a rare magical artifact or intelligence on enemies) might be rewarded with command of a larger legion or a grant of coveted land. Conversely, failure or dissent can mean immediate and brutal demotion. The nobility of Hybern thus walk a knife’s edge, ever fearful and ever ambitious.

Hybern’s common folk occupy the lower rungs of the hierarchy. Common High Fae – those of modest magic or lineage – may serve as officers in the army, administrators in the sparse bureaucracy, or skilled artisans. Many of them reside in the shadow of noble houses, effectively acting as middle management in the feudal structure. Lesser Fae (faeries of weaker power or more bestial appearance) form the bottom tier. In the absence of human slaves, lesser faeries now perform much of the menial labor in Hybern. They work the scant farms, tend to workshops, and scrub the castle’s stone floors. Their status is only marginally above what the human slaves’ once was – they are often treated with disdain or open cruelty by their High Fae overlords. It is not uncommon for a High Fae noble to punish a disobedient lesser faerie servant by torture or mutilation, and there is little legal repercussion for such acts. The King’s law primarily protects property and obedience, not the wellbeing of the low-born. As long as the lesser fae fulfill their duties and keep their eyes down, they are allowed to live. If not, the dungeons of Hybern’s castle or the execution block await.

Social mobility in Hybern is extremely limited. Birth largely seals one’s fate. A lesser faerie cannot rise to nobility except in the rarest of circumstances (perhaps if they performed an act that saved the King’s life, and he saw fit to reward them – but even then, a title granted to someone of low birth would scandalize traditionalists). A common High Fae might, through great valor or usefulness, be elevated to a minor noble role – for example, being knighted or given command of a small unit and a land grant. But such cases are the exception, not the rule. For most, the hierarchy is rigid. Everyone knows their place in the grand design of hatred and war. The nobles command, the commoners toil, the lesser faeries obey, and all kneel to the Crown.

That said, Hybern’s long-term isolation and decline did foster a sense of shared hardship in some communities. Among the lower classes, there is a grudging solidarity born of suffering. Villagers forced to fend for themselves when trade ceased learned to rely on each other. Within those humble circles, traits like generosity (sharing food during lean times) and cooperation still quietly persist – though such values are kept private, lest a snooping lord see it as softness. In public, even peasants parrot the kingdom’s hard ideals, but in private, some semblance of basic decency flickers. It is a subtle undercurrent in society: the common folk endure the edicts of their betters, biding time and doing what they must to survive, even as the nobility broadcast cruelty from on high. In Hybern, fear flows downward and silent resilience upward.

Gender Roles

Unlike some human societies, Hybern’s harsh culture is relatively egalitarian in its brutality. Both male and female High Fae are expected to be formidable and merciless. The kingdom does not bar women from power – in fact, one of Hybern’s greatest military leaders was Amarantha, a female general who became the scourge of mortal armies. Competence and cruelty are valued far more than gender. That said, traditional gender expectations do exist in certain contexts. Within noble families, male heirs typically inherit leadership of the house, and there is an old-fashioned expectation that females in a noble line will marry to forge alliances. Many high-born women are trained in courtly arts (music, dance, manipulation) in addition to combat, with the understanding that they might serve as spymistresses or diplomats – weapons in silk rather than steel. A daughter who proves herself vicious and cunning, however, can break out of those confines. Amarantha and her sister Clythia, for example, were raised to be warriors and commanders, not genteel ladies, because their family recognized their potential and the King had need of every capable general. In Hybern, powerful women are respected (and feared) nearly as much as powerful men.

In day-to-day life, gender roles among commoners are pragmatic. With no human slaves and limited resources, everyone – male or female – must work and fight as needed. Fae women in villages plow fields, haul nets of fish from the stormy seas, and will pick up a bow or sword if raiders attack. Chivalry in the human sense is absent; a woman is not shielded from hardship just because of her sex. Some female lesser fae even serve in the military units, especially in archery or aerial roles, and they are expected to prove their mettle just as the males do. There is, however, an ingrained patriarchal streak at the very top of Hybern’s power structure. The fact that the throne has always been held by a King (and not a Queen) is often pointed to as justification that males should lead. The King’s inner circle, while including women, is ultimately dominated by his own authority and that of his male relations (e.g. Prince Dagdan). Many noble houses still prefer a son to inherit command of their forces, viewing sons as less likely to show “sentimentality.” Thus, a high-born woman in Hybern often has to be twice as ruthless to earn the same fear a man might command by default. Amarantha’s rise is sometimes regarded (in envious whispers by male courtiers) as an aberration permitted only because of her extraordinary brutality and the King’s particular favor.

Despite these undercurrents, Hybernese culture does grant women a unique sphere of power in the realm of intrigue and sorcery. It is often assumed that a mother will be the one to indoctrinate her children with Hybern’s values in the home, so women bear the burden of raising each new generation to be hard-hearted patriots. Noblewomen, in particular, are the keepers of a family’s social alliances – arranging marriages, correspondence, and information networks between houses. Many a poisonous rumor or subtle threat in Hybern originates from the lips of a lady over tea, rather than the bellow of a lord in the council hall. Women who excel in manipulation or stealth thrive in these shadows. Men might dominate through overt force and title, while women often dominate through subtlety and fear veiled behind courtly smiles.

Gender dynamics in Hybern therefore come down to capability. A docile, gentle woman is scorned just as a gentle man is – not because she’s a woman, but because gentleness itself is reviled. Conversely, a fierce woman can attain heights of influence, as can a cunning, politically savvy man of lower military rank. Both sexes are expected to contribute to Hybern’s war machine: men typically as front-line soldiers or brutish enforcers, women often as sorceresses, healers with twisted morals, or crafty schemers – though there are plenty of female warriors and male schemers too. For example, Hybern’s court has battle-healers (some female) who mend wounded soldiers only to send them back to fight anew, and poisoners (some male) who craft toxins for use by assassins. Each role is valued if it serves conquest. One notable custom is that widows of fallen generals in Hybern often take up their husbands’ command until the Crown appoints a new general – a practice dating back to ancient times when a warlord’s wife would rally his soldiers if he fell. These widows are expected to be as pitiless as their late spouses, and many succeed. In short, Hybern recognizes no gentleness in either gender; all are tools for the King’s ends. Only in the privacy of their households might a rare soft-hearted woman or man (such as someone like Myrsina) dare to deviate from the cruel expectations – and even then, they must hide it well.

Religion, Mythology, and Ancient Beliefs

Hybern is a kingdom outwardly obsessed with temporal power, but it still harbors its share of dark faith and superstition. Unlike some human realms, Hybern has no single organized religion or benevolent pantheon – its “gods” are the twin forces of Conquest and Vengeance. Many Hybernian High Fae claim to put their faith only in themselves and their King, yet in secret even the cruel have things they fear or worship. Over the long isolation, a sort of folk religion developed that blends reverence for ancient faerie entities with the kingdom’s militant ethos.

At the center of Hybern’s mythos is the Cauldron, a primordial magic artifact believed to have shaped creation itself. The Cauldron is not just a tool in Hybern – it is quasi-divine. The King of Hybern keeps the actual Cauldron secured in the depths of his castle (in a dark dungeon room, set atop a dais like an altar), and for many Hybern loyalists it is a holy relic. Priests (few in number, but influential) whisper that the Cauldron chose Hybern as its guardian. They hold that when the Cauldron yielded its power to the King during the recent campaigns – for example, to resurrect the dead or forge new High Fae – it was a sign of divine favor. It’s said that before battle, Hybern’s commanders will pour blood or wine into a ceremonial iron pot, invoking the Cauldron’s name and asking for victory. This practice is half ritual, half superstition, but it’s widespread among the army. To “thank the Cauldron” is a common refrain in Hybern after any triumph, big or small. Many warriors even wear tiny cauldron-shaped pendants under their armor for luck.

Aside from the Cauldron, Hybern’s old beliefs include a handful of pagan gods and spirits. These are not kind deities; they mirror Hybern’s values. One such figure is Dôrhga, often called the Blood Mother – a war-goddess that Hybern’s soldiers honor. In myth, Dôrhga is said to have emerged from a pool of blood at the dawn of the world, granting the first king of Hybern a crown and unholy strength. Statues of a female figure wielding a curved blade (interpreted as Dôrhga) stand in a few ancient courtyards and shrines. The Blood Mother’s holy day is the winter solstice, when nights are longest. On that night, Hybern’s nobles gather in the castle’s great hall for a grim ceremony: they spill a few drops of their own blood into a great bronze bowl and then paint sigils on their foreheads with it, beseeching Dôrhga to harden their hearts and sharpen their blades for the year ahead. It’s an unsettling sight – dozens of High Fae with blood-marked brows chanting old war hymns in the firelight – but it is one of Hybern’s oldest rituals, predating even the War. Common folk typically aren’t invited to this noble ceremony, but some villages hold simpler observances on solstice, like slaughtering a black ram and burning its entrails while calling on the Blood Mother to protect their homes.

Another entity often spoken of in Hybern lore is The Weeping Knight, a ghostly figure said to roam the cliffs on stormy nights. Legend claims he was a Hybern warrior prince who died in the War after betraying an oath, and the gods cursed him to wander eternally, weeping tears that turn to salt. Although not a god, the Weeping Knight is a supernatural cautionary tale – parents warn oath-breakers that the Weeping Knight will find them and drag them to the chilly sea. Some even say if you stand atop the cliffs at midnight when lightning flashes, you can see him: a tall armored shade with eyes running like water. Hybern’s sailors customarily leave an offering for this spirit before a voyage, tossing a jug of wine or a handful of faerie bread into the surf, in hopes the restless ghost will spare their ship from wreck.

Hybern’s mythology also includes twisted versions of the Great Mother revered elsewhere. In Prythian and other lands, the Mother is a benevolent creator deity. In Hybern, that concept has split: the kinder aspects of deity have long been abandoned, leaving only The Crone – an ancient female figure representing fate and vengeance. The Crone is envisioned as a withered faerie woman stirring a cauldron, deciding who lives and who dies. (Some scholars note this is clearly an interpretation of the actual Cauldron’s power, personified.) Hybernian witches and seers, such as they are, claim the Crone whispers omens to them. It’s said that the King himself consults a secret coven of oracles “who speak for the Crone” when he must make the most fateful decisions. Whether this is true or mere rumor, the idea of a dark feminine fate-goddess suits Hybern’s outlook – fate is seen as cruel but just, giving triumph to the strong. A common expression when something unfortunate happens in Hybern is: “The Crone stirs her pot,” meaning fate is simply taking its due and one must endure it.

Rituals in Hybern are invariably on the darker side. Blood, bones, and oaths play a role in nearly every ceremony. There are sacrifical rites performed at the few ancient temples scattered in remote parts of the island. In one marshy region stands a ring of megaithic stones called the Gallows Circle, rumored to be an altar to an old god of death. During times of extreme crisis – famine or plague – local faeries have been known to offer a life there (animal if available, or occasionally a volunteered lesser fae) to appease whatever dark power might be listening. These practices aren’t officially sanctioned by the Crown, but neither are they forbidden – the King largely ignores religion unless he can harness it. In fact, the King has appropriated religious symbolism for political ends. When he rallies his lords for war, he often invokes “the sacred right of Hybern to rule” and calls their cause “hallowed by the Cauldron’s will.” He styles himself not only as king but almost as a high priest of vengeance, presiding over war-rituals like an ordained celebrant. This blending of state and superstition means that even those who might not be devout find themselves participating in ritualistic displays of allegiance (like swearing by the Cauldron, or cutting their palms and letting their blood fill a goblet that the King then drinks from to symbolize their shared cause – a gruesome rite practiced at some war councils).

Interestingly, due to the lack of joyful religion, superstition fills the void for common folk. Simple charms and household practices are widespread. A bowl of salt at the threshold of a home is said to ward off malevolent spirits (or perhaps the Weeping Knight). Newborn faeries in some towns have their foreheads smeared with ash in a quick baptism of hardship, as if to say “you are born to a hard world; may you be strong.” In Hybern, even a baptism is about strength, not purity. If a child cries excessively, elders mutter that a spriggan (mischievous fae spirit) might be pinching them – and to fix it, they’ll hang an iron knife over the cradle to scare the spirit off. Such folk beliefs sit oddly alongside Hybern’s official stance of might and reason, but they persist in the shadows of daily life. After all, when living under a regime of fear, people often cling to any small rituals that give them a sense of control, even if it’s just leaving an offering of bread and milk at the crossroads for wandering ghosts.

Ultimately, Hybern’s religion is less about worship and more about justification. Every god or mythic story emphasizes that Hybern’s cruelty and ambition are part of a grand cosmic order. The old gods are violent, thus Hybern is right to be violent. The spirits punish the weak, thus Hybern must not be weak. It is a theology of brutality. There are no loving gods watching over Hybern – only ones that demand strength or sacrifice. In this way, the Hybernian people reconcile their conscience (if any remains) with their deeds. When a Hybern general orders a massacre, he might say a prayer to the Blood Mother, believing he is doing holy work. When a lord oppresses his peasant subjects, he may invoke the Crone, claiming fate decrees the strong dominate the weak. Myth and reality bleed together: Hybern sees itself as both executing and embodying the will of unforgiving deities. In a sense, the King has made himself the living god of Hybern – the avatar of their cruel fate – and most of his subjects accept this. They whisper their prayers to the Cauldron or the old gods at night, but by day, they obey the King as the highest power.

Architecture and Infrastructure

Hybern’s architecture is as stark and intimidating as its landscape. There is nothing gentle or whimsical about the kingdom’s structures – they are built to impose and endure, not to delight the eye. The centerpiece is undoubtedly the King of Hybern’s Castle, an ancient fortress fused into the cliffs on the northeastern coast. From afar, the castle looks like a jagged extension of the very land: perhaps a dozen slender spires claw upward, black against perpetual clouds. The lower portions of the stronghold are carved directly into the pale cliffside, so that sheer rock walls form part of its exterior. Time has weathered the fortress; its stones are crumbling and pitted, an off-white color like old bone rather than the gleaming marble of Prythian’s palaces. The effect is a castle that resembles a giant skull on the coast, crowned with towers as sharp as horns. Waves batter its foundations far below, where a small sea-door is hidden at water level for ships or secret exits. Above, the main gates are accessible only by a narrow, steep road that winds up the cliffs – easily defensible and utterly perilous for any invader.

The castle’s interior is famously austere. Visitors from other courts have remarked that it feels less like a home and more like an enormous crypt. There is no finery, no warmth. The halls are bare stone, stripped of tapestries or paintings. Columns and arches of bone-white rock frame the corridors, giving the impression one walks through the ribcage of some long-dead beast. In many chambers, not even furniture can be found – the King seems to prefer emptiness. The grand throne room has only a single raised dais of dark green stone at its far end. Upon that dais sits Hybern’s throne, a grotesque marvel: it is crafted entirely from human bones, fused and polished by magic and time until they are brown and smooth like old ivory. Skulls and femurs intertwine to form the high back and armrests. When the King holds court on that throne, sunlight (when there is any) slants through narrow windows to illuminate the throne’s grisly details – a deliberate choice to remind every courtier of the cost of defying Hybern. Feyre noted that the throne room had “no furniture or decoration other than a throne made from human bones.” Indeed, this throne is the chilling focal point. Courtiers stand rather than sit in the King’s presence, arrayed on the bare floor before him. It is said that if one’s knees ache from kneeling on stone during long court sessions, that is simply a lesson in endurance.

Throughout the castle, the architectural style is massive and defensive. Ceilings are high but not elegant; they are built to accommodate large winged faeries (like the King’s Attor-creatures) and to make intruders feel small. There are murder-holes and arrow slits integrated even into indoor spaces, so defenders could fire on anyone who breached an inner hall. Heavy iron chandeliers hang from rafters, though often unlit, leaving many corridors in shadow. The castle includes extensive dungeons beneath its foundations – a labyrinth of lightless cells and torture chambers with iron shackles bolted to walls. The stones down there are dark, stained by untold years of blood and rust. It is whispered that spells of binding are woven into the very mortar; prisoners with magic find themselves markedly weakened as soon as they’re thrown behind those bars. In a sealed chamber in the lowest level, the Cauldron is kept on its pedestal – that room is said to be warded so heavily that not even sound escapes when the Cauldron hums with power. The castle is also protected by countless wards and spells. During an attempted infiltration by enemy High Fae, the King activated enchantments that prevented teleportation (winnowing) and even cut off psychic bonds, turning the castle into an arcane trap. These magical defenses are part of the infrastructure, renewed by Hybern’s spellcasters each full moon.

Beyond the castle, Hybern’s architecture in general tends toward the practical and militaristic. There is no true capital city as one might find in other kingdoms – the castle complex itself, with a small attached port and a scatter of surrounding barracks and storerooms, functions as the administrative center. A modest town of grey-stone buildings clusters near the base of the cliffs by the sea, housing the servants, blacksmiths, and laborers who support the castle. This town has a few winding lanes (muddy more often than not) and a marketplace that springs up irregularly when goods come in by ship. Buildings there are simple: two-story homes of stone with slate roofs, tightly shuttered windows, and little in the way of adornment. Even the tavern has heavy iron bars on its door, a reflection of the ever-present caution in Hybern’s life. What one will see plenty of are fortifications. Watchtowers ring the coastline at strategic intervals – squat round towers of dark granite, manned by sentries day and night, each equipped with a horn or mirror system to signal the castle in case of approach by foreign ships. Inland, where old mountain passes could allow entry from the sea on the far side of the island, there are ruined forts from centuries past, some rebuilt as training garrisons. Walls are another common feature: the larger villages often have rough stone walls or spiked wooden palisades encircling them, erected during the War and maintained out of habit. The very roads themselves are remnants of war logistics – straight, broad paths (now cracked by weeds) that once allowed Hybern’s legions to march swiftly from one shore to another.

Austerity defines Hybern’s aesthetic. Beauty is a luxury the kingdom largely abandoned after the War. Functional design prevails in everything from architecture to civic planning. For example, a noble manor in Hybern might look more like a small fortress than a manor: high walls, narrow windows, a courtyard that doubles as a mustering ground for soldiers. Gardens are virtually unheard of, except perhaps small herb patches for practical use (poison plants, medicinal herbs, etc.). Instead of fountains or statues in public squares, one might find a stark memorial obelisk engraved with the names of fallen Hybern warriors, or a platform for delivering speeches (or executions). The influence of centuries of scarcity can be seen – when Hybern cut off trade, fine materials became rare. So architecture shifted to use what was plentiful: local stone and iron. Any decorative touches were achieved by carving into stone. In a few older buildings, one can find weathered carvings of crests or symbols. The royal symbol, for instance, is thought to be a simple crown (as depicted on old maps), and this motif can be seen above the castle gate – a minimalist crown relief chiseled into the keystone. Noble houses too might have emblems carved above their doorways (a sword, a raven, a flame, etc.), but little else in the way of embellishment.

Despite this spareness, there is a grim grandeur to some Hybern structures. The enormous scale of the castle’s spires, the cyclopean stone causeways that connect cliffside barracks, and the haunting emptiness of its great hall all leave an impression of antiquity and power. One can sense that Hybern’s buildings were made to outlast: outlast storms, outlast sieges, outlast even memory. In fact, many of Hybern’s oldest structures predate the War and have simply been repurposed. An example is the Bridge of Woe, an ancient stone bridge spanning a chasm near the castle. It was once part of a grand processional route to a now-destroyed palace from long before the current King’s reign. That palace was razed in some forgotten conflict, and the current castle built more defensively by its ruins, but the bridge remained. Now it’s used as a training ground – young soldiers must run across its precarious length under a rain of blunt arrows to test their agility. Thus, Hybern repurposes its past constantly, turning former temples into armories or old courtyards into drilling squares. The result is that the whole kingdom feels like a relic turned war-camp. Travelers (not that Hybern gets many) sometimes remark that setting foot in Hybern is like stepping into a giant mausoleum that someone has tried to equip for battle.

Infrastructure in Hybern is minimal beyond military needs. Roads between major forts and ports are maintained to move troops and supplies, but smaller paths connecting villages might be left to rut and ruin. A few collapsed bridges from the bygone era are simply never repaired – unless they serve a strategic purpose. There is no grand network of waypoints or tunnels beyond what war requires. Harbors are similarly spartan. Hybern has one sizable harbor near the castle town, where warships dock (more on the navy later), and a couple of rough anchorages on other parts of the island for fishing vessels. These harbors have jetties of heavy timber and stone, but no bustling mercantile ports or lighthouses with welcoming beams – instead, bonfires are lit on shore to guide ships in, and those flames cast an otherworldly red glow on the dark water.

In essence, Hybern’s architecture and infrastructure serve as an outward manifestation of its soul. Cold, unadorned, unyielding – every wall is a shield, every tower a spear pointed at the sky. Comfort and art have been forsaken for security and intimidation. A traveler moving through Hybern would find it devoid of the gentle touches that make a place civilized. Instead, one finds a land of battlements and bones, where even the homes of its people resemble fortresses and its few public works stand as monuments to war. To walk under the bone-white arches of the King’s castle or through the iron-studded gate of a noble’s manor is to feel the oppressive weight of Hybern’s history bearing down – a reminder that here, peace is merely the pause between conflicts, and everything built in Hybern is built with the next battle in mind.

Fashion and Attire

Despite its lack of artistic architecture, Hybern does have a distinct sense of style in clothing – one that reflects the kingdom’s austere, martial culture while still indulging in a measure of dark elegance. Fashion in Hybern is another form of silent warfare, a way to project power, status, and intimidation without a single word. As such, the clothing of its people, especially the nobility, tends to be structured, somber-hued, and often decorated with subtle motifs of dominance or fear.

Example of a Hybern noblewoman’s formal attire – a structured corseted gown in muted gold and green, with sharp silhouettes and heavy brocade.

Among the High Fae nobility, attire is richly made but not frivolous. Gowns and suits alike favor structured silhouettes. Noblewomen often wear corseted bodices of stiff leather or whalebone, giving the impression of armor even in a dress. High collars, pointed shoulder accents, and fitted sleeves are common, lending an authoritative sharpness to the figure. Skirts are long and layered, made of heavy silks, brocades, and velvets in earth or jewel tones (deep forest green, wine-red, black, slate gray, and the occasional burnished gold for contrast). Rather than frilly lace and excessive gems, Hybern fashion uses texture and shape to stand out. For example, a lady’s gown might incorporate pleated skirts that resemble the fanned pages of an old book or the gills of a mushroom – beautiful in a severe way, as shown above. Embroidery, if present, often carries symbolic patterns: entwining thorns along a sleeve, stylized ravens or serpents hidden in the brocade, or abstract geometric designs that might represent the Cauldron or a crown. It’s not unusual for a Hybern noble’s outfit to include actual metal accents – small spikes or pauldrons on the shoulders, a girdle of interlocking steel links worn over a gown, or gauntlet-like bracers on the forearms. These serve both decorative and practical purposes (in a pinch, they can deflect a knife or be used as a weapon). The overall impression is that a Hybern noblewoman could stride from the ballroom to the battlefield with only a change of shoes.

Men’s attire similarly balances elegance with martial readiness. High Fae lords favor long tailored coats or greatcoats, often double-breasted and buttoned to the neck, with militaristic styling. Epaulets or braided cords are sometimes worn on the shoulders – a nod to their roles as commanders. Under the coat they might wear a waistcoat of patterned damask (again, subtle patterns like stags, swords, or the Hybern crown emblem woven in tone-on-tone). Trousers are usually dark and tucked into knee-high boots. Many male nobles also wear belts with prominent buckles or weapon holsters as part of their outfit, normalizing the presence of a dagger or sword at their hip even in formal settings. It’s an unwritten rule that one is never truly unarmed at Hybern’s court. The color palette for men skews dark as well – black, charcoal, deep navy – sometimes accented with a flash of color from a sash or a lining. For instance, a lord might have a cloak lined with blood-red silk that flares when he walks, reminiscent of spilled wine (or blood) swirling.

Jewelry and accessories in Hybern carry great symbolic weight and are often made from the relics of conquest. It is not uncommon to see nobles wearing ornaments fashioned from bone, teeth, or horns taken from defeated foes. Amarantha herself famously wore a jeweled ring that contained the petrified eye of Jurian, the human she vanquished and tortured– a grotesque token of victory she flaunted at all times. Following that example, other Hybern courtiers have adopted similar trophy-jewelry. One lady of the court wears a necklace strung with what she claims are carved knucklebones of a mortal queen. A general might fasten his cloak with a brooch made from an enemy lord’s finger bones set in iron. Such pieces are conversation starters and intimidation tools at once. More conventional jewelry does exist: rings, earrings, and circlets are worn, but usually in heavy, old-fashioned designs. Rather than delicate chains, Hybern jewelry leans to chunky collars, wide armbands, and signet rings the size of a small egg – statement pieces that convey authority. Precious stones are less favored than dark metals and enamel. A popular gemstone in Hybern is the black ruby (a deep crimson so dark it appears black in low light); nobles prize these for their similarity to congealed blood. These might be set in tiaras or rings but always in moderation – a Hybern lord might wear one signet with a black ruby crest and nothing else, letting that singular bloody gleam speak for itself.

There is a functional side to Hybern clothing as well. Armor and uniforms are a key part of fashion for those in the military. High-ranking individuals often blur the line between uniform and formal wear. It’s not unusual to see the King’s commanders and officers attending a war council in tailored military jackets adorned with their house colors or insignia. Hybern soldiers of all ranks wear a standard field uniform: ash-grey jackets with bone-white piping and the kingdom’s coat of arms (the silhouette of a small crown) on the shoulder. In more ceremonial contexts, such as a triumphal parade or a court appearance after a victory, these uniforms are cleaned and complemented with additional embellishments – silver aiguillettes, a cloak dyed Hybern’s signature storm-grey, and polished boots. Some officers also don ceremonial half-capes lined with white fur (one of the few uses of animal product, likely sourced via trade or rare magical beasts, since local fauna is scarce). These capes denote valorous service and help them stand out amid the sea of grey. Rank and status are encoded in every stitch: the number of buttons on a sleeve, the cut of one’s collar, the presence of a particular brooch – all carry meaning within the court’s unspoken sartorial language.

A bone-white ball gown with a dramatic silhouette, as might be worn by a Hybern queen or high lady during a ceremonial court gathering.

For high ceremonies and significant events, Hybernian fashion takes a turn for the symbolic and theatrical. One striking trend among the elite is the wearing of bone-white attire during momentous occasions. This trend harkens to Hybern’s imagery of bones and the pale cliffs of the kingdom. A queen (were Hybern to have one) or a leading lady at court might appear in a gown like the one shown above: flowing white fabric of heavy silk, with an exaggerated, sculptural collar and an immaculate, almost cold perfection. Such a gown deliberately echoes the bone motif – the off-shoulder wrap could resemble the curve of a collarbone or shoulder blades. Wearing pure white in Hybern carries a dual message: it invokes the bleached cliffs and bones (symbols of Hybern’s enduring, deathly might), and it dares anyone to spill blood upon the wearer, a challenge of sorts. In a court where deep colors dominate, a noble clad all in white is making a statement of fearlessness (for any bloodstain would show starkly) and of mourning-turned-power (white being the color of old bones and also, in some cultures, the dead). It is rumored this style became popular after Amarantha once wore a gown of glimmering winter white to a revel, claiming that “I wear the color of my enemies’ shrouds.” Ever since, the boldest Hybern fashionistas occasionally sport bone-white at festivals or ceremonies to emulate that chilling confidence.

In terms of daily wear for commoners, Hybern’s clothing is much simpler but still reflects the environment. Common faeries wear sturdy wool tunics, plain linen shirts, and leather jerkins in drab colors – browns, grays, dull blues – built for work and frequent mending. They favor practical layering (shawls, aprons, knit caps) to deal with the damp chill. While nobility might import fine fabrics or dye, villagers rely on local sheep’s wool and nettlecloth. It’s worth noting that dyes are scarce due to limited trade, so a brightly colored garment is a rare luxury. Most peasants’ clothing is undyed or earth-toned. To compensate, some communities have adopted subtle embellishments of their own: a particular style of knotwork embroidery at the hem of a dress or a carved bone button with a protective rune on a cloak. These small touches serve as cultural identity markers and talismans, even if they are humble.

One distinctive accessory seen across classes in Hybern is the use of cloaks and mantles. The weather and the culture of concealment make cloaks quite ubiquitous. Highborn individuals have cloaks lined with satin or trimmed with rare fur, fastened by elaborate clasps (like a silver brooch in the shape of a screaming face, perhaps). Middle and lowborn fae wear thick woolen cloaks with hoods, often coated in oil or fat to repel rain. The hood is not just for weather – pulling one’s hood up is an accepted way of indicating one wishes to remain unnoticed or unbothered. In Hybern’s streets, shadowy hooded figures are common, giving public gatherings an ominous atmosphere of conspiracy.

Hair and grooming in Hybern also follow the theme of severe elegance. Long hair is common among both genders (as is usual for fae), but styles tend to be neat and battle-ready. Men tie their hair back with leather cords or braids, sometimes incorporating small metal rings engraved with their family sigil into the plaits. Women frequently braid their hair as well, coiling it into crowns or knotting it at the nape – styles that keep it out of the way and present a dignified, no-nonsense appearance. On formal occasions, women might adorn their hair with bone combs or pins tipped with black pearls. Cosmetics are minimal; a Hybern lady might darken her eyes with kohl for a predatory look, or stain her lips a deep red (the pigment often derived from crushed berries or alchemical mixtures). Interestingly, pale skin is considered a mark of high status – not for aesthetic reasons, but because it implies the person doesn’t toil under the sun (and also brings to mind the “snow-white” pallor of a specter or the famed white skin of Amarantha). Many Hybern nobles have a naturally pale or ruddy complexion and accentuate it by avoiding sunlight or using powders. This can give them a ghostly, deathly beauty.

In summary, Hybern’s fashion is a language of power: disciplined, somber, and edged with menace. Every garment seems to declare: we are a people who have not known joy in a long time, and we dress accordingly. Yet there is artistry in the severity. The interplay of rich fabric and martial cut, of bone motifs and dark color, creates a striking visual identity. A hall filled with Hybern courtiers is a study in predatory pageantry – a murder of ravens in sumptuous attire, each trying to appear more formidable than the next. And among them, those rare few who wear a shock of white or a gleam of gold stand out like bait or challenge, depending on one’s perspective. Fashion in Hybern may lack the exuberance of other courts, but it has its own cold glamour.

Magic and Mysticism in Hybern

Magic in Hybern is deeply entwined with the kingdom’s identity as a force of domination. The faeries of Hybern are inherently magical beings – like all High Fae, they possess long lifespans, superior strength, and varying mystical abilities – but what truly sets Hybern apart is how it harnesses and weaponizes magic. In Hybern, magic exists to serve conquest, and any other use is considered frivolous or suspect. There are a few key facets to Hybern’s magic system: innate powers of individuals, learned sorcery and spells, control of magical artifacts, and the strategic nullification of enemy magic.

Firstly, Hybern’s High Fae individuals each have their own innate magical gifts, which can vary widely. Some have elemental affinities (though not organized by Courts as in Prythian – one might find a Hybern lord with a talent for shadow, another with minor fire manipulation, etc.), others possess heightened senses or shape-shifting. However, unlike Prythian High Lords who command vast unique powers tied to their Courts, Hybern’s High Fae are generally less specialized and more homogeneous in their abilities. This is partly due to breeding and bloodlines – centuries of intermarriage among noble families have kept a baseline of abilities, but true prodigies are rare. The King himself is an exception: he is ancient and enormously powerful, with a broad command of magic rumored to rival that of multiple High Lords combined. He can cast complex spells, ward entire territories, and channel the Cauldron’s might. Under him are a few notably gifted fae (Amarantha was one, possessing considerable raw power and cunning spellcraft). But for the rank-and-file Hybern faerie, magic tends to manifest in simpler ways: enhanced strength, limited glamour (illusion) abilities to trick human eyes, maybe a small knack like beckoning flame or hardening their skin. These gifts are honed for combat. From youth, any fae who shows a spark of power is trained to use it in battle. A child who can summon a flicker of fire will be taught to ignite arrows or enemy tents. One with a siren-like voice might learn to unnerve foes with battle chants. All magic is viewed through the lens of utility – if it can’t help Hybern win, it’s not worth pursuing. Thus, arts like healing or growth spells are neglected (few in Hybern bother learning healing magic, for instance, which is why they rely on potions or captive healers from other lands to mend wounds). Conversely, destructive and coercive magics are highly prized. Illusion magic (glamour) is taught to scouts and spies to aid in infiltration. Mental manipulation (the daemati gift of mind-reading or hypnosis) is rare, but whenever a Hybern faerie with any telepathic talent is found, they are immediately taken into royal service as an interrogator or spy.

One hallmark of Hybern’s magical approach is its systematic, almost scientific development of spells and tools. The kingdom has a small circle of scholars and sorcerers who have spent centuries refining dark spells. These spellcrafters operate in the shadows (literal and metaphorical) of the court – they maintain the wards on the castle, brew poisons, and develop new enchantments for warfare. Unlike the Night Court’s daemati or the Day Court’s scholarly High Lord, Hybern’s sorcerers are not well-known individuals; they are faceless, secretive, often referred to by titles rather than names (e.g. the King’s Spellmaster, the Coven of Twelve). They pour over ancient grimoires and the knowledge left from the last War. For example, it was Hybern’s spellcasters who concocted the potion that Amarantha slipped to the High Lords of Prythian, drugging them and allowing her to steal their powers. She “used a stolen spell from the King” to do this, indicating that the King’s repository of spells is extensive – and that Amarantha, as trusted as she was, had to steal it, implying the spells are guarded closely. Hybern specializes in binding magic: spells to shackle power, ensnare beings, and enforce oaths. Amarantha’s binding of Jurian’s soul into an eye and a finger bone is one notorious example – a feat of necromancy and binding that trapped a living consciousness in eternal torment. Hybern’s lore is full of such grim sorceries. They have spells to bind a faerie’s magic (indeed, they bound the powers of the seven High Lords under the Mountain through Amarantha’s deceit), spells to raise wards and barriers impenetrable to teleportation, and curses that can blight land or bloodlines. One ancient curse that Hybern allegedly used on a rebel noble house long ago caused every firstborn of that line to be stillborn for five generations – effectively ending the family without spilling a drop of blood in open combat. This kind of generational curse indicates Hybern’s willingness to delve into long-term, insidious magic.

Control and monopoly of magic is a critical aspect of the system. The King does not encourage widespread magical knowledge among the populace. There are no open academies or public teachings of spells. Everything is apprenticeship-based and kept in the noble or royal circles. A noble house might have a family grimoire of battle spells passed down, but a commoner likely knows only small charms if any. Those lesser fae who have unique talents often end up pressed into service or quietly eliminated if their power is deemed a potential threat. One exception is the existence of war witches: Hybern has a tradition (though rare) of witches – often female fae with a knack for dark spellcasting – who are valued for specific roles. They might lead rituals on the eve of battle, hexing the enemy from afar or blessing Hybern’s blades with spells to make wounds fester. These witches are usually loyal to the King (out of self-preservation if nothing else), and they form a sort of informal coven. Some say these witches keep the old faith in the Crone and Mother of War, channeling those entities in their magic. Whether divine or not, their spells tend to be fearsome: causing mass hallucinations, calling swarms of biting insects from the mud, or inflicting wasting sickness on besieged foes. They do not advertise their presence, but enemy armies have learned to dread when Hybern’s banners fly accompanied by the faint sound of chanting on the wind.

Another critical component is Hybern’s use of magical artifacts and anti-magic substances. The most powerful artifact, the Cauldron, we have discussed – it amplifies whatever magic is poured into it and can unleash world-breaking power (shattering the Wall, creating new fae, resurrecting the dead). The King, during the recent offensive against Prythian, leveraged the Cauldron extensively, essentially making it the keystone of Hybern’s magic might. Aside from the Cauldron, Hybern also sought the Book of Breathings, an ancient tome needed to control the Cauldron, illustrating their pursuit of arcane tools. Historically, Hybern stockpiled other lesser artifacts: there are rumors of a Crown of Annihilation passed down in the royal treasury that, when worn, strengthens destructive spells, or an Orb of Midnight that can snuff out any light within miles when activated. Such items rarely see daylight; they are contingency weapons, hidden in vaults beneath the castle.

More pragmatically, Hybern mastered faebane, a mineral unique to their land (or at least found in quantity there). Faebane is essentially a magic-nullifying ore, deadly in how it strips faeries of their powers temporarily. The Hybernian army became infamous for its innovative use of faebane: grinding it into powder to lace food and water of enemy forces, or releasing it as a mist on battlefields to weaken opposing fae. They even forged shackles and chains from faebane-laced metal to hold captured High Fae, rendering them nearly human-weak and unable to escape. The incorporation of faebane into their standard tactics shows a very systematic approach to magic warfare – Hybern doesn’t just rely on their own magic; they actively seek to deny magic to their enemies. It’s a great equalizer, allowing their physically trained troops to overwhelm foes who would otherwise fry them with flames or gales. In essence, Hybern developed a counter-magic doctrine: use magic when it gives you advantage, and ruthlessly nullify your enemy’s magic whenever possible. This dual philosophy makes them exceedingly dangerous to fight. A Prythian High Lord might be individually more powerful than any single Hybern spellcaster, but on a battlefield seeded with faebane and cursed by Hybern hexes, that advantage dwindles quickly.

Within Hybern’s borders, the practice of magic is tightly controlled. Unauthorized magic use – especially anything large-scale or subversive – can draw the attention of the Dread Sentinels, a group of enforcers (often members of the King’s Ravens or their agents) who investigate magical disturbances. For instance, a minor noble attempting to perform a forbidden resurrection ritual or a commoner dabbling in summoning a spirit would likely be seized and made an example of. The usual punishment is execution or conscription: a skilled but disloyal mage might be forced to serve in the coven under pain of death. Only the King and his sanctioned sorcerers may conduct high magic freely. This has created an atmosphere of mystique and fear around magic among the general populace. Common folk simultaneously fear magic and respect it. They will swear “by the Cauldron” but also knock on wood to ward off any curses if a stranger so much as looks at them funny. It’s said some peasants wear iron tokens (even though iron is not decisively proven to hurt fae in this world, folklore still holds it might ward off enchantments) because they are more afraid of a bored noble casting a cruel glamour on them than of any bandit.

Hybern’s approach to education in magic is informal. Noble children with potential are taught by tutors – often elder relatives or court mages assigned to noble houses by the King. These tutors ensure that the next generation can at least perform the basics: shielding themselves, maintaining glamours, moving objects with raw power, perhaps mind-detecting lies. Martial application is always stressed. A youngster who shows an affinity for, say, making plants grow will quickly be redirected to instead learn how to use plants as poisons or how to cause vines to strangle. If a gift is deemed completely useless for war (imagine a hypothetical talent to make illusions of butterflies – unless those butterflies can bite or distract enemies, it’s useless), it will simply be ignored, and that faerie will be pushed into a non-magical role. This means some Hybern fae suppress parts of their own magic if it doesn’t fit the mold, which can lead to frustration or instability. But in Hybern’s mindset, magic is a weapon, not a personal quirk.

Despite this rigidity, there remains a small undercurrent of mysticism separate from the militant norm. Particularly among some older fae and the witches, there’s a belief in “old magic” – wild, unpredictable powers that stem from the land and ancient spirits rather than from courts or kings. These might include things like casting bones to tell fortunes, or invoking the name of an ancient ocean spirit for safe passage. Such practices are more superstition than reliable magic, but occasionally they yield real results. The King tolerates these minor magics as long as they do not challenge his authority – a peasant casting wards against evil or a wise woman muttering charms is beneath his concern. But any unsanctioned display of significant power draws swift attention. In Hybern, mysticism lives in the shadows: in the secret sigils scratched on cottage doors, in the midnight offerings to ghosts, in the half-remembered names of old gods spoken when fear grips the heart. All the while, the open practice of power remains the Crown’s prerogative. Magic, like everything in Hybern, is controlled, weaponized, and viewed through the lens of dominance, and even the wild old spells ultimately bend or break under the iron will of the King.

Military Structure and Warfare

Hybern’s military is the iron fist of the kingdom – disciplined, relentless, and honed by centuries of vengeful intent. It operates as a strict hierarchy under the absolute command of the King. The monarch is Commander-in-Chief of all forces; beneath him stand a few trusted generals and commanders (often drawn from the noble houses or the royal family). Historically, Amarantha served as the King’s chief general during the Great War, and later the King’s own kin, Prince Dagdan and Princess Brannagh, held high command positions. These top commanders form the war council, advising the King and executing his battle plans. Each general is given charge of a portion of Hybern’s forces – for example, one might lead the navy, another the aerial legions, another the main infantry host. They in turn delegate to lower officers (captains, lieutenants), creating a clear chain of command that runs from the throne to the lowliest foot soldier.

Conscription and training are fundamental. Every young High Fae of Hybern noble lineage is expected to serve in some military capacity, and even commoners are drilled in basic combat from youth via local militias. There is pride in this: families boast of how many of their number serve in the army. Training is harsh and thorough. Recruits undergo survival treks across the barren hills, weapon drills for hours until their muscles shake, and mock battles that sometimes result in real injuries or death (Hybern’s commanders consider a few training casualties a worthwhile price for weeding out the weak). The result is an army largely inured to pain and fear. Discipline is uncompromising – disobedience can earn a soldier a public flogging or the headsman’s axe, depending on the offense. But most soldiers need little coercion; they are fueled by patriotism and hatred nursed over generations. They march to war shouting mottos like “No mercy, no surrender!” and truly mean it.

Hybern’s military forces can be broken into several key branches:

• Infantry and Ground Forces: The bulk of Hybern’s army consists of foot soldiers – both High Fae and lesser faeries – organized into regiments. They are armored in boiled leather and blackened steel. Their standard armament includes swords, pikes, shields, and crossbows. The infantry is known for its shield walls and phalanx-like formations; Hybern drills its units to advance in lockstep, presenting a bristling front of spears. These formations were effective against human armies in the past and are still maintained. Hybern infantry wear distinctive grey surcoats or jackets with bone-white embroidery and the royal crest on the shoulder. Their morale is bolstered by fervor – they fight not just for King but for ancestral revenge. Surrender is almost unheard of; Hybern soldiers have been known to fight to the last man even when surrounded, preferring death to the disgrace of capture by mortals or enemy fae. In battle, infantry officers (often lesser nobles) carry tall banners depicting a simple black crown on a field of grey, marking units on the field. Drums and war-horns coordinate their movements. If a rank falters, officers will execute deserters on the spot to plug the gap with grim resolve.

• Aerial Legions: One of Hybern’s most unnerving advantages is its air force of flying faeries and beasts. Chief among these are creatures of the same ilk as the Attor – horrible winged lesser fae bred or recruited for war. The Attor itself (a spindly, bat-winged horror) served Amarantha and later the King, and it was not unique. Hybern has an entire legion of flying predatory fae that resemble gargoyles or oversized bats. In battle, these aerial units provide reconnaissance, terror tactics, and air support. They famously executed a two-pronged assault on the city of Velaris, ferrying ground troops over defenses: “the aerial legion flew in… most carrying a Hybern ground soldier. They swooped to the ground to deploy the soldier, then attacked from above as the ground army invaded.” This tactic – essentially paratrooper deployment by monstrous flyers – caught even the Night Court off guard. The aerial legions also drop crude bombs (casks of greek fire or clusters of faebane dust) onto enemy formations, sowing chaos. These flyers answer to the command of a special Captain (sometimes nicknamed the “Sky Master”), who coordinates their strikes using horn signals. In addition to the Attor-beasts, Hybern has a contingent of Illyrian-descended mercenaries (winged bat-like fae warriors, exiled from the Night Court’s legions) who sell their services; the King has not shied from employing them when useful, though he distrusts their loyalty. The combination of native aerial creatures and hired winged soldiers gives Hybern a formidable presence in the skies.

• Navy: As an island nation, Hybern maintains a fleet of warships, though these were somewhat neglected during isolation. With the renewed war effort, the King revitalized the navy, tasking House Marinos (a noble family traditionally tied to maritime trade) with refitting ships. Hybern’s ships are mostly heavy galleys and war barges capable of carrying troops across the sea to Prythian or other lands. They aren’t the swiftest, but they are sturdily built of dark timber and reinforced with iron ram prows. The navy’s strategy relies on ferrying the army rather than naval supremacy in open waters. However, they do have some specialized fire-ships loaded with alchemical incendiaries (to send burning into enemy fleets). During the recent campaigns, Hybern launched its armada against the shores of Prythian’s Summer Court, managing to land forces by sheer number of ships and the cover of heavy fog (some say summoned by sorcery). While not the most celebrated branch of the military, the navy is crucial for Hybern’s expansionist aims – after all, their soldiers must cross the violent sea somehow. Naval commanders coordinate closely with the aerial legions for scouting and with ground forces for amphibious landings. If Prythian’s alliance had not intervened, Hybern’s fleet would have shipped tens of thousands more soldiers onto the continent unopposed.

• Special Units and Beasts: Hybern employs a variety of specialized units for unique tasks. The infamous Ravens are two High Fae spies/assassins (a male and female pair) personally loyal to the King. They are experts at infiltrating enemy territory to retrieve things (or people) the King desires, hence their codename. In the war, they were sent to hunt for the halves of the Book of Breathings, using wiles and winnowing to accomplish their mission. There is also a corps of warlocks or battle-mages who accompany the army to cast destructive spells (for example, unleashing curses that can rot enemy food supplies or shatter fortifications). These battle-mages often fight in teams guarded by halberdiers, ensuring they can chant incantations without being picked off. Hybern is not above using monstrous allies as shock troops: bogge hounds, Naga shadow-creatures, and other fearsome lesser fae are wrangled and driven into battle ahead of the main force to sow panic. In one engagement, Hybern handlers loosed a great wyrm (a dragon-like beast from the sea caves) into the ranks of opposing fae – proving they will use any weapon at their disposal. Even undead have been used; the King’s cauldron-raised wights (reanimated corpses of fallen foes) guarded the Cauldron’s chamber at one point, a psychological horror for any who stumbled upon them.

• Siege Weapons: Hybern’s forges turned out siegecraft as needed. Massive trebuchets and catapults are constructed when besieging fortresses, flinging boulders or pots of faebane-laced wildfire. They also craft mobile towers to scale enemy walls. One particularly fearsome invention is the “Ash Striker” – a ballista that fires oversized ash-wood bolts (barbed and soaked in faebane). These were designed specifically to kill High Fae or beasts resistant to ordinary weapons. An Ash Striker bolt can impale a faerie wing or pin even a giant to the ground, delivering a dose of magic-dulling faebane deep into the target. During the assault on the Summer Court’s castles, Hybern brought a dozen of these siege ballistae, using them to punch through wards and incapacitate powerful defenders from a distance.

In terms of weaponry and technology, Hybern’s arsenal mixes brute force with nefarious craft. Standard weapons are made of good steel, kept keen and enchantment-free (since they rely on faebane to nullify enemy magic, they often don’t bother enchanting their blades – a sharp steel sword cuts fine when the opponent has been stripped of power). Ash wood, deadly to faeries, is a material Hybern eagerly uses wherever possible. They stockpile ash arrows and ash knives for use against other fae opponents. In fact, the King himself armed Jurian with an ash wood arrow to shoot the Night Court’s Cassian during a parley, incapacitating him instantly. Poisons also play a role: beyond faebane, Hybern’s alchemists concoct venoms that can kill or paralyze, applied to arrowheads and daggers. They are known to coat blades with “The Hydra’s Blood,” a toxin that causes unstaunchable bleeding in fae victims. No method is off-limits – chemical warfare was pioneered by Hybern when they vaporized faebane into a fine mist and let the wind carry it over enemy lines, rendering opposing spellcasters suddenly powerless and terrified as Hybern’s troops fell upon them.

Strategically, Hybern’s approach to warfare is twofold: overwhelming force coupled with cunning subterfuge. They will certainly meet an enemy head-on with massive armies if needed (in the War, Hybern fielded tens of thousands of soldiers in pitched battles). But they prefer to tilt the odds before the first sword strikes. This means extensive use of espionage and psychological warfare. Prior to open conflict, the King will sow disunity among his foes: bribing traitors, forming secret alliances (as he did with the human Queens in the recent conflict, and infiltrating spies. Amarantha’s entire “emissary” act was a grand stratagem to lull Prythian into complacency, making her later surprise attack devastating. When Hybern moved overtly, they struck where the enemy least expected. A hallmark example is the attack on Velaris, the famously hidden city of the Night Court. Hybern learned of it through Jurian and the Queens and launched a surprise assault from the sea, breaching what everyone thought was an impenetrable, secret stronghold. Even in the heat of battle, Hybern tactics are cruelly effective. They favor two-pronged attacks and pincer movements – one frontal force engaging the enemy while another force flanks or appears in their rear (often delivered by winnowing or aerial drop). They make excellent use of fear: unleashing monsters early in a fight or catapulting the severed heads of previous foes over enemy walls to erode morale. The King is perfectly willing to sacrifice entire units as cannon fodder if it gains a positional advantage. During the War, Hybern’s generals once drove a herd of ensorcelled giant boars into an advancing human army, causing chaos in enemy ranks before the real clash even began.

Perhaps Hybern’s most unique strategic philosophy is magic suppression. Knowing that Prythian’s High Lords and other fae are individually powerful, Hybern often allocates significant effort to neutralize key targets. This could be through assassination (e.g. sending the Ravens to attempt to kill or kidnap a High Lord before battle), or through battlefield tactics like drawing a High Lord into a trap laced with faebane. They famously managed to dose the High Lord of Summer, Tarquin, with faebane by contaminating captured supplies – his water and wine – weakening him during a crucial confrontation. Similarly, shackles of faebane were prepared for use on powerful captives (Hybern soldiers carried these in their packs once the substance became available). In essence, Hybern seeks to rob its enemies of any advantage: if the enemy has dragons, Hybern poisons them; if the enemy has mighty magic, Hybern nullifies it; if the enemy holds a fortress, Hybern infiltrates and opens the gates from within.

Logistically, Hybern’s isolation taught it some self-sufficiency. The army travels with mobile forges and workshops so they can repair arms on the go. They also employ enslaved Lesser Fae (prisoners or indentured servants) as porters and camp followers to haul supplies, build camps, and dig trenches. Still, Hybern’s supply lines are a known weakness – because they lack friendly territories abroad, they must bring everything with them across the sea or seize it locally. During the latest war, this meant that when Hybern’s beachhead was established in Prythian, they immediately fanned out to capture villages and farms to feed their troops, and used dark magic to preserve and transport food (e.g. storing grains in time-slowed chests to prevent spoilage). The King had also intentionally let his people starve to a degree in the years prior so that his armies would be hungry for plunder – literally and figuratively – once unleashed. A soldier fighting on an empty belly is dangerous when promised the stores of a rich enemy city.

One cannot overlook the role of fear and punishment in Hybern’s military doctrine. The King and his generals maintain control through terror as much as through inspiration. Cowardice is brutally punished: there are tales of an entire company being decimated (every tenth man executed) because they broke formation in a skirmish. On the other hand, rewards for loyalty and valor are substantial – soldiers who perform exceptionally might be granted title to captured lands, promotion into the nobility, or other privileges. This carrot-and-stick approach makes Hybern’s forces zealously aggressive. They know there’s no mercy for failure, so they’d best win. And if they win, they are taught that they earn the right to do anything they please to the defeated – loot, enslave, kill. That promise of unrestrained reward in victory fuels their brutality in war. They want to earn their place in the new order the King promises, a world where Hybern lords over all.

In summary, Hybern’s military is a fearsome engine built on fanaticism, dark science, and strategic ruthlessness. It might lack the sheer refinement or individual heroics of some other realms’ warriors, but it compensates with coordination, innovative cruelty, and a willingness to cross any line. Hybern fights wars like a grand chess game where no move is too sacrilegious or too heinous if it leads to checkmate. From the quiet sabotage of enemy resources to the thundering charge of grey-clad legions under a sky swarming with monsters, Hybern wages war with a singular goal: total, crushing domination of its foes, by any means necessary.

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