#what endures beyond the silent edge

[spout1nk]

Just two wizards, chilling in a dome.

A little sketch of a scene from an amazing fanfic "what endures beyond the silent edge" by @ultraviolet-eucatastrophe. :]

[runariya]

🥸🤫☠️ : JK

He wants something 🤫 as down payment before he lets u inside safe haven (a place where survivors go to seek refuge)

(yandere+smut+apocalypse) part of the prompt game pairing: metro inhabitant!Jungkook x survivor!female reader genre: apocalypse!AU, S2L, yandere-ish? warnings: survival after nuclear fallout, dark creatures, denied prostitution for safety, Jungkook is whipped from the start so that should suffice for yandere, foul language, smut, oral (f. receiving), squirting, JK comes in his pants, fluff, lmk if I forgot smth (still hate writing warnings) word count: 3.239 (upsiiii)

a/n: I couldn't rly make JK more yandere without it feeling a bit too dub-con, so I hope that's alright 💕 also it's heavily inspired by the trilogy '2033' by Dmitri Gluchowski (and to my Russian readers: Московское метро выглядит так круто на фотографиях в интернете, надеюсь, однажды смогу ег�� посетить☺️)

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You’ve been wandering for what feels like years, though it could be months, or perhaps just weeks; time’s an abstract notion now, in this world broken to pieces and baked under a nuclear sun. 

With each step you take, the weight of exhaustion and your protective suit presses harder against your bones, but you don’t let it stop you. The world may be a dying beast, choking on its own ash and poison, but you still walk through it, a lone ember that refuses to snuff itself out. The remnants of cities whisper ghost stories to you as you pass, their bones twisted metal and crumbling concrete, charred earth for flesh. The wind sometimes hisses through the ruins, carrying tales of survivors—others like you, fighting, scavenging, enduring—and sometimes it’s silent, as if even the air is holding its breath for fear of what’s out there in the deep silence of the aftermath.

The black creatures—those twisted silhouettes of the apocalypse—roam the earth like shadows unbound from their hosts, moving through the poisoned fog with an unnatural grace that chills your very marrow. They are things of nightmares, remnants of the old world, perhaps, mutated beyond recognition by the fallout or born anew from the hatred that festers in the radioactive soil. 

Their eyes, if they have any, are voids, consuming light and hope in equal measure, and their movements are barely perceptible until it’s too late, until they are upon you, whispering your end in a language only the dead would understand. They hunt relentlessly, not for sustenance, not for survival, but as if driven by some primal force deeper than instinct, a desire not just to kill but to erase, to wipe away the last remnants of humanity like dust from the pages of a forgotten book. 

And you—battered, exhausted, teetering on the edge of oblivion—cannot rest, not here, not ever, because even in your sleep they find you, crawling into your dreams with their inky tendrils, reminding you that peace is a luxury no longer afforded to the living outside of shelter.

Your gas mask, an old friend now, covers your face like a second skin at this point, the filters clogged and heavy with days of dust, radiation, and fumes. You’ve noticed the way it pulls in air with more effort now, as if it’s trying to remember how to breathe. 

You check the filter again. It’s nearly gone, the little red marker ticking closer to empty with every breath you take. You’ll have to find something new soon or you’ll suffocate on the very air that should sustain you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to find shelter. In those early days, the optimism hadn’t yet drained from your veins and the desperation to belong somewhere, anywhere, had clouded your better judgment. 

There had been men—those ones with teeth like wolves, eyes like death, always leering, always demanding. You’ve had to pull your knife more than once to remind them that your body isn’t for sale, that safety shouldn’t cost that much. That death, perhaps, is a kinder alternative to what they would have asked of you. 

You can still hear their laughter sometimes, echoing in your skull—mocking, cruel. You had fled from them, from their dark gazes and cruel hands, from the taste of fear that licked at your throat when their eyes lingered too long on your body. Better the damnation from outside than their promises of protection.

But today… today you find yourself at the mouth of the metro. The entrance yawns wide like a secret, and the shadow of it draws you in, as though it’s reaching out for you. Your steps falter, but only for a moment—just long enough to recognise the hesitation in your chest, the uncertainty gnawing still on your mind. The thought flickers briefly across your consciousness—what if the people down there are like those others? What if all you find is more violence, more degradation, more proof that humanity has shed its last skin and become nothing more than base instincts and brutality?

But the mask is running low, and you can feel that desperation is creeping back into your bones, burrowing deep. You tighten your grip on the strap of your pack, pushing the fear down, burying it beneath a layer of resolve. You’ve come this far; you won’t turn back now.

The entrance is quiet—eerily so, as you push the tall hermetic door open and step inside, closing it quickly after. You glance around, eyes scanning the wreckage for signs of life. There’s nothing at first, just the silent exhalation of wind and the low hum of the distant, underground world. Then, movement.

You hear him before you see him—a soft shuffling of boots against stone, the faint click of a weapon being cocked. You freeze, instinctively tightening your grip on your knife as he steps into view.

Tall. Taller than most of the men you’ve encountered in these forsaken times. Muscles sculpted from necessity, sinew and strength coiled beneath his clothes like a waiting beast. He’s staring at you through the mask, gun raised, the barrel pointing at your chest. For a second, neither of you move. Then his eyes flicker downward, just for a moment, taking you in, assessing, like all the others. You brace yourself for what’s to come.

But it doesn’t come.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice low, barely more than a growl. His weapon doesn’t waver, and his expression is hidden behind a mask, eyes glinting through the cracked visor.

You hesitate. There’s a moment where you think of running, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only the metro behind him, and the world ahead, both full of uncertainties, both as equally capable of destroying you. You suck in a breath, let it fill your lungs like a final goodbye to the stale air in the mask, and then you reach up to peel it away from your face, your skin sticking to the rubber for a moment before it falls loose.

The air tastes strange on your lips—metallic, sharp, almost alien after all this time behind the mask. You lift your eyes to his, half-expecting some sort of reaction, maybe disgust, maybe lust. But instead… there’s something different there, something you hadn’t anticipated. His gaze softens, though his grip on the weapon remains steady. He stares at you as though you’re something out of place in this hellscape, something fragile, a curiosity more than a threat. His gun lowers, just slightly, but his eyes don’t leave your face, as he too rids himself of his mask. 

He’s younger than you thought. Ink spills across his skin—tattoos that ripple over his arm, dark lines twisting around muscles. You catch a glimpse of two piercings through his lip when he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out, and then his lips curve, ever so slightly, not quite a smile but not quite hostility either.

“Shelter,” you say, your voice rough, the words like stones scraping against the back of your throat. You cough once, clearing the dust away. “I need shelter.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, his gaze wandering down your frame, but it’s not like before—not like the leering stares of the men who sought to take more than they were willing to give. This is different. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, as though the mere fact that you’re still standing here, after all this, after the end of the world, is enough to stir absolute disbelief in him.

“Alright,” he says, after a pause that seems to stretch out longer than it should. “We’ll see.”

He gestures with his head, motioning for you to follow him into the metro. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before stepping forward. The air inside is cooler, the shadows deeper in the few flickering candle lights, and for a moment, you think you can almost breathe easier.

“Wait here,” he says, nodding towards a bench half-buried in dust. “There’s a process. Need to fill out a form.”

You blink. A form? The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh—almost. But you’re too tired for laughter, too worn down by the world to even consider the possibility of joy. So, instead, you sit with an exhausted plop. You watch as he disappears for a moment, hear the soft scrape of papers being shuffled, and then he’s back, clipboard in hand, a pencil poised like a weapon in his grip.

He doesn’t sit down. Just stands there, towering over you, his presence impressive but not oppressive. You glance up at him, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel exposed—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes you feel seen for the first time in a long time. It’s unsettling.

He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the clipboard. “Name?”

You give it to him. He writes it down, slow and thoughtful.

“Age?”

Again, you’re honest, coughing right after. He writes again, his eyes lifting to your face between each question as if checking to see if you’re lying, or maybe just to remind himself that you’re real.

“Where did you come from?”

You answer, though the place you once called home feels distant, like something from a dream you can’t quite remember. His pen scratches the paper, and you almost lose yourself in the sound of it, that soft, repetitive scrape, the only noise in the otherwise still part of the metro.

“Any medical conditions? Injuries?”

You shake your head, your body numb to the aches and pains that have become part of you, the exhaustion that’s settled into your bones as permanent as the sorrow for the destroyed outside world.

He writes.

The questions continue. And all the while, his eyes keep returning to you, scanning your face as if he’s trying to commit every line, every shadow, to memory. You can feel his gaze lingering on your skin, not in a way that makes you want to shrink or hide, but in a way that makes you want to ask why he’s looking at you like that, why his lips keep twitching into something that almost resembles a smile, sometimes a pout. 

After what feels like an eternity, he finishes writing, his pen stilling against the paper. You think he’s done, that maybe this bizarre interaction will end and you’ll be allowed to rest, to sleep, to breathe for just a moment.

But then he clears his throat again. And this time, when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Something you can’t quite place.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and the air between you feels too much like outside, chocking and not fit for you. 

You stiffen. You feel that old familiar dread curling up inside your chest again, clawing at your ribs. You’ve been at this stage before, the formality of it, the false promises of security, of kindness. The moment where it all comes crashing down, where the mask slips and you’re left standing there, alone and defenceless against the greed, the hunger that always lurks just beneath the surface of those too desperate to remember what it means to be human.

He sees the shift in you. You know he does. You see it in the way his brow furrows, the way he toys with his lip piercings as though he’s searching for the right words, something to say that won’t make you bolt for the hermetic door. He takes a breath, and for a moment, you think you might run, you think you might grab your mask and take your chances with the toxic air outside because anything—anything—might be better than this.

But then, he speaks.

“I—” His voice falters, and you see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His grip on the clipboard tightens, the knuckles going white. “I want to… I want to eat you out.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. You blink, stunned, and for a moment, you’re not sure you heard him correctly. Did he really just—? 

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to process the absurdity of it, the strangeness, the unexpectedness.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, almost pleading. There’s no threat in his posture, no demand. Just… want. Raw and unfiltered. Like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t even be allowed to ask, but he can’t help himself. His breath is shallow, and you can see the way his hands tremble slightly, the tension in his body like he’s bracing for you to reject him, to walk away.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should get up, leave this place, leave him behind, leave all of this strangeness and vulnerability and run back into the wasteland where at least the dangers are known, where the air is poison but the intentions are clear. But instead, you sit there, frozen in place, your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at him.

He’s not like the others. That much you know.

He’s so painfully handsome, a rare sight in this broken world, and it’s been so long—too long—since you’ve felt the heat of another body, since before the fallout turned everything to pure survival. 

So, when the chance arises, when you catch the hunger in his dark eyes and feel the thrumming ache in your own bones, you seize it like a lifeline in the endless wasteland. Your fingers tremble as you pull the zip of your protective suit down, the rough fabric parting like a sigh, and you free your legs, peeling it off your lower half. You shift on the bench, boots still clinging to your feet as you raise them to rest beside you, and open yourself to him, your legs spread wide, exposing your cunt like a silent offering, need pulsing through your veins.

Jungkook barely hesitates. The clipboard thrown, clattering to the ground behind him, forgotten, his focus now laser-sharp on the sight before him, his eyes flickering wildly between your face and the growing wetness glistening between your thighs. He steps forward with a pull that feels almost sacred, falling heavily to his knees as if the ground beneath him is the only place he belongs. His warm, calloused hands trace their way up your bare legs, the roughness of his skin sparking something primal under your own.

He leans in close, close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your slick skin. He takes a deep breath, inhaling you, and the word falls from his lips like a prayer, “Fuck,” and then he’s there, tongue pressing into you with a hunger that’s suffocating, lapping at your cunt as if he’s desperate to prove himself worthy of it, as if he knows exactly how lucky he is to be granted this wish. 

A moan escapes your throat, unbidden, as his tongue forces its way into the tight heat of your hole, your hand reaching instinctively for his dark hair, fingers threading through the strands as you push your hips into his eager mouth. The sound that rumbles from deep within his chest vibrates against you, a groan of raw pleasure that seems to send waves of newfound pleasure coursing through your body, arousal dripping from you, coating his tongue.

“Taste so good,” he rasps between breaths, his voice rough and broken with want. “Fucking angel sent from heaven.” His gaze flicks upward, catching yours, his eyes wide with disbelief, adoration simmering beneath the surface despite the fact that you’re strangers, despite the fact that the world outside has crumbled to nothing.

You find yourself moving against him, riding the flat of his tongue, his fingers dancing over your clit in a rhythm that feels almost divine. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh with a kind of desperation, as though he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll disappear, that this will vanish like a dream.

“Yes,” you cry out, breathless and shaking, as he finds the perfect pace, the perfect pressure, his mouth and hands working together with an almost agonising precision. And neither of you can tear your eyes away from the other, locked in this frantic, desperate exchange of need and lust and something deeper you can’t yet name.

He gives you everything—every ounce of affection and euphoria you’ve been deprived of for months—and you can feel it in the way his own body trembles, the way his hips move mindlessly against nothing, rutting into the air as though he’s just as desperate to be filled with pleasure as you are.

“I’m close,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair, pulling him harder against you, urging him on, desperate for more, for him to push you over that edge.

And he listens, his tongue working with relentless skill, circling your clit with a pressure so precise it almost drives you mad, and then you feel it—your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, shockwaves rippling through your body as you squirt onto his tongue, something you’ve never done before, the surprise of it lost in the haze of pleasure. Jungkook groans beneath you, greedily lapping up everything you give him, cleaning you with his mouth like he never wants to stop, his hips stuttering forward as he spills into his pants, caught in his own silent climax.

“Fuck…” he moans thickly and long, collapsing against your stomach as your legs tremble and fall to the floor, muscles too weak to hold them up any longer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the silence between you filled only by the sound of your ragged breathing, the disaster of the world momentarily forgotten. But eventually, he pulls himself together, straightening up with a sheepish grin, adjusting his pants which are now damp with his own release, his expression cringing just slightly.

You quickly dress again, pulling your suit back into place, feeling a flush of heat creeping into your cheeks. There’s an embarrassment there, sure, but not disgust—not even close. If anything, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction, of relief, and you catch yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him, that he isn’t bored now that his hunger has been sated.

But as you reach for your pack, Jungkook’s voice breaks through the quiet, and he gestures for you to follow him deeper into the metro, his arm draping casually around your shoulders as if he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he says, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes bright with something that looks almost like joy—something you haven’t seen in anyone since the fallout. “You can stay with me if you want.”

There’s a pause, your heart skipping a beat at his offer, and you hesitate only for a second before whispering, “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.”

He beams down at you, stars shining in his dark eyes like you haven’t seen in months, and he takes the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Good,” he says softly. “I’d like that too.”

PART 2

[lila-lou]

✨Beyond saving - Pt. 2✨

Summary: Dean is back and no longer a demon. But with all the emotions he has to deal with now, he would rather die.

This is part 3 of "Beyond saving".

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only!, Mention of rape, Language, Angst, Hurt

Word Count: 5518

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

As the hours stretched on, the pain seemed to deepen, sinking into your bones and settling in your soul. At first, you lay on the floor, tears flowing freely as you grappled with the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to consume you.

But as time passed, a numbness set in, dulling the sharp edges of your agony and enveloping you in a cold, empty void. You lay there, lost in the darkness of your own thoughts, the weight of your suffering pressing down on you like a leaden blanket.

After hours and with trembling limbs and tears streaming down your face, you forced yourself to your feet, the pain in your broken wrists and ribs a constant reminder of the brutality you had endured.

With each step, you felt the weight of your pain bearing down on you, threatening to crush you beneath its unbearable burden.

You made your way towards the bathroom, each movement filled with agony.

As you sank into the warm embrace of the bathtub, the water enveloped you like a soothing balm, offering a brief respite from the relentless ache that gripped your body. But even as the comforting embrace of the water washed over you, the pain remained.

Your wrists throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, the broken bones protesting with every movement. Each breath sent sharp spikes of pain shooting through your ribs, the fractured bones protesting against the strain of simply existing. And between your legs, your pussy throbbed with a raw, tender soreness, a painful reminder of Dean's brutal assault.

As you lay there, staring blankly at the water stained crimson with your own blood, you couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness wash over you. It wasn't just your body that bore the scars of Dean's cruelty, but your heart and soul as well.

Your face bore the imprint of his violence, your Skin bruised and swollen. And beneath the water, your bruised buttocks throbbed with pain, the memory of his forceful kneel still fresh in your mind.

As Sam and Cas returned to the bunker, a sense of urgency filled the air. Sam's heart raced with fear as he noticed the dried blood staining the kitchen floor, his mind racing with dread at the thought of what could have happened to you. Without hesitation, he began knocking frantically on the bathroom door, calling out your name with increasing desperation.

"Y/N, open up!", Sam's voice was filled with concern and panic as he pounded on the door, his hands trembling with fear. "Please, we need to make sure you're okay!".

But there was no response, only silence echoing back at him from the other side of the door. His heart sank as he exchanged a worried glance with Cas, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him like a heavy stone.

"Cas, we need to get this door open", Sam urged, his voice laced with urgency as he turned to his angelic friend for help. "Something's not right. I can feel it".

With a determined nod, Cas focused his powers, channeling his energy into the door with a burst of light. In an instant, the lock clicked open, and Sam pushed the door open with a sense of dread gnawing at his insides.

But as he stepped inside, what he saw took his breath away. There you were, lying motionless in the bathtub, surrounded by water tinged with the faint traces of blood. Sam's heart clenched with fear as he rushed to your side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch you.

"Y/N, can you hear me?", Sam's voice was thick with emotion as he gently shook your shoulder, his eyes wide with fear. "Please, say something. Anything".

But you remained silent, your eyes vacant and distant as you stared blankly ahead. Sam's heart sank as he realized the depth of your pain.

As Sam pleaded with Cas to heal you, desperation crept into his voice, his eyes pleading with the angel for help. But despite Cas's best efforts, his healing powers seemed ineffective against the depth of your injuries. You looked terrible, completely broken, your body bearing the physical and emotional scars of Dean's cruelty.

Gently, Sam scooped you up in his arms, wrapping a towel around you with Cas's help, mindful of your fragile state.

As he held you close, he could feel the weight of your pain pressing against him. With each sob that wracked your body, his heart broke a little more, his own tears mingling with yours as he whispered words of comfort and reassurance.

"You're safe now, Y/N", Sam murmured softly.

With each step, each movement, you cried out in pain, your broken body unable to withstand even the slightest touch.

Again Cas tried to heal you. His touch enveloped your broken body, his powers surging forth with a gentle glow. With a focused determination, he began to mend the shattered bones in your wrists and ribs, his efforts slowly easing the physical pain that wracked your body.

As the warmth of his healing magic spread through you, you felt a glimmer of relief wash over you, the sharp edges of your agony blunted by his divine intervention. But even as your physical wounds began to heal, the scars that marred your soul remained untouched, a constant reminder of the darkness that had consumed you.

With a heavy heart, Cas realized the limitations of his power. Despite his best efforts, he could mend your broken bones, but the wounds that lay within you ran far deeper than he could reach.

"I've done what I can for your injuries", Cas murmured softly, his voice filled with regret as he regarded you with a solemn gaze. "But healing your soul… that will take time".

Sam's heart ached as he watched you, his own eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and sorrow. He longed

Three long weeks passed before you found the strength to speak again, the weight of your silence bearing down on you like a heavy burden. With trembling lips, you finally opened up to Sam, your voice barely above a whisper as you recounted the horrors that Dean had inflicted upon you.

"I… I couldn't stop him", you began, your voice trembling with emotion as you struggled to find the words to convey the depth of your suffering. "Dean… he… he hurt me, Sam. He hurt me in ways I can't even begin to describe".

Sam's eyes filled with tears as he listened to your words, his heart breaking with each revelation. He reached out to you, his hand offering silent support as you continued to speak, recounting the brutality of Dean's actions with a raw honesty that left him reeling.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N", Sam whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I had no idea… I never thought Dean could… could do something like that".

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you struggled to come to terms with the reality of what had happened. "I… I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive him", you admitted, your voice choked with emotion. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at him the same way again".

From that moment on, everything changed. The lightness and laughter that had once filled the bunker were replaced by a heavy silence, the weight of your pain casting a shadow over everything you did. Even the thought of Dean filled you with a sense of dread and betrayal, and you found yourself withdrawing further and further into yourself, your hope for redemption slipping away with each passing day.

Six months had passed since Sam had succeeded in healing Dean from the darkness of his demonhood. As Sam carefully uncuffed him in the dimly lit basement, a sense of trepidation hung heavy in the air. Dean’s first question, as the shackles fell away, was for you.

“Where is she?”, Dean’s voice was filled with a mixture of concern and longing as he scanned the room, searching for any sign of your presence. But Sam’s expression remained firm, his resolve unyielding as he stood between Dean and the truth.

“Not now, Dean”, Sam replied gently, his voice tinged with sadness. “She’s… she’s not ready to see you yet”.

Dean's heart sank at Sam's words, a heavy weight settling in his chest at the thought of your absence. "I understand", he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm… I'm not sure I'm ready to see her either. Not after what I did".

Sam's gaze softened with empathy as he looked at his brother, understanding the depth of Dean's guilt and remorse. "She's been struggling, Dean", he explained gently, his voice filled with concern. "It hasn't been easy for her these past six months. She's… she's hurt".

Dean's jaw tightened as he listened to Sam's words, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a leaden weight. "I know", he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "And it's all my fault".

Sam reached out, placing a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "We'll get through this together, Dean", he reassured him, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within him. "But it's going to take time. It's going to take a lot of work to earn back her trust".

As you entered your room, after a few days at Jodie´s, the familiar scent of Dean enveloped you, sending a shiver down your spine. It was a scent you had once found comforting, a reminder of the love and connection you shared with him. But now, it filled you with a sense of unease, dredging up painful memories that you had tried so hard to bury.

Unaware that Dean was back and healed, you began to unpack your belongings, your mind drifting back to the last time you had been in this room together. The memory of his touch, his laughter, and the warmth of his embrace lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of what had been lost.

Little did you know, Dean had been there just moments before, his presence lingering like a ghost in the room. He had come seeking solace in the familiar surroundings, hoping to feel some connection to you.

But as you moved about the room, your senses tingling with the weight of his presence, a sense of foreboding washed over you. It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, suffocating you with the memories of a love that had turned sour.

And as you stood there, frozen in place, the realization slowly dawned on you—Dean was back. He was here, in this room, just minutes ago, his presence a haunting reminder of the pain and betrayal you had endured.

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to come to terms with the truth, the weight of his absence and his return crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You knew that facing him again would reopen wounds, dredging up emotions you had spent months trying to suppress.

As tears streamed down your cheeks, Sam found you frozen in the room, your emotions palpable in the air around you. Concern etched deep lines into Sam's face as he approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate.

"We need to talk", Sam said gently, his voice filled with compassion as he reached out to touch your shoulder.

You turned to face him, your expression a mixture of anguish and resignation. "I already know", you whispered hoarsely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sam's brow furrowed with concern as he moved closer, his hand lingering on your arm. "Y/N, I know this is hard, but you can't just run away from this", he urged softly, his eyes searching yours for some sign of understanding.

But you were already moving towards the door, your mind clouded with pain and uncertainty. "I can't do this, Sam", you choked out, your voice breaking with emotion. "I can't face him again, not after everything that's happened".

Sam's grip tightened on your arm, his expression filled with determination. "You don't have to face him alone", he insisted, his voice unwavering. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way".

For a moment, you hesitated, torn between the desire to flee and the need to confront the truth. But in the end, it was Sam's unwavering support that gave you the strength to stay.

With a heavy sigh, you nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that bound you together.

As the days passed, the weight of Dean's presence hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the turmoil that engulfed your life. Despite Sam's assurances, you couldn't bring yourself to face him, the fear and uncertainty gnawing at your insides like a relentless beast.

Each night, you lay awake in bed, listening to the echoes of Dean's screams as he wrestled with his nightmares. His tortured cries pierced the silence of the night, a haunting melody that echoed through the empty corridors of the bunker.

And during the day, you remained holed up in your room, barricaded behind closed doors as you sought refuge from the chaos that threatened to consume you. The sound of Dean's footsteps outside your door sent shivers down your spine, the fear of his presence paralyzing you with its intensity.

Sleep became a distant memory, your mind plagued by a never-ending carousel of worries and anxieties. Dark circles formed beneath your eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights and endless torment that plagued your every waking moment.

In the kitchen, your hands trembled as you reached for another cup of coffee, the bitter taste a poor substitute for the comfort you so desperately craved.

Cas found you in the kitchen, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow as he took in your tired and worn appearance.

"Y/N, you look exhausted", he remarked softly, his blue eyes filled with worry. "Have you been sleeping at all?".

You shook your head, the weariness weighing heavily on your shoulders. "Not much", you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's been hard to find any peace, especially with him back".

Cas nodded in understanding, his expression sympathetic. "I can imagine", he replied gently. "But you can't keep going on like this. It's not healthy".

Tears welled in your eyes as you confessed your fear. "I'm afraid to sleep", you admitted, your voice trembling with emotion. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear Dean's screams and footsteps outside my door. I can't bear the thought of facing him again".

"I can stay with you while you sleep, if that would help".

Your heart swelled with gratitude at his offer, a sense of relief washing over you like a wave. "Thank you, Cas", you whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I don't know what I would do without you".

A few hours later, the sound of the bunker door opening signaled the return of Sam and Dean from their hunt. Sam's footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way through the bunker, his expression a mix of exhaustion and anticipation.

"Hey, Cas, you here?", Sam called out, his voice carrying down the hallway.

Cas emerged from your room, his gaze meeting Sam's as he stepped into the dimly lit corridor. "Sam", he greeted quietly, his tone somber.

Sam's brow furrowed with concern as he took in Cas's grave expression. "What's going on?", he asked.

Cas hesitated for a moment before speaking, his words measured and deliberate. "Y/N hasn't been sleeping well", he explained, his gaze drifting back to your sleeping form on the bed.

Sam's glanced into the room, his heart sinking at the sight of you curled up on the bed, your face drawn and pale in the soft light.

"What do you mean?", Sam asked, his voice filled with worry.

Cas sighed. "She's been afraid to sleep", he admitted quietly. "So I offered to stay with her while she rests".

"Thank you, Cas", he said sincerely, gratitude evident in his voice. "I'll take over from here".

And as Cas nodded in acknowledgment, Sam stepped into the room, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form with a mixture of concern and tenderness. With Cas's help, he would ensure that you found the peace and rest you so desperately needed.

As Sam and Cas remained in your room, their voices barely above a whisper as they discussed your condition, Dean found himself drawn to the doorway like a moth to a flame. Despite Sam's explicit instructions to stay away, he couldn't resist the urge to see you, to reassure himself that you were okay.

With each hesitant step, Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his footsteps silent on the floor as he approached the room where you lay sleeping. He knew he shouldn't be here, knew he was risking Sam's wrath by defying his orders, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to see you, to make sure you were safe.

As he reached the doorway, Dean's breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. You lay on the bed, your breathing slow and steady, your face peaceful in sleep. For a moment, Dean was transfixed by the sight of you, his heart aching with longing and regret.

But even as he stood there, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him of the pain he had caused you, of the darkness that still lingered within him. He knew he didn't deserve your forgiveness, didn't deserve to be anywhere near you after what he had done.

As Dean turned to leave the room, Sam’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing here?”, Sam’s tone was sharp, his eyes flashing with anger as he confronted his brother in the hallway.

Dean froze in his tracks, his heart sinking at the sound of Sam’s voice.

“I just… I needed to see her, Sammy”, Dean replied, his voice heavy with guilt and regret. “I needed to know she was okay”.

"I get that, Dean", Sam said, his voice softer but still tinged with frustration. "But she needs space, especially from you".

Dean nodded, a mix of shame and understanding evident in his eyes. "I know, Sam. I fucking screwed up", he admitted, his voice tight with emotion. "I just… I can't stand the thought of her being in pain and not being able to do anything about it".

Sam sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he tried to find the right words. "I know you care about her, Dean", he said gently. "But right now, what she needs most is for you to respect her boundaries. Give her the space she needs to heal".

Dean swallowed hard, the weight of Sam's words sinking in. "I will, Sam. I promise", he vowed, his voice filled with sincerity.

With a nod, Sam gestured for Dean to follow him away from the room. As they walked down the hallway together, Dean couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that weighed heavily on his heart.

One week later, Sam and Dean sat in the library, the weight of their conversation hanging heavy in the air. They had been discussing Dean's time as a demon, the darkness that had consumed him, and the pain he had inflicted on those he cared about.

After a long silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fireplace, Dean spoke up, his voice choked with tears. "I can't do this", he admitted, his words barely above a whisper. "I can't live with what I've done to her".

Sam's heart sank at the despair in his brother's voice, the anguish written plainly on his face. He reached out a hand, placing it gently on Dean's shoulder, offering what little comfort he could.

"I know it's hard, Dean", Sam said softly, his own voice thick with emotion. "But you can't give up. You have to find a way to live with what you've done, to make things right".

Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I don't know if I can, Sam", he confessed, his voice raw with pain. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for what I did to her".

Sam's heart broke for his brother, for the torment he was enduring. He wanted nothing more than to take away Dean's suffering, to ease the burden of guilt that weighed so heavily upon him.

Dean’s voice cracked as he continued, the weight of his confession pressing down on him like a heavy burden. “I hate myself, Sam”, he whispered. “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is… is what I did to her”.

"I know, Dean”, Sam said softly. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t let it consume you. You’re stronger than this”.

But Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked. “I don’t feel strong, Sam”, he admitted. “I feel broken. Like I’m irredeemable”.

"I know she'll never forgive me, Sam", he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't blame her. What I did… it's unforgivable".

Sam's heart clenched at Dean's admission, the weight of his brother's pain almost too much to bear. "Dean, you can't give up hope", he said gently, his voice filled with compassion. "People can surprise you. You just have to give her time".

But Dean shook his head, his eyes filled with resignation. "I've lost her, Sam", he said, his voice hollow with despair. "I've lost the love of my life, and the respect I had for myself along with it".

Standing in the hallway, you listened silently to the conversation unfolding in the library. The weight of Dean's confession and Sam's comforting words hung heavy in the air, their voices echoing through corridor.

Tears welled in your eyes as you heard Dean's admission of self-hatred and despair. The pain in his voice cut through you like a knife, stirring a mixture of emotions within you. Part of you longed to reach out to him, to offer him solace and forgiveness. But another part of you recoiled at the memories of the trauma he had inflicted upon you, the scars that still lingered both physically and emotionally.

Taking a deep breath, you silently retreated from the hallway, the weight of the conversation heavy on your heart. You knew that healing would take time, for both you and Dean.

Another week passed, the weight of the unresolved tension between you and Dean hanging heavy in the air. Despite Sam and Cas's efforts to provide support and comfort, sleep continued to elude both of you. And as Cas had to leave to attend to other matters, leaving you without his comforting presence, the nights grew even longer and more restless.

One evening, as you stood in kitchen, the soft glow of the overhead lights casting shadows across the room, you reached for a beer from the fridge. Your mind was consumed with thoughts of Dean and the tumultuous emotions that swirled within you.

But before you could retreat to the solitude of your room, the sound of footsteps drew your attention, and you froze as Dean entered the kitchen. The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of the unspoken words and unresolved emotions hanging heavy in the silence.

As you found yourself alone with Dean in the very room where he had caused you so much pain, a wave of fear washed over you, paralyzing you in place. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs as though it were trying to escape the confines of your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you pressed yourself against the cold surface of the kitchen counter, seeking any semblance of safety and distance from the man who had once been your everything.

For Dean, seeing the raw fear reflected in your eyes was like a dagger to his heart. The weight of his past actions bore down upon him, crushing him with the knowledge of the pain he had caused you. His own eyes filled with tears as he watched you retreat, his heart breaking at the sight of your distress. Seeing you pressed against the kitchen counter, seeking refuge from him, shattered him in a way he hadn't expected.

"I'm so sorry", Dean whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he took a hesitant step forward, his hands trembling at his sides. "I never wanted to hurt you. I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen".

His words hung heavy in the air, filled with the weight of his sincerity. But he knew that mere words could never erase the pain he had caused you. He longed to reach out to you, to offer you solace and comfort.

As Dean took another step forward, his expression wrought with anguish and regret, you held up a trembling hand, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.

"Don't… don't come any closer", you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with a palpable sense of urgency. Your cheeks were wet with tears, your entire body trembling with the weight of your emotions. Every fiber of your being recoiled at the thought of him drawing near, the memories of his past actions haunting you like ghosts in the night.

"I can't… I can't do this", you continued, your voice wavering as you struggled to maintain your composure. "Not now, not ever. You… you've broken something inside of me, Dean. Something that can never be fixed".

Your words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the irreparable damage that had been done. The distance between you felt insurmountable, a gaping chasm that stretched on for eternity.

Dean froze in place, his heart breaking at the sound of your trembling voice and the anguish etched across your tear-stained face. He longed to reach out to you, to wrap you in his arms and beg for your forgiveness. But he knew that he had no right to ask for such mercy, not after what he had done to you.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, (Y/N). Not after everything I've done".

His words were heavy with resignation, his gaze cast downward as he grappled with the enormity of his mistakes. The pain in his eyes mirrored your own, a reflection of the shattered pieces of both your hearts.

"I just… I just want you to know that I'm sorry", Dean continued. "I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make things right, even if I never earn your forgiveness".

As Sam stumbled into the kitchen, his eyes half-lidded with sleep, he froze in his tracks at the sight before him. The scene that unfolded before his eyes sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins, instantly banishing the remnants of sleep from his mind.

The sight of you, standing there with tears streaming down your face, your eyes wide with fear, pierced through him like a knife.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?", Sam's voice was soft but urgent as he rushed forward, his eyes flickering between you and Dean, who stood nearby with a look of devastation etched across his features.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. His instincts told him that something was seriously wrong.

With a sense of urgency, Sam stepped forward, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached out a comforting hand. "Are you okay", he asked, his voice filled with concern. "What happened?".

With a shaky voice and a forced calmness, you respond to Sam, "Nothing, Sam. Nothing happened". But the tremor in your voice and the haunted look in your eyes betray the truth of your words.

Before Sam could press further, you turn abruptly and practically flee from the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest as you race towards the safety of your room.

As the door slams shut behind you, the sound reverberates through the quiet bunker. Inside the confines of your room, you collapse onto the bed, tears streaming down your face as you try to quell the storm of emotions raging within you.

Meanwhile, Dean stands in the kitchen, his fists clenched at his sides as he stares at the spot where you had stood only moments before. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths and the steady thud of his heart.

With a growl of frustration, Dean lashes out, his fist colliding with the wall with enough force to leave a sizable dent. Pain shoots through his hand, but it pales in comparison to the anguish that gnaws at his soul.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as he sinks to the floor, the weight of his remorse pressing down upon him. He had thought that seeing you again would bring him some measure of closure, some semblance of redemption. But all he had accomplished was to reopen the wounds he had inflicted upon you, tearing them open with brutal force.

In that moment, Dean feels utterly lost, adrift in a sea of regret and self-loathing. He had shattered the one thing he had cherished most in this world, and now he was left to face the consequences of his actions alone.

As Dean sat on the floor, his back against the wall, Sam approached him cautiously.

"Dean, man, are you okay?", Sam asked softly, his voice tinged with worry.

Dean looked up at his brother, his eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. "No, Sam, I'm not okay", he admitted, his voice choked with emotion. "I don't think I'll ever be okay again".

Sam sinked down beside him, mirroring his brother's posture as they both sat in silence for a moment. "Dean, what happened between you two… it wasn't your fault", he said gently.

But Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "No, Sam, you don't understand", he insisted. "I hurt her, Sam. I hurt her in ways that I can't even begin to comprehend. And now… now I don't know how to fix it".

"Dean, you need to forgive yourself first".

Dean's voice trembled as he spoke, the weight of his words heavy with shame and self-loathing. "How am I supposed to forgive myself, Sam?", he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How can I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what I did to her? How can I live with myself, knowing that I… that I raped my own girlfriend because I was a fucking demon?".

Dean felt like he's drowning in a sea of guilt and remorse.

"Sam, you don't understand", he said, "This… this is worse than anything I ever experienced in Hell. Worse than purgatory. Since I've been back, since I'm no demon anymore, the pain of what I did to her… it's unbearable. It's like a constant weight crushing down on me, suffocating me. I can't escape it, Sam. I can't escape the guilt, the shame, the remorse. It's consuming me from the inside out".

"I don't know how to live with myself, Sam", he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every day, every moment, I'm haunted by what I did to her. And the worst part is… I know I don't deserve to be forgiven. I don't deserve to be happy. I don't deserve anything".

Sam's heart broke for his brother, knowing the depth of his pain. He reached out, wrapping Dean in a tight embrace, offering what little comfort he can. "Dean, listen to me", he mumbled softly, his voice filled with conviction. "I promise you, we'll find a way to make things right. But you have to hold on. You have to keep fighting".

For a moment, Dean allowed himself to lean into Sam's embrace, seeking solace in the comfort of his presence.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 3

[moonsandmobilityaids]

The Breaking Point

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: Sirius's parents find out about you. Warnings: Ableism, use of c-slur Series Masterlist

Sirius stumbles into your room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He barely makes it to the edge of your bed before he's collapsing, half on you and half on James and Remus. His face is pressed against your shoulder, hidden from view, but you can feel the heat of him through your shirt, the rapid rise and fall of his chest a silent testament to whatever horrors he's endured.

You shift beneath him, wincing as he unknowingly digs his knee into a particularly sensitive spot on your thigh. The discomfort is nothing compared to the worry gnawing at your insides, fear curling around your heart like a living thing.

"What happened?" you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair in an attempt to soothe. But his body remains tense, coiled tight with some unspoken agony. James and Remus exchange a look over his hunched form, their silence heavy with unsaid questions.

James doesn't hesitate; he reaches out, rubbing circles on Sirius's back—a gesture as instinctive as breathing. Remus watches, book forgotten in his lap, his own worry lines etched into his forehead. He leans against the headboard, finding no comfort in its solid presence. His gaze is glued to Sirius, silent and patient, knowing better than to prod, but the tension in the air seems to thicken with each passing moment, a tangible testament to their collective concern.

"Sirius, love," you start again, your voice barely above a whisper. He shifts slightly, enough for you to catch a glimpse of his eyes—red-rimmed, haunted. "Talk to us."

"It's nothing," he mutters, but the words lack conviction. They hang in the air, flat and lifeless, much like the look in his eyes. Something inside you constricts at the sight, a visceral response to the raw pain etched across his usually animated features.

James frowns, and Remus shifts where he sits on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees. "It's not nothing if you're this upset, mate," Remus says, a gentle persistence threading through his low voice. His hand hovers over Sirius's arm, caught between offering comfort and respecting the other boy's need for space.

For a moment, it seems Sirius won't answer. His jaw clenches, the muscles working against the weight of some internal struggle. Then, with a sigh that seems to drain him of energy, he raises his head to meet your gaze. His voice is barely more than a whisper—a confession shrouded in shadows.

"Got a letter."

The pieces fall into place. Post from home doesn't come often for Sirius and when it does, it's usually met with a scowl and a tightening of his jaw. But this—this is something else entirely. The anger is there, yes, but it's laced with an undercurrent of devastation that sends a chill down your spine.

"What did they say?" James asks, his voice sharp. He's already poised on the edge of defence, ready to fight back against whatever has brought Sirius to this point.

"They know," Sirius grunts, leaning heavily against you, "about us—all of us."

Your stomach drops. His parents—it's not surprising they'd have something disparaging to say about you, a Muggleborn, or about your relationship with Sirius, James, and Remus. But the way Sirius's body stiffens against yours suggests it's more than just their usual vitriol. The cold dread in your belly compels you to ask, even though part of you dreads the answer, "What exactly did they say?"

The question hangs heavy in the air, and Sirius's body stiffens atop you. His weight presses down, a tangible reminder of the reality that lies beyond this hidden sanctuary. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he debates whether to share the truth.

"They think it's pathetic," he says, voice barely above a whisper. The sound vibrates through your chest, reaching into the hollow spaces where your heart once felt secure. "That I'd waste my time with—"

He cuts himself off, but you feel him draw a shaky breath, steeling himself before plunging back into the depths of revelation.

"With someone like you."

The words are a punch to the gut, raw and visceral. It's not the first time you've been on the receiving end of pureblood scorn; Hogwarts had been rife with it. But hearing it now, coming from the mouth of Sirius Black—the boy whose parents' disdain has always loomed like a shadow over your relationship—strikes a different chord. Your stomach churns, and you tighten your hold on his hair, anchoring yourself to the only constant in the storm.

"They said… said I'm an embarrassment. Being with a—a crippled mudblood." The slur feels foreign on Sirius's lips, wrong somehow, as if even he recoils at the thought of giving it voice. "They were angry that I involved James and Remus as well. They think I should know better."

The knot in your throat tightens, a familiar hurt coiling around your heart. Beside you, Remus's jaw clenches, and James's hand stills on Sirius's back, his anger a palpable presence beneath his skin.

"They don't know anything," James says, each word a declaration of defiance. His voice is low, charged with an intensity that seems to vibrate through the very air around him. "They don't know you. They don't know us."

"Exactly," Remus echoes softly, laying his own hand on Sirius's arm—a reassuring anchor amidst the storm. "And they don't deserve to. You're better than this, Pads."

You want to nod in agreement, to offer some form of comfort, but your body feels frozen, trapped under the weight of Sirius's pain. His chest rises and falls against yours, each breath a reminder of the sorrow he carries within him.

"They're wrong, Sirius," you say at last, the words barely above a whisper yet resolute in their conviction. "They don't know anything about us. About me."

His body tenses against yours, and you feel his breath hitch in his chest. "I know," he murmurs into your shirt, his voice so faint it's almost lost among the rustling of leaves. "But it still hurts."

James shifts beside you, his hand finding its way into Sirius's hair, fingers threading through the dark strands with a tenderness that belies his usual bravado. "They're wrong, mate," he echoes softly. "So bloody wrong."

Sirius's hand brushes against the charm bracelet adorning your wrist, his fingers lingering on the one for him. He doesn't move away this time; instead, he leans into your touch, as if seeking solace from the very thing that has caused him such torment.

“I’m not letting them ruin this,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

The tension hangs in the air, so thick it's almost suffocating. As if on cue, there's a soft tap against the door frame, and your stomach drops further. Lily stands there, her green eyes wide with concern.

"I, uh..." Her voice is hesitant, barely above a whisper. She glances between you all, her gaze finally resting on Sirius. "I can come back."

You look at her, taking in her worried expression and the way she wrings her hands together. "I’m sorry, Lily," you say softly, managing a small smile for her sake. "We'll chat later."

She gives a small nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. With one last sympathetic glance in your direction, she turns and disappears down the corridor, leaving the four of you alone once more.

Sirius doesn't move, and you can hardly bring yourself to either. For now, this is enough—to exist in this shared space of understanding and unspoken words, to bear the weight of another's pain so they don't have to carry it alone. You'll endure the discomfort, the press of his body against yours, because right now, Sirius needs this—needs you—and you're determined to be there for him, just as he has been for you time and time again.

[avensthetic]

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔

𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 (max feat. huh yun-jin of le sserafim)

let's get married in vegas we don't need guest list i don't wanna think too much let's get matching tattoos i don't wanna think it through baby, I'm so stupid in love book a flight to paris only one way what'd you think about sharing our last name? let's get straight to "i do" i don't wanna think it through baby, I'm so stupid in love

𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙎 𝙏𝙍𝙐𝙇𝙔

aventurine stood at the doorway, the gloom that hung over him highlighted by the moonlight. his eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were clouded with exhaustion, his body slumped with a weariness that went beyond the physical.

the moment he staggered through the familiar doorway, every fiber of your being screamed his name. but the words died in your throat, replaced by a gasp as he collapsed into your arms. his grip was so tight, almost frantic, like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. for one terrifying moment, you feared you held nothing more than the ghost of the man you loved.

"aventurine," you finally choked out, your voice shaky, "are you okay?"

he made a choked sound that might have been a laugh, but his eyes - usually bright with mischief - held only shadows. "depends. are you going to yell at me?"

anger sparked, bright and hot, but blanked just as quickly under a surge of worry. "are you injured? can i get you something?" you rattled off, tracing the wrinkle of his furrowed brow, the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

he shook his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. his next words were barely a whisper, laced with a familiar vulnerability. "just... hold me for a little while."

you did, sinking to the floor with him, wrapping yourself around his trembling frame. his familiar scent, mixed with sweat and blood, was a harsh reminder of the ordeal he'd endured. he had always shielded you from his true battles, from the real risks he took. now, those risks were undeniable, bleeding out of his usual bravado.

minutes stretched into eternity. you didn't speak, simply held him. gradually, the tension in his body began to ease, replaced by an exhaustion that made him lean all his weight on you. it was then you noticed the subtle tremble in his breathing, the way he kept one hand tucked deliberately behind his back. he always did this when putting up a front, in front of his opponents, sat in front of mountains of chips, cards stacked high, risks in every bet.

high risk, high return. all in. the phrases he always mutter under his breath once irked you. with no regards to his life, it made you fear that he'd one day leave you, that he'd just vanish. masking his fears with his left hand clutched tightly behind his back, aventurine lived life on the edge, unable to put his trust in his luck, much less believe in himself.

"aventurine," you murmured, gently pulling back, "your other hand..."

he stiffened, the usual cockiness abruptly gone. before he could evade your gaze, you captured his wrist, tugging his hand into view. his fingers were clenched - tightly, painfully so. you carefully pried them open, gasping softly at the sight of the simple silver ring nestled in his palm.

"what...?" your voice faltered, a mixture of confusion, joy, and a flicker of hurt. you'd waited so long, endured so much uncertainty, radio silence broken only by his haunting absence.

"marry me," he blurted out, the words raw and unfamiliar. clutched tight within his fist was the simple ring, simple and lacking the usual shallow glamor of diamonds, a silent offering of everything he couldn't yet put into words. "it's another gamble at life, i know," he added, the cocky smirk returning, a fragile shield against the vulnerability he'd just revealed. "but the odds of you saying yes seem pretty damn good..."

"idiot," you said softly, tracing the outline of his trembling fist, "would it kill you to ask me normally?"

mistaking your words for anger and rejection, aventurine flinched. he had pondered over it for a long time, thought of you when he watched you sleep peacefully, and even when he was out facing death. and he realized then while in penacony, that if there was something he can't leave nor let go, it's you. "i...i mean it. marry me, i swear i'm serious. don't let me go, don't leave, i swear i'll-"

"silly," you hushed, a finger on his lips. "don't hide your hand. this isn't one of your big bets, not one where you'd lose, because my answer to you will always be yes."

relief washed over his face, so intense it made your heart ache. his eyes, when he met yours, brimmed with unspoken emotion. he leaned forward, burying his face in your hair.

"i went somewhere so far, somewhere so dark... i nearly didn't make it back," he confessed, voice rough with emotion. you shivered at his tone, the bleak despair etched into his words.

"you came back," you whispered, cupping his face and tilting his chin up. "that's all that matters."

he kissed you then, with a desperation that stole your breath away. it wasn't the soft, playful kisses you were used to. this was raw, desperate, filled with a hunger that took your breath away. his hands sought purchase in your hair, against your skin, as if seeking reassurance you were real, that this wasn't some dream conjured by a lonely, weary mind.

you responded with the same pent-up intensity, fingers tightening in his shirt, needing that tangible proof he was back, he was safe. there'd be time for questions later. for now, just the heady scent of him, the rasp of his breath against your skin, it was enough.

breaking away, he leaned his forehead against yours. "penacony was...." he faltered, the usual confidence in his voice cracking. "you, this..." his gaze swept over you, over the safe haven of his penthouse that you made a home for him to return to, "you kept me going. the thought of you, i held onto it like a lifeline."

tears welled up in your eyes. so many nights spent staring at your ceiling, the deafening silence with his absence driving you insane. you brushed his unruly hair away from his brow, his warmth a reassuring presence.

"i love you kakavasha," you said, the words thick with emotion, "and i'm so, so glad you're home."

he closed his eyes, a kiss pressed to each tear that fell down your face. "you deserve better than this," he murmured, voice barely a whisper.

"i deserve you." you were firm, leaving no room for argument. aventurine...kakavasha — your kakavasha, was many things - reckless, calculating, infuriatingly difficult at times. but he was yours. he's here, he's alive, and he had chosen you. right now, with a ring he slipped into your finger, this was more than enough.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 - 𝐄𝐍𝐃

[nomie-11]

The Wounded Healer, The Drowned, and The Guilty Masterlist (completed, under editing!)

The Empyrean Book 1: Fourth Wing - Xaden Riorson x OC, Violet Sorrengail x Liam Mairi

Read Book 2 Here!

Word Count: 147.9k Chapter: 28/28

In the dark, suffocating confines of a basement dungeon, Genevieve Hale has spent over a year enduring relentless torture at the hands of Lilith Sorrengail. Her only companions are the stars she's etched into the ceiling—symbols of the hope she once had. But when Lilith offers a twisted deal that promises freedom in exchange for betrayal, Genevieve is forced to confront a future she never imagined. Now, set to become a rider at Basgiath War College, Genevieve emerges from captivity not as a broken prisoner, but as a weapon forged in pain and driven by a burning desire for vengeance. As she steps into the light, a dangerous resolve takes hold—Lilith Sorrengail will pay, and no one will stand in her way.

Chapter 1 -Chains of Starlight* (rewritten!)

Chapter 2 - Into the Storm* (rewritten!)

Chapter 3 - Secrets at Sunrise* (rewritten!)

Chapter 4 - The Dance of Survival

Chapter 5 - The Unyielding Duel

Chapter 6 - Echoing of Silent Screams

Chapter 7 - Forged in Flames

Chapter 8 - So What?

Chapter 9 - The Freedom of Wings

Chapter 10 - Shifting Tides

Chapter 11 - The Awakening of a Life Weaver

Chapter 12 - Above the Clouds, Beneath the Earth

Chapter 13 - An Inferno of Desire

Chapter 14 - Threads Unraveling

Chapter 15 - A Moment of Peace

Chapter 16 - Whispers of Winter

Chapter 17 - The Pursuit of Knowledge

Chapter 18 - The Scrutiny of a Sorrengail

Chapter 19 - Shadows of Secrets

Chapter 20 - The Silent Clash Before the Fall

Chapter 21 - A Renaissance of a Heart

Chapter 22 - To Take a Leap of Faith

Chapter 23 - Between the Fading Stars and Fireworks

Chapter 24 - The Double-Edged Dagger

Chapter 25 - When Death Waits Just Beyond The Horizon

Chapter 26 - Shadows of Blue and Silver

Chapter 27 - Starchild Rising

Epilogue - Unsent Correspondence from the Desk of Late Rider Cadet Liam Mairi

[agoodroughandtumble]

Roronoa Zoro x Reader - I Didn't Need Saving

I Didn't Need Saving - Roronoa Zoro/Reader

Status: Incomplete Summary: Reader is hurt after battling with the marines Warnings: 18+. Language, injury, implied violence (in keeping with the show)

“You’re not dead then.”

You turned your head – trying to ignore the pain currently surging through you even at the smallest of movements. A small smile found its way onto your lips at the sight of Zoro leant against the doorway, arms folded across his chest and signature frown gracing his features. He was fine. He was safe. “Apparently not.”

“Good.” Zoro crossed across the room to stand at the edge of the bed. He didn’t look like that was good. “Means I get to kill you myself.”

“Excuse me?” If this was the swordsman’s attempt at humour, you weren’t understanding the joke. The wound in your side was preventing you from sitting up so you had to make do with glaring at him. “Most people would be grateful-”

“Grateful?” He snapped, raised voice making you recoil. “For your recklessness? Your complete disregard of anyone but yourself?”

You were silent, blinking back tears, unable to look at him lest the dam broke. Images of the battle flashed through your mind – marines everywhere, reinforcements and cannonballs seemingly appearing out of thin air. The invading stench of blood and smoke. Everything happened all at once, and yet time had seemed to stretch endlessly. And then. The explosion. Wooden shrapnel hurtling towards him.

“Well?”

The sharpness of his voice forced you to look at him. His expression was unlike anything you had seen – eyes burning into you, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth were sure to break. It was then you noticed one hand gripping his sword, knuckles almost turning white. Maybe he was going to kill you. Maybe that would be preferable.

Zoro was still staring at you. Expectantly. You took a deep inhale – shouting was definitely beyond you at present but that didn’t mean you weren’t internally screaming at the audacity. Next time you would just let him die – that would teach the arsehole to be grateful. “I saved you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper but the silence was so thick you were certain he could hear the rapid increase of your heartbeat.

Zoro was unmoved. “I didn’t need saving.”

“Next time I won’t.”

“Next time?” He scoffed. “What makes you think you’re going anywhere near a battle again?”

You didn’t answer. Instead turned away from him to focus on the ceiling. Tears of either anger or hurt were pricking the corners of your eyes but you’d be damned if you let him of all people see you cry. “Just fuck off, Zoro. I’m tired; turns out taking a stake to the ribs for someone really takes it out of you.”

If you had still been facing him you would have caught the way he flinched for a second at the venom hanging from your words. Fortunately for Zoro, his voice could remain composed even when his expression couldn’t. “I can’t.” He replied blankly before pulling up a chair and settling himself beside you – boots propped up on your bed (prick). “Chopper wants someone watching you. Guess who drew the short straw.”

A frustrated groan left you. Surely if he was that angry with you one of the others would be a better nurse? You really weren’t going to risk your life again if this was the bullshit you’d have to endure. “Well if you are going to kill me yourself at least wait until I’m asleep.” With that you rolled onto your side away from him. “Ah-fu-” Sharp, white hot pain flooded your system causing you to immediately collapse onto your back – eyes screwed shut and teeth almost biting clean through your lower lip.

“Shit, Y/N are you okay? Do you want Chopper?”

“I’m fine.” You forced out through gritted teeth, trying your best to focus on long, deep breaths until the pain rescinded enough to open your eyes. Only to be met with his. Despite yourself you felt your heart skip a beat at the intensity with which he stared at you. The concern.

“Why did you do that?”

“You were pissing me off.”

“No,” he sighed and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he did so. “Why did you do that?”

“Oh.” Heat rose in your cheeks and you relished in the smell of him, the feel of his skin against yours. You could stay in this moment forever, well, maybe if your heart didn’t feel like it was about to burst open. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You’re being evasive.”

You fidgeted uncomfortably beneath him. And swallowed. Hard. If he had asked you ten minutes before you would have thought the answer was obvious. As it happened, his reaction just showed how completely oblivious he was. Did you really have to spell it out? How were you even supposed to start? Hell, how could any words of declaration be any more glaring, any more indisputable than literally risking your life for his? Zoro was an idiot, sure, but he couldn’t be this much of an idiot.

Fighting through the pain you managed to wriggle an arm free of the covers Zoro’s large frame was currently trapping you under and a ran a hand through mossy green hair. A small, lazy smile tugged at your lips but you weren’t there just yet, not until you felt him relax into your touch.

His eyes opened again, leaning back slightly to look at you properly. “If you don’t answer, I will kill you this time.”

You cocked your head, although this threat came with a raised eyebrow and lips threatening to twitch into a smirk you couldn’t help but be a little curious. “Why do you keep saying that?”

Zoro leant back fully, cutting off the contact between the two of you but looking at you just as intensely. “Only I get to decide when you die. And how. And it’s certainly not going to be because you stupidly decided to be a god-damn hero for me. So if you’re still waiting for me to be grateful that you were willing to leave me when-”

You chewed your lips and stared at him. Desperately praying for him to continue. Instead he was stubbornly staring at his boots. “When what?”

Silence.

“When what, Zoro?”

“Don’t do that shit again.” He forced out, still not trusting himself to look at anything other than his boots.

“Zoro, I…” You sighed defeatedly. Your heart would shatter into a million pieces before it mustered the courage to say the words burning your tongue.

He stood up and headed towards the door, still not looking at you. “I’ll ask Nami to watch you. Get some sleep.” With that, he was gone.

You were wrong. Your heart only needed to be cleaved in two.

[letsquestjess]

Rinse and Repeat (Hunter x GN!Reader)

Summary: When Hunter gets injured and needs a little assistance, you help him dry his hair and make him his favourite soup to cheer him up.

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: Going to put an 18+ and MDNI for the slightly suggestive themes.

-- -- -- -- --

The patter of cascading water came to a stop and the natural hum of the apartment took over again. Movement bustled behind the refresher door in the moments before Hunter emerged, bringing with him a rolling cloud of steam and the citrus scent of your body wash. With a towel snugly tied around his waist, he traipsed onto warm carpet, droplets catching in the hair on his chest and trickling down his abdomen. 

He grunted to himself as he swept his curls over his shoulder and forcefully attempted to dry the straggled mess. The more he moved and adjusted his only working arm, the wider the gap between the dripping strands grew, making it impossible for him to grasp the main bulk with just one hand. 

“Come here,” you coaxed, guiding him to the edge of the bed and settling his frustration with a kiss to his damp brow. Gently, you took the towel from him and squeezed the excess water from his hair, draping it over the radiator once it was beyond use and retrieving the hairdryer from the bottom drawer of the dresser. 

“Shuffle back a little,” you said as you perched yourself behind him. Adjusting the controls, the machine whirred out a warm stream of air and you encouraged it through Hunter’s curls. With each delicate touch, your fingers glided through the dark waves, creating a calming, rhythmic motion that offered him a serene moment of ease. 

It was evident from his restless movements that he longed to be free from the medical cage enclosing his left wrist. Weeks of silent management had taken its toll on him, and it was starting to show. Occasionally, you heard a mild grunt as he strove to balance items in one arm or took a few extra minutes to organise them. The surgeon had promised that the cast would come off soon, but with every day his limb remained encased, Hunter’s frustration mounted. 

With a final few waves of air, you shut off the hairdryer and set it aside to cool. You combed through his hair with a deft precision, and once free of tangles and knots, tied it up and wriggled his bandana back in place. “There. All clean, dry, and out of the way of that handsome face of yours.” 

As you made to stand, Hunter’s hand met your waist in a delicate brush of coarse fingertips to draw you closer. Hazel-speckled eyes found yours in a glistening show of gratitude and reverence. “Thank you, love,” he said. 

“I was hardly going to let you struggle and leave you with damp hair,” you replied. “Especially when it’s so cold out.”

“Snuggle weather,” Hunter cooed, roping his arms around your middle and pulling you in to bury his face against your stomach. With his skillful touch, he lulled you into a sense of tranquillity before his fingers began to explore under your shirt, sweeping at the spots he knew were ticklish until he had you laughing and tottering backwards.

“No fair!” you huffed through enduring chuckles. “You tricked me into that.”

Hunter offered you a guilty shrug and rose from the bed. “I did.” 

“Menace.” 

“That I am, but I’m your menace.” 

He passed you to grab a few items of clothing from the dresser, and as you helped him into them, you kept a watchful eye on his hands. Your vigilance amused him, and his lips quirked. 

Ignoring his mischief, you straightened his oversized top and made sure the sleeve draped comfortably over his cast. “Do you need your meds?” you asked. 

He shook his head. “I’m not in any pain,” he assured you. “Although, now I can smell whatever you’re cooking, I am getting quite hungry.” 

Eager to show him what you had been making, you led him into the kitchen and spread your arms to the preparations. You dimmed the lights and the candles on the table extended their light onto the darkened wood, the closed glass globe full of crystalline petals reflecting their colours in the flickering glow. On the cooker, dinner simmered, and the steam distributed a delightful mixture of herbs and vegetables. 

“I asked Wrecker about some of your favourite foods,” you said, ladling two bowls of piping hot soup and setting them onto the placemats. “He gave me recipes for the ones he used to make you whenever you were injured. If it tastes terrible, I have takeout menus ready and waiting.”

Settling into his seat, Hunter lifted a soup-laden spoon to his mouth and blew away the steaming tendrils, sipping to taste it and slurping the rest. The moment the unique combination tantalised his tastebuds, he released a satisfied murmur and quickly scooped up another spoonful. “It’s perfect,” he hummed, relaxing into the nostalgic flavour. “I think Wrecker has competition.”

You weren’t sure whether it was his compliment or the heat from the stovetop, but your cheeks flushed. Sampling the finished product for yourself, you had to admit it was good. You had followed Wrecker’s recipe to the letter, picked out every fresh piece yourself, dawdled in the kitchen to stir it and add each ingredient at the perfect moment, wondering if you were cooking it right. It was all worth it to see the endearing smile on Hunter’s face.  

“Thank you,” he said, eyes meeting yours. “You’ve done a lot to help me over these past few weeks while I heal, and I will find a way to repay you.”

Your spoon stopped short of your lips. You knew he had struggled to adjust to a life where he didn’t need to prove himself every day, where his worth wasn’t based on how many enemies he had taken down or how successful his squad was in battle. “Hunter, you don’t have to do that,” you said softly, reaching across the table. He met you half-way, scarred fingers entwining with yours beside the sphere of petals. “I made you this because I love you and I wanted to cheer you up.” 

Exhaling an understanding breath, he tenderly squeezed your hand. He wished he could express how lucky he felt. How your presence relieved even the most painful of scars, how your smile bore the promise of a better future. In the darkest shadows of his doubt, he couldn’t shake the sense of unworthiness, as if he didn’t deserve you or the love and care you offered. But each fresh day when he woke up next to you, nestled in blankets and kissed by pure daylight, he made a silent vow. No more battles. No more risky situations and never knowing if he would see you again. Those days were behind him and new ones, hopeful ones, lay ahead. 

“I love you too,” he said in an earnest whisper, kissing your knuckles and holding your palm to his chest. “I would do anything to ensure your happiness. You know that, right?” 

“Course I do,” you replied. “It was one of the first promises you made me.” 

With warm cheeks and beams you could both neither squash nor contain, you returned to the soup, chatting and making jokes until you were full of good food and laughter. 

“I thought tonight we could snuggle up in front of the fire and watch that holo-movie that’s been on our list for ages,” you suggested. “I got some snacks from the store this morning.” 

Hunter’s face lit up with a mischievous smile as he reclined in his chair, and a contented hum purred in his throat. “Oh, my love, now you’re just spoiling me.” 

You shrugged. “You deserve it. If you’re lucky, we can do this again tomorrow.”

TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added, 18+ only)

@skellymom @freesia-writes @the-hexfiles @theeyesofasoldier @multi-fan-dom-madness @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @tech-aficionado @techsriduur @dangraccoon @starrylothcat @jediknightjana @mssbridgerton @trixie2023

[author-of-oddities]

hello.. i have no idea how to be as formal and fancy as you are here but id like to humbly request Stanford with electrocution for the Bad Things Happen bingo !! ! !!! if u need any ideas for it in specifics, maybe the aftermaths of Weirdmaggedon?? or possibly having nightmares about it on the ship with stan?? again, just if u need ideas !!! :-)

Ahhh yes!! Absolutely! I present to you...

Aftershock

Trigger/content warnings: descriptions of canon-typical violence and its aftermath A/N: Written for @badthingshappenbingo Prompt: Electrocution Word count: 1,263 Summary: Even after months have passed, Ford is still haunted by the events of Weirdmageddon.

Also on Ao3!

The electricity hit him with brutal force, an invisible lightning that seemed to erupt from nowhere, locking every muscle into an iron grip. His limbs twisted involuntarily, teeth clenched so tightly it felt as though his jaw might shatter. Beneath his skin, an intense, burning current pulsed, sparking along his nerves like fire spreading through dry brush. He couldn't breathe; his chest felt trapped, crushed by an unbearable weight, as though every fiber of his being was locked in a silent scream. It was all-consuming, a brutal takeover that left no corner of him untouched by the raw and relentless force of the shock.

“C’mon, Fordsy,” Bill’s biting voice rang throughout his mind as his body went limp. “One little equation will save you from this, y’know?” Every inch of his body hurt in ways beyond imagination- thankfully, the searing sensation that clawed its way inside out seemed to relent in the same fashion. Still, the burns on his wrists remained, only worsened by every subtle shift, every scrape of skin against the unforgiving shackles. For a fleeting moment, he considered the offer. What was one simple equation compared to the immense physical trauma that he had already and would continue to endure? Ford shook the thought from his mind as quickly as it came, reminding himself of the stakes that weighed solely on that one equation. The world, the universe, the galaxy, and the entire dimension could be ripped apart if somehow, Bill worked the right numbers into their exact places.

He raised his head, grimacing at the pain that shot through his shoulders with the movement, and pried his eyes open, meeting Bill’s with an expression that portrayed unwavering bravery. “Never,” he croaked, voice betraying the impression his look had given. Whether or not he’d admit it, Ford was on the edge of breaking. It was just a matter of what would be the first to give: his body or mind?

Then he decided. “Not until the day I die.”

Body it was.

Bill’s laughter echoed through Ford’s mind, a twisted, taunting sound that rippled like broken glass across his frayed nerves.

“Oh, Fordsy, you’re adorable,” he sneered, floating closer until his voice felt like a whisper wrapped around Ford’s own thoughts. “You really think you can keep this up? That little resolve of yours is as flimsy as a wet tissue. You’re not built for this.”

He drifted around the Fearamid, turning to face his audience, then back at his victim, eye glinting with a disturbing glee. “But, hey, keep playing hero if you want. I can do this all day. Every minute you hold out, you’re just giving me more time to savor your pain. This is fun for me. Can you say the same?”

Ford only sneered in response. Any more than that and he’d certainly be sick. Even at that, Ford had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, even his method of distraction wearing his body to its limit.

Suddenly, there was a shift in his attitude. Logically, Bill was aware of just how close he’s pushed his captive to the brink of death, even having contorted his power to make sure he didn’t overdo himself. Now, though, Bill knew. “I’ll give you one more chance to end this,” Bill purred, “just say the word. It’s not that hard. Just one equation, Sixer.”

He knew, as much as Bill did, that the fight wasn’t just physical. Bill was tearing at his mind, prying apart each mental shield he’d built to protect himself. Regardless, this was his last chance. It would end one way or another: if he lived, his universe died.

“Suit yourself,” Bill finally sighed, feigning disappointment. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”

A guttural scream tore from Ford’s throat as another wave of searing electricity ripped through him, a savage torrent of agony that felt like it was unraveling him from the inside out. His vision blurred, his pulse thundered in his ears, and for a terrifying moment, he was certain this was the end—that this time, Bill’s relentless torture would be the thing to leave him as a lifeless shell.

Suddenly, it all stopped.

No more pain, no more grating laughter.

Ford’s chest heaved as he struggled to draw breath. Each gasp came in shallow bursts, quick and desperate, matching the thunderous echo of his heartbeat in his ears. For a moment, those were the only two things that existed- his breathing and heartbeat, both working in harmony to remind him that he did it. He survived.

But there was always more, this time being no different. Sheets had tangled around his legs, the mattress dipped under where he lay, and some foreign pressure pushed on his shoulder. As he calmed, Ford noticed a sound. At first, it was just a muffled noise, almost drowned out by the frantic drum of his pulse. But as he took a shuddering breath, his senses sharpened, and he realized what it was—a voice, rough and familiar, calling his name over and over.

“Ford! Stanford, wake up!”

He jolted upright, eyes flying open as the world came crashing into place around him. Stan dropped his hands from his brother's arm, relieved he didn’t need to spend any more time trying to shake him awake. The loss of contact seemed to startle the older twin further, his breathing quickening again.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Stan tried to reassure, returning his hand to where it’d unknowingly been grounding the other.

Ford nodded, frantically, and it became obvious that he was trying to convince himself that Stan’s words were true. “It…” he held his hands in front of himself, examining the skin around his wrists. Scars mirrored the cuffs that once held him captive, but they were healing, fading slowly—a reminder that it was all in the past.

“It still feels so real,” he murmured, fingers tracing the marks. A strange, tingling sensation pulsed beneath his skin, different from the older scars on his chest and back, which had long since numbed. But this—this was real.

“Hey, Poindexter,” Stan tried softly, successfully drawing his brother’s attention away from his thoughts. As Ford faced him, he continued, “It’s okay. It was just a dream. Look around–” Stanley gestured to the small room around them, just large enough to fit a desk and chair at the foot of the bed. 

Ford took in his surroundings, eyes quickly sweeping the books on the shelf above the desk, the papers from his journals that littered the few surfaces they could, and the quilted blanket that was draped over him. His heartbeat gradually steadied, the familiar objects grounding him more than he’d expected. The gentle sway of the boat beneath him, the faint scent of old wood and sea salt—all of it reminded him of where he truly was, and more importantly, who he was with. Each item was a piece of the life they’d built, of the second chance they’d somehow managed to carve out. This was real, not some fleeting illusion conjured by his mind or a nightmare waiting to collapse. For the first time in a long time, he felt safe. He was on a boat– their boat. The boat of their dreams, even.

He let out a sigh of relief, then let himself fall against Stanley, his head resting on the other’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right,” he muttered.

Despite it all– forty years apart, fights in between, and the near-end of the world– they did it. They were here, together at last, sharing a peace they’d fought their whole lives to find.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

Endure

This is just deeply self indulgent, inspired by @mumms-the-word's fic featuring chronically ill Tav (forgive me please; I want to read it but I have to be mentally strong to do so I think.) So this is just... a little bit of truth from my own life. The diseases are from the setting, but that's it. So this is a little bit of me, fictionalised. Be kind, please.

'I must become a lionhearted girl, ready for a fight.' - Rabbit Heart, Florence & the Machine

Taglist:

@boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard @silent-words

@netherese0rb @sorceresssundries

Tav stared into the campfire, walking cane across her lap. I’ll be alright, she thought. A tadpole is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. I’ve got this. Still, she felt the familiar sneak of anxiety in her gut. Now they were in the shadow cursed lands, and death loomed over their shoulders. Astarion was pretending to read a book, but she could feel his feline gaze on the back of her head. Gale was really reading, but she noticed he would glance up at her every few pages, as though checking she was alright.  Shadowheart was eavesdropping on Wyll and Karlach’s conversation, Lae’zel apparently uninterested in socialising, engrossed as she was in a githyanki slate. So Tav sat alone, thinking.

Why did you bring me back? She closed her eyes, furrowing her brow. I never asked for any of this. I’ve been so strong for you my entire life and you let this happen to me. Why? Without warning, tears slid silently down her cheeks. She heard the soft thud of books closing and felt Gale and Astarion settle on either side of her. Astarion’s cool fingers stroked her back soothingly as Gale reached for her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles, both of them comforting in the ways they could. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, not even opening her eyes to look at them.

‘Pish posh,’ said Gale softly, nudging her shoulder. ‘You don’t need to lie.’

‘Just having a crisis of faith, I suppose,’ she said, sniffing and opening her eyes. She wiped fiercely at them with her free hand. ‘Hating my lot in life a little bit tonight.’ She sighed, deep and tired. ‘I thought you could choose your deity. Not me. I was plucked from the brink of death, and I’ve been fucked ever since.’

‘The gods are bastards and wretches,’ said Astarion bitterly.

Tav shrugged. ‘Without him I’d be dead. Still, it’s not like he’s offered me a bounty of beauty or particular skill or-’ she gestured vaguely, ‘-magic. It’s just been a litany of hurts. I’m tired.’

‘I never asked,’ said Gale. ‘About…’ He gestured to the cane.

‘Don’t you dare pity me,’ she said through her teeth. ‘I hate it.’

‘I wasn’t. I just want to know what you’ve been through. And not from some kind of morbid curiosity either. You’ll forgive my bleeding heart if I hate seeing my friends in pain.’

‘It’s not good form to ask these things,’ said Astarion tersely. ‘But then you always were incredibly intelligent and breathtakingly stupid, Gale.’

Tav almost laughed, a single huff of air from her mouth. ‘Sure, I’ll tell you. But remember you asked.’ Dimly aware the camp had quieted, and her audience was beyond the wizard and the elf, she spoke to the flames. ‘I was born too early for anyone to expect me to survive. My lungs didn’t function, there was a stutter in my heartbeat, internal bleeding on the brain, all that. I had some necrosis and blacklung and even spotted plague, all at once could you believe it? I should’ve been dead five times over. I was put through my paces. I don’t know how or why I made it and sometimes I wish I hadn’t. But I did. And I got to grow up.’ A bitter edge crept into her voice. ‘And then something happened to me later, some people happened to me, and now I’m in pain all the time. It never goes away. I can manage it, on a good day, with rest and the odd spell. Potions don't work for me at all. I can’t do too much though, you see.’ Her face hardened. ‘Because the god who refused to let me die was Ilmater. My suffering is divine. I can’t even walk away because I owe him my very existence. How does a baby bargain with a god like that? So I push on. I endure, because I must.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Gale. ‘I empathise, believe me.’

‘Right,’ Tav said, voice softening a little bit. ‘The orb.’

He nodded. ‘Still. Self inflicted. It’s different.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I’d known…’ he continued.

‘You wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it and you can’t now,’ she snapped. ‘I appreciate it Gale, I really do, but this is just my life. And now we have these things.’ Jabbing her finger at her forehead she set her jaw in determination. ‘I’ve been through worse. Doubtless we all have. We’re going to win this fight. We don’t have a choice.’

‘Hear hear,’ said Karlach softly.

‘You deserve more credit,’ said Astarion. ‘You’re strong.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t want to be though. I want to be soft. I want to rest.’

‘You don’t have to do this alone,’ said Wyll, sitting across the fire from her. ‘You have us now.’ His smile was so gentle it broke her heart.

‘Your endurance is admirable,’ said Lae’zel, sitting on Astarion’s other side.

‘For once I agree with you, Lae’zel.’ Shadowheart stayed back from the fire until Karlach grabbed her wrist and plonked her down next to her.

‘Any spells or potions you need, I’ve got you,’ said Gale. ‘It’s the least I can do given you helped me with my condition.’

‘Sweet as that is Gale, perhaps you could start with dinner? Karlach’s stomach is snarling like an angry bugbear,’ said Astarion lightly.

‘I saw that archdruid whittling in the grove earlier,’ said Shadowheart. ‘Maybe he could make you a new cane.’

Tav looked down at the cane in her lap. It was crudely hewn and splintered; she’d done it herself. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah, maybe I should ask him.’

[spout1nk]

Evandrin and Tempus. :)

not my usual style but this started as a doodle bc of the sole line of "Tempus and Evandrin operate on Studio Ghibli animation physics" from the notes to what endures beyond the silent edge (by @ultraviolet-eucatastrophe).

I think i gave up on it when it came to the coloring but it was still a fun sleep-deprived doodle i just finished. Evandrin's face i tried my best to draw in the style of ghibli films and then i just had fun with coloring.

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away. 

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed. 

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade. 

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all. 

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration. 

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant. 

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky. 

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too. 

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips. 

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice. 

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him. 

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between. 

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted. 

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries. 

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces. 

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart. 

Now is the time to flee. 

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling. 

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind! 

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin. 

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.” 

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission. 

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him. 

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched. 

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act –  it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over. 

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit. 

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants. 

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks. 

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses. 

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes. 

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides. 

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself. 

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’. 

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage. 

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons. 

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction. 

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface. 

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern. 

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!? 

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle. 

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side. 

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire. 

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground. 

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear. 

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance. 

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos. 

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants. 

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were. 

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately. 

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running. 

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace. 

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all. 

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea. 

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails. 

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls… 

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions. 

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant���s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him. 

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum. 

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet. 

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable. 

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy. 

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge. 

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk. 

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die? 

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature. 

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile. 

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection. 

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest. 

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant. 

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime. 

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding. 

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted. 

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration. 

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it. 

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust. 

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more. 

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient. 

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink. 

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time. 

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him. 

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here. 

[critter-genfic-events]

This week, we have nine (nein) fics that feature Time/Dimension Travel: Other universes, Isekai, time travel (in either direction)! Check them out beneath the cut and if you like them, remember to comment and kudos!

Remember Me in the Intervals by inkedinserendipity (70530,Teen) Warnings: the author doesn't warn for them but canon character backstory elements, major character death (implied) Pairings: The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast, Beau/Yasha, Yasha/Zuala, Caleb/Mollymauk

Caleb goes back to fix everyone's backstories instead of his own, basically.

Reccer says: It illustrates very clearly how much Caleb loves the Nein. Listen, this is SUCH a heart-wrenching story, I always cry when I read it BE WARNED! I usually read it twice: first in chapter order and then in chronological order.

In this World or any Other by Amrynth (1907,Teen) Warnings: Major Character Death (Canon) Pairings:

After Mollymauk's death in the Marrow Valley, he wakes up in the library with a burning need: to get back to his friends.

Reccer says: I liked it

The Worlds Between Us by Nellaplanet (159303,Mature) Warnings: graphic depictions of violence Pairings: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, Beauregard Lionett/Yasha Nydoorin, Beauregard Lionett/Jester Lavorre

Or; Caleb and Beau have to rapidly reexamine their worldview upon discovering that magic is not only real, but exists in a world all of its own (and that the people wielding it are unfairly attractive and very, very dangerous).

Reccer says: One of the great isekais in the fandom! I love all of the different elements they were able to weave in

every moment changes lifetimes (even moments we regret) by grayintogreen (789,Teen) Warnings: Major Character Death (time loops) Pairings:

Caleb is in a time loop, staring at the temporal dock

Reccer says: Heartbreaking and an interesting form

Fortune's Favor (Fortune's Fools) by flashhwing (30289,Teen) Warnings: Choose not to warn Pairings: Eventual Shadowgast

In another timeline, the Mighty Nein fall to Lucien. Essek, with Artagan-the-weasel's help, travels back in time to save them.

Reccer says: It's fun to see a late campaign Essek try to wrangle an Early Campaign Mighty Nein

What endures beyond the silent edge by Beleriandings (241985,Teen) Warnings: Choose not to warn Pairings: Canon relationships present

The Ring of Brass fall into the future during the Apogee Solstice. There, they meet the Nein.

Reccer says: It's fun seeing the various parallels and crossovers!

Fall Back by Killbothtwins (4050,Teen) Warnings: No archive warnings apply Pairings: Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast

After the fight at the Malleus Key, mid-C3 Beau and Caleb are shunted not only through space but also through time, arriving back in early Campaign Two to friends who are very surprised by their sudden changes.

Reccer says: A really fun idea and a great way to highlight just how much change all of the Nein have gone through since the beginning of the series. Killbothtwins has a fun writing style and an excellent grasp of the characters' voices, the bantering reads just like what we hear around the table.

The Heart External by BeatriceEagle (3554,Teen) Warnings: CNTW Pairings: Caleb & Beau, Beau & Bren, Caleb & Bren, Caleb & OC, Beau/Yasha, Caleb/Essek

Post-C2. As Beau struggles with the challenges of being a new adoptive parent of a teenager, she receives an SOS from Caleb. She arrives to find him standing over his bound, unconscious younger self—and though Bren should be just an echo, it seems he isn't going anywhere.

Reccer says: A fantastic Caleb & Beau QPR—with all the warmth *and* friction of the original—as well as a nuanced, thoughtfully observed take on what Caleb being brought face-to-face (literally) with his younger self would really mean.

in the times inbetween by jakia (8098,Teen) Warnings: miscarriage, fantasy racism, homophobia (all mild but present) Pairings: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast Una Ermendrud & Caleb Widogast Leofric Ermendrud & Caleb Widogast

Una Ermendrud meets Caleb Widogast for the first time when she is nineteen and pregnant, and he’s passed out in her azaleas.'

Reccer says: It's everything I ever wanted in a 'Caleb actually completes his goal' fic: Una immediately clocks Caleb as the 'weird but sweet and harmless' type of wizard! Caleb makes a tiny paradox happen! Leofric punches Essek in the face (and it was awesome!)

This is one of our weekly communally-generated gen rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. Please note that the summary and content notes are provided by the reccer, and may be different than what the author has provided. Please assume good intentions all around. <3

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, it'll be Storytelling! Whether it be sharing backstories or spinning a brand new yarn, all are welcomed.

Then the weeks after that, it'll be Grog focused stories, Cross-Campaign works, and then Skill/Class Swap fics!

Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

Oh! Also! Critter Gen Week is happening! Prompts have been announced, you should check them out.

And hey, if you're looking for some more good gen content, check out some fics written in the critter genfic bingo tag, or the older rec lists! Or you can request your own card and join in on the fun!

[icyowl]

Phantom Limb Pain

Pairing: Vash the Stampede x reader

Synopsis: Self-explanatory. Helping Vash deal with phantom limb pain. 1k

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

In many ways Vash was both the luckiest and unluckiest person alive. He was lucky because, well, he was still alive, firstly, but also because he was (mostly) healthy, fed, sheltered from the blistering wind, with you, and nestled away in the back of a tavern largely out of sight of the rest of the patrons. He was, however, unlucky in that he didn't have a place to stay for the night, hadn't had one in about two weeks, couldn't convince you to stay away from him to stay safe, and his own body had begun to betray him. . . again.

“Vash?” You said to lift his head from where it rested on the tabletop. His posture looked very different from what it was when you'd left to get drinks. Hunched, visibly taught even with his coat, flesh-hand discretely fisted under the shadow of the table. He didn't bother to move even when he knew you were there.

“Is it hurting again?” You asked. He nodded as much as he could. When it truly drove him mad, he became eerily silent. You couldn't have this — Vash immobilized to the point of turning mute, afraid to show you and resigning to a silent suffering. “What kind of hurting?” You tried.

Quiet, breathless, he finally replied: “Like someone's got it in a grinder.”

His tone just about broke you. Out of all the outlaws, vagabonds, and backstabbers, he deserved this the least. “Tell me how I can help.”

At last he looked up. There was a little more water in his eyes than normal; and if a man of much suffering had been pushed this far? It had to be bad. Vash's eyes were especially round with sorrow — perhaps as much to have to ask you for help as to endure the pain — and his voice was almost consumed by the raucous of the tavern. “Rub the other one? The way you like to do it?”

You pulled your stool right in front of his until your knees were overlapping. His glasses slipped off easily when you pulled them from his ears and put them on the table.

“What if people see?”

“They're too drunk to talk, Vash, don't worry about them seeing us.”

He was always scared to attract unwanted attention. Any person could be the wrong person; they could hurt you, cast both of you out into the desert, bristling with nighttime cold, or hail a swat of police to chase you for days. Vash had just gotten you out of the elements and into this tavern even if for just a few hours.

You grabbed his human hand wordlessly and stretched it out. One of your hands held onto his wrist while the other began to squeeze and massage the bicep and tricep. Anything to distract from the pain. “This doesn't usually happen unless you're stressed. What's up?”

“I'm alright, I—”

“Vash.” You cut off with a sudden, grating edge to your voice, still moving down his bicep with rhythmic pulls. “We've talked about this. Don't make me force you to do your affirmations in the back of a bar.” He knows you mean it, remembers the time you had him do it in a bathroom through his tears, another time after waking up with a breathless jolt in the deep of the night, again when he'd barely managed to get you out of a hostage situation with your life.

“Seriously, it—”

“Say 'it's nothing' and I won't let you cuddle me for a week.”

A whole week? Vash knew you were serious, too. Open up, or. . . for a week? Bare his problems to you, allow himself a moment of empathy, share just one of the demons usually hidden behind his large glasses. . . or no cuddles. Why did you have to be so adamant?

His head dipped, a bit ashamed, but still he let those sinful hands of yours hit every knot in his forearm. “I've been worrying over this sleeping situation. It's not good for you — so cold every night.”

The heartfelt statement made your eyes sting. To be so kind as to incur physical ramifications at the pain of others — he really was something beyond the average human. His kindness, above all his struggles, had become his greatest curse.

Whether to hide or to be close to you, his head plopped down unceremoniously onto your shoulder, the disheveled mop of hair atop his head vaguely tickling your neck and cheek. Your fingers moved carefully to the back of his neck. There was a fine line before his boundaries were crossed; if you overstepped, he'd completely clam up. It was hard to get him to do this in the privacy of a tent in the middle of the dunes, let alone in a bar full of inebriated patrons. Thankfully Vash didn't shy away when you touched the taught muscles and continued up into the soft hair of his undercut. Not even when you pushed into the pressure points there did he pull away.

Oh no. If anything, your stampede opened himself even more. A subtle puff of air, a faint groan, a slouching of his shoulders, and suddenly it felt like he was trying to get under your very skin.

“I can't stop you from worrying,” you said, “no one can. I can't make you care about yourself, eat enough, or stop you from trying to save everyone. Only you can do that, Vash. What I can do is say this isn't good for you. How can you expect to do the things you want when you won't take care of yourself? If the phantom pains are getting this bad. . .”

He knew exactly what you were doing. Sometimes he hated your reverse psychology, but it was working.

You continued: “I want to help you in whatever way I can, so you can keep doing all these crazy, stupid, amazing things. So trust me. Trust me to be your stampede.”

A hefty pause broke when he burrowed his forehead deeper into your shoulder. “I hate when you're like this.”

You laughed. “I know you do, now, how is it?”

“. . . better.”

You pulled his head off your shoulder and, before your thoughts got the better of you, caressed his jaw in your palms and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. Vash seemed to glitch out for only a second or two this time. His prosthetic hand, previously too uncomfortable to move, lifted to rest on your thigh.

[wildweavewriting]

✫ The Pond ✫

My fic for the @ssoblrbigbang 2024, organised by @froggistain! I was partnered with the talented @natduskfall, who made this beautiful piece of art!

6k+, art by @natduskfall

 Your parents used to warn you not to go down to the pond. It made sense, even though you might not have felt so at the time. To you the water didn't seem deep at all, and one could easily keep an eye out from the house.

 But then you were very little. And perhaps a bit accident-prone. And you didn't know it yet, but father was having difficulty moving down slopes; and mother didn't like water very much, no matter how shallow.

 It was funny in hindsight, how you'd sit at the chicken coop all moon-eyed, straining to catch a glimpse of creatures in the water. A sheltered child, projecting all this yearning for the outside world onto a tiny pond.

 Your horizons did broaden over the years, of course, as they do for all. Clinging to your mothers hand you found the lake behind the pond, and then the village and its people beyond the lake.

 Over time you started to recognise those who came to visit, traced people to their nooks within a larger world. And inevitably, memories from young childhood clicked into place.

 There was the pretty girl who had come to help out on the farm each summer. Her strong build had fascinated you, as had her way with animals. She would always indulge you for the season, answer your incessant questions.

 With every late autumn you'd forget of her existence, and you hadn't even realised she wasn't coming over anymore - until you found her again, settled down with a woman at the edge of town. It answered some questions and brought up new ones you hastily shoved aside.

 There was the young man from far away. He'd come every winter, and he too had your questions to endure. He was a bit less patient perhaps, something you easily forgave. After all he and your mother had serious things to discuss.

 What you found harder to forgive was when he asked your mother to join him for his months away. Your clear discontent led to perhaps the first proper talk you ever had with your mother.

 She told you of suddenly being ripped from all she knew, of her time on a rickety ship, of desperately staying afloat. Of the home and the people she missed.

 She said that no one else in these parts would know many of the words you had taken for granted. Told you for the first time which nicknames had their roots in dialect; seemed surprised you didn't intuitively know these things, but how could you?

 You cried silently as she left, gripped all you could until she really did have to go. Her warm hand stroked your head one last time and your chest squeezed painfully; a small frame struggled with feelings too big for it to contain.

 Then there was the old lady with trembling hands. She had always been around, came over for tea far more often than anyone else. Before long she started handing over the medicine for father in plain sight, told you how to get to her shop.

 She walked the path with you a few times that summer, just for good measure, and after a while it turned into something more aptly called meandering. You had a chaperone to keep you company, she had a stronger arm to hold her up if needed.

 With her you rediscovered the pond.

 The sun had set and left you in a dim twilight, and you had to squint to make out what the apothecary was pointing at. It took you a while to see it for what it was. Its banks were overgrown, what little you could see through the yellowed reeds covered in lily pads.

 You moved on. Father would be worried if you arrived much later. Still, you spent the way back quietly musing on old times, exchanging stories of childhood and waters and longing for a wider world.

 That night in bed you decided to return there soon. The stone walls around your farm had been erratically added onto over the years so there was hardly a view to pretty up, but maybe the pond could do with some clearing.

 A few days later you informed father of your plan as you packed up your late lunch. He happily sent you on your way with his leather gloves, a worn book on plants and a stern reminder to slowly and thoroughly announce yourself as to not startle the wildlife.

 The hill was steeper than you’d thought, your boots not particularly secure on the slippery grass. You ended up carefully winding your way down, eyes on your feet and hands clutched on your basket to keep it steady. At the bottom you heaved a sigh of relief and finally assessed what work you had ahead of you.

 The day was overcast and grey, the pond still and rather dreary looking. You were pleasantly surprised to spot a path through the reeds though, opposite of the side you’d arrived at.

 You made your way over as you leafed through your thin book, basket awkwardly hooked on your arm. Right as you made it to the gap, you found some pages with illustrations that seemed to be water plants and their flowering periods. There was even a little schematic with indications of how common they were and which parts were edible.

 It didn’t seem wise to clamber over the trampled reeds with the basket swinging around, so you set it down and tightly grasped the book. You were glad to have the free hand when the litterfall shifted underfoot at your cautious first step, it gripped a fistful of reeds before you’d even fully processed what had happened.

 You made it over slowly but safely, stepped in a damp spot somewhere along the line and scratched your palm open, but your ankles remained intact and untwisted. When you crouched at the water’s edge you were pleased to find the lily pads had a wide triangular notch in them, which matched the somewhat crude drawing you were looking at.

 It was marked to be in abundance, and though this information was clearly old you figured not much would have changed, not with how these were growing. They were only just beginning to flower though, so you didn’t want to indiscriminately rip out anything that seemed unimportant. Only out with the visibly dead, then.

 You carefully pulled a larger patch towards you and got to work plucking all decomposed flowers and stems out of the thicket. Once or twice you accidentally ripped a pad loose, one even coming out of the water with soil at the bottom, but you managed to not damage any of the flowers themselves.

 Some of them already were damaged though, you couldn’t help but notice. It seemed an animal had nibbled on them, a few leaves were just bitten straight through with broad teeth. When you looked more carefully you also found that several of the larger plants were oddly tangled, their stems weaved into knots as though they’d been sloshed around in the water. You left them as they were.

 Working your way through just the part in front of you took ages and you resolved to come again on a sunnier day, maybe wade through the pond as you cleaned up the waterlilies. The water was surprisingly clear after all, your hands only really dirty from the rotten leaves themselves.

 Once you were done for the day the pile next to you had grown so big, you would have difficulty carrying it with two fatigued arms. Your poor knees creaked loudly as you straightened up and you laughed to yourself at the state your body was in.

 You were glad not to have taken your fathers’ gloves with you for this particular cleanup, they would only have been ruined. But as you slowly teetered back to your basket you thought your future self might thank you if you cleared the path a little, and your hands were still a bit scratched up from your earlier panicked grab.

 So you dumped your pile on the ground, thoroughly wiped your hands, put the gloves on, noted and admired the darkening sky for a while, and turned back to the pond.

 There was a horse in the water.

 It was a lovely white, lounging among the lily pads as though it had always lain there. There was an odd shine to its face that suggested it had just dunked its head underwater, you could even see some algae stuck in its mane. It gave off a strange sense of familiarity – this horse was undoubtedly a friend.

 Its soft blue eyes just barely peeked up above the water’s surface, facing you head-on, and though you shouldn’t be you felt unsettled. There was an unease that came with the certainty of its good intentions. It had you rooted to the spot, unsure of most everything, so you just stared at it in bewilderment.

 This horse did not belong to anyone in the area, you were sure of it.

 Then it stood up and broke your impasse. It moved slowly and heavily, bespeaking a familiar strength you were used to from lumbering draught horses. The water around it barely even rippled, just seemed to part for it in advance.

 It was headed straight for you. The first snap of fallen reeds was what finally broke you out of your stupor and you quickly stepped back. You hadn’t encountered many wild animals in your life, but mother had made sure to impress on you the importance of never crowding any one, regardless of size.

 Unfortunately the horse seemed to not have been taught this lesson. You were moving away slowly, unwilling to turn your back, and its long legs meant it was catching up to you fast. You decided to accept your fate.

 It was even larger up close. You made sure to look just to the side of it and anxiously twisted your fingers in your clothing. Aside from a slight tremble you were stock-still when you felt the first hot breath hit your face.

 Its muzzle was velvety. It was nudging you, those puffs of hot air tickling you and displacing small hairs. You absent-mindedly admired the gradient of grey on the snout and its softly tapered ears, though you still dodged eye contact in your apprehension.

 At a particularly harsh huff you chuckled lowly, out of genuine amusement and a desire to test its limits. The horse remained calm, it mostly seemed curious, and so you took a deep breath and lowered your shoulders.

 You wanted so badly to move up a hand and pet it, but your gut told you to just wait this out. So you did. You waited and let the horse investigate, watched its ears and flank and feathering that still glistened with water, and grew increasingly fond of the creature as you stood there.

 The warmth it radiated was more than welcome in the quickly chilling evening air, but it was also a reminder of the passage of time. It was late, and climbing up the hill would be no easy task in the dark. So even though you didn’t want this moment to end, you stepped away once again.

 The horse looked at you, head slanted to the side and eyes oddly intelligent, and didn’t follow this time. You felt almost compelled to step back to its side, warm and comforting, but your eyes snagged on the gloves on your hands and thoughts of a worried father brought you back to reality.

 You moved around it in an arc, giving it space to move away, but looked back when you reached its hind end and found it looking back at you, ears pricked forward in interest. Careful not to startle it and wary of its legs, you fully extended your arm and stroked its sloped croup in farewell.

 A strange and childlike delight filled your chest when it snorted and lowered its head with a little shake. It seemed to have understood the gesture for what it was as it trudged away, flicking its wavy tail.

 You gathered your stuff with a stupid grin on your face, it only fading with a pang of regret when you realised you wouldn’t have the time to clear the path. That would be first on the list next time, then.

 This had been fun. Getting your hands dirty somewhere other than the farm was invigorating in a way you hadn’t expected. And with a bit of luck your companion might show itself again.

 You came home sweaty and excited, munching on the lunch you had completely forgotten about during the day. Your father indulged your tales with a gentle smile and questions at just the right time, and your sleep was content and filled with dreams of waterlilies.

 To no one’s surprise you went again the next week, earlier in the day this time. Your previous cleanup had wiped you out completely, body tired and aching, and you’d only just managed your daily tasks. But now you were raring to go, energy levels back to normal.

 You started with the path of felled reeds, methodically ripping out any that were still rooted. Your previous pile of mush was gone, which was a shame. Your father had indicated he might find a use for detritus, and though you’d been a bit sceptical you were happy to indulge.

 When you felt a presence at your back you smiled happily, and even at the risk of looking foolish you started talking to the assumed horse. You kept your voice low and soothing, discussed nothing of importance and enthusiastically agreed whenever it made a noise.

 After a little while of patiently standing behind you it evidently decided enough was enough and levelled some more of the reeds, carefully shouldering past you as it made its way into the pond. There it splashed around a bit as you worked up a sweat.

 It was nice to have the company. The horse was lovely to look at whenever you got out of breath, its coat shimmering in the sun and the mystery of its strange eyes fun to ponder. It even seemed to understand what you were doing, moseying over and yanking on some reeds with its teeth.

 It didn’t do much, they were so slippery even you had difficulty getting a good grip, but it got a startled laugh out of you and this was apparently reason enough for it to keep trying. You took pity on it after a short while and moved on to the next task, chucking off your shoes to join it in the pond.

 As you made your way into the water you considered the nagging unease you felt whenever the horse moved away.

 You’d wanted to dip your toes from the start, it had even been the plan before your fateful meeting last week. You were in no danger, and so you continued on your chosen path.

 It was interesting though. The horse was strange, that much was obvious. It moved just that bit too silently, and you had never seen such glassy blue eyes in an animal that could still see. And there was a tugging in your soul, telling you things you already felt but slightly to the left.

 You weren’t usually this moved by gut instinct, which was the main oddity really. Surely nothing you couldn’t handle.

 All of that was forgotten in the pond. You and the horse played around, splashing and nudging and clearing up. It was remarkably effective at weeding, though it also had a penchant for eating healthy plants.

 You even dared touch it without gloves, very casually stroked its neck and shoulder when you got the chance. It was softer than you’d imagined, coat silky and strong muscles rippling under your hand. You wondered how long it had been without human contact when it leaned into you, seemingly unaware of its own size.

 It was difficult to tear yourself away from its side.

 Time got away from you very quickly after that, as you alternated between weeding, petting and generally splashing about. When the soil and your toes grew icy cold you looked up to find the sun was already down, so focused had you been on your patch of pads.

 Your companion had left some time ago, as it had done for short periods throughout the day, so it seemed you wouldn’t get to say a proper farewell. You only hoped it had simply decided to leave on its own terms, and wouldn’t come back to find you gone.

 You stood up and stretched your arms up high, taking a moment to admire the evening sky. The sickle moon had already been visible during the day, now the thin silver crescent was due to set any moment.

 As you waded out of the water you found your feet were far too dirty to put your boots on, so with barely contained glee you decided to walk back barefoot. Father was always strict about wearing footwear, but you had a good excuse.

 You softly hummed under your breath as you gathered your things and looked around one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horse. You were rather curious where it went off to – if it spent its nights outside, under the stars, or had a home to get back to.

 It took you a while but you thought you spotted a familiar blurred shape over by the lake, so you decided to make a slight detour. As you moved closer you found your suspicion had been right, and you felt some pride at being able to recognise it from a considerable distance.

 Your pride promptly shifted to terror when the horse walked straight into the water.

 You knew this shore – there was a steep drop down only a few meters in, part of the reason you’d been warned never to swim there. You let out a strangled shout in your bewilderment and stumbled into a panicked run, not thinking past the need to get to it.

Luckily it heard you. It stopped moving and looked back at you, eyes patient and ears relaxed – seemingly just waiting for you to join. You cursed it in your mind’s eye as you desperately splashed into the water, only hoping you were strong enough to get it to move back to shore.

When you reached it you put your hand on its croup once more, the spot you always used to steer the working horses, and tried to soothingly pat it. Your hands were shaking horribly from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but –

 Your hand was stuck.

 You stared in shock at this incomprehensible turn of events, dread violently taking hold of you. Your hand was glued to its coat, you weren’t imagining things. No matter how you tried to pull it seemed to only sink further into the suddenly adhesive hairs; had its coat always been this thick?

 The horse snorted softly and your head snapped up, eyes wide in panic, fear only increasing when it looked ahead at the dark water. It stepped forward and you stumbled along, completely mute and embarrassingly pliant.

 You sagged in relief when the horse stopped just before the drop-off, turning back and nuzzling at you. You half expected it to lift its lip and reveal razor-sharp teeth, but instead you had to tear your eyes away when you noticed the weird angle of its neck. With your heart in your throat you murmured nonsensical reassurances.

 Then it nudged your hand, and just like that you found you were released.

 All you could do was stand there, stunned, as the horse slipped down into the deep.

 You came home tired and shivering, unwilling to tell your father what had happened. He might have had his suspicions and worries, but he only made sure you ate a hot meal and slept soundly. When you checked on the animals the next morning you found them well taken care of and promptly went back to bed.

 Despite what had happened you needed to go back. You dodged more of your fathers questions and didn’t dare ask the apothecary what and if she knew, decided you were unable to gather information without causing unrest. There was no surefire way to predict consequences, but you felt strongly that discretion was in order.

 You almost missed your fathers growing apprehension, but when you next asked to go to the pond it was unmistakably there. He didn’t deny you, perhaps more aware of the rift it would have caused than you were at the time.

 So you went, sure to show your father the red twine around your wrist before you left, and whenever the horse showed you wore your gloves. It hadn’t changed its demeanour and, as luck would have it, didn’t seem particularly keen on dragging you under, so you slowly unwound again.

 You had wondered just how intelligent the presumed water spirit was, considering how purposeful the reveal of its nature had been. Over the next weeks it behaved like a normal horse however, if a bit more careful with touch, so you chalked it up to the intellect you often saw in animals.

 Summer changed to autumn and your cleanup was done, but you regularly went down to sit at the pond’s edge on your way back from town and admired the bright yellow waterlilies. The horse kept you company, always a welcome warmth at your side.

The gloves came back off. It was inevitable really, fear over what could happen had never been strong enough of a deterrent for you. You obediently took them with you still, to give your father some peace of mind.

The red twine stayed, for whose sake you weren't sure.

 When your hands started trembling it didn't come as much of a surprise, though you were far too young. It was odd not to have your mother there for what like such a fundamental change in yourself. Any version of you she pictured would be steadyhanded.

 You tried to imagine how her hands would have changed and found you couldn’t.

 Your world shrank again, slowly but surely. You couldn’t walk the same distances you once had, energy zapped in a way that was frighteningly familiar in hindsight, and you were lucky to make it to the settlement once a week. Before long father was the healthy one in the household.

 A child from a sizable family came to live with you, to aid on the farm whenever needed, and after a few months of miserable existence you begrudgingly accepted that things would only get worse from here. So you officially excused yourself from obligatory housework and tried your best not to get snippy with what in your most cynical moments felt like the spare heir.

 You fled whenever you could, anything to avoid the hushed whispers during the apothecary’s visits and the melancholy look on your father’s face. Soon the pond was the only place you could reach, the horse your main companion.

 Father asked you not to stay out too long during winter, but more often than not you’d sneak out well into the night. The moonlight would guide your slow journey down the hill, and as you walked down you’d see your friend move the now well-trodden path to the pond.

 There you’d meet, and with a content snort it would lay down next to you, and you would press yourself into its side where you stuck like glue, finally rid of your full body tremor.

 One moonless midwinter night the horse nudged you further onto its back, ever so gently, as it made to stand up.

 You moved to lay with your arms around its neck in a warm hug, desperate to ward off the cold creeping into your very being.

 And so, with full trust, you melded into one.

-

 There was a song in the air.

 It was sweet and sorrowful and heavy, and it couldn’t be, because he was in a crow’s nest and the wind should have whipped away any sound before it reached him.

 Being up there hadn’t been the punishment it was meant to be so far, seasickness yet to reach him, but now there was a sudden lurching in his gut. He swallowed down a horrid mixture of bile and cold air and clutched the railing, the splintered wood grounding in its familiarity.

 His frozen fingers fumbled for his spyglass and he hastily scanned their surroundings, but there was nothing so see – the shoreline was still dark and far and tranquil, no movement there. No other seafarers around either.

 The moon was low on the horizon, its reflection a thin strip on the wide ocean. The night was bright, easy to navigate, and he once again cursed his lot. One of the younger ones should’ve been up there.

 His head whipped around when he thought he saw something – there, a shape in the water, near the ragged rocks closer to shore. He squinted, forgoing the spyglass in favour of keeping an eye on it – if it was a spirit it could disappear any moment.

 There was a shuffling and low shouting down below, his fellow sailors undoubtedly roused by the siren song. Though he’d been at sea most of his life he’d never had an encounter himself, only heard the tall tales – he was suddenly grateful to be up here, to not be in the midst of the dogged determination to get away.

 He whistled low under his breath in hopes of a good air current, but to his horror the tune shifted and melded into the one on the wind.

 At his wits ends he sank down, unable to stop whistling and unable to do much else. His palms burned from where he’d scratched them on the futtock shrouds on his way up and it was a peculiar thing to focus on, but that’d hurt like hell if he ended up in the briny water.

 The song had turned harrowing in its grief, and when he heard a horrible shrieking underneath him he knew they were doomed.

-

 The village is the same as it has always been.

 You marvel at the way time seems to stand still here as you move down the cobblestone road. Even the shop is offering the exact same saddle pad you bought a few months ago, though the windmill seems a bit more quaint now that you see it with fresh eyes.

 The beehives are abuzz, the sun is warming your skin and you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy to be somewhere. You knock on the green door in your usual pattern, and you’re greeted with a bright smile pretty much immediately.

 “Well well, look who’s finally back!” Pamela says as she ushers you in, apron covered in flour.

 “Just in time, apparently. Apple pie?” You neatly place your shoes by the door and shuffle past her into the kitchen, where you’re welcomed by the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar.

 “Hmm, had to make good use of my first batch. I had the craving of a lifetime yesterday. Stick around for 15 minutes and you’ll get a slice.”

 “I could do with some comfort food,” you say as you sit down with a heavy sigh, “and in the meantime I’ll get right to the important stuff, if you don’t mind.”

 “Yes, we probably should,” Pamela says, tone subtly shifting. “I was worried you’d have difficulty finding your way back, G.E.D. have been spreading out across the entire mountainside.”

 “Yeah,” you say with a wry smile.

 “Ah,” she hums, “of course. Couldn’t go through Stormgarden, huh? Jian locked the gates a few months ago to keep them out, kind of forgot that happened after you left.”

 You look at her imploringly, and though she rolls her eyes there’s a kindness to accompany the teasing edge in her voice when she continues.

 “I’ve only spoken to Ming Yue a few times, she spends most of her time over in the fields or at the old house. I just bring them supplies when needed and make sure they’re really all right. It’s a bit awkward talking through the fence, and I’m not acrobatic enough to attempt a break-in.”

 “Fair enough,” you huff. The walls are higher than they look, and some of the stones deceptively loose. “Anything exciting happen, other than that?”

“Not really. I just held the fort down as usual, while you were off doing whatever it is you do,” she says with a sly look. Pamela knows not to pry, but she never turns down a riddle or allusion either.

 “Things went surprisingly smoothly,” you concede with a tired but satisfied grin, a bit shy to be the sole messenger of a group’s effort.

 “Oh!” her eyebrows shoot up, “well that’s news worth celebrating!”

 Pamela bustles around the house for a bit, getting you a drink and an assortment of gifts she’s made you in the time you were away; candles, honey balm and your favourite hand soap, which she gathers up in a picnic hamper.

 You sit and bask in it for a moment, the safety of lounging in your friend’s cozy kitchen, and let it sink in that you really did succeed, and now you’re home. A home beset by G.E.D., yes, but that’s a problem you’ll solve another day.

 Pamela gives you a plate with the best apple pie you’ve had in months and you exercise the restraint of a lifetime by not just wolfing it down.

 “Anyway,” you say through a mouthful, “how’s good old Diogenes?”

 “Being his usual grumpy self. He disappears into the swamp daily, gets back covered in insect bites and mucus. He’s not camping out though, so if you’d like you can just crash in my guest room.”

 You consider her offer, despite your first instinct to politely decline. Hayden’s place is nice enough, but also really just one big room. There’s not a lot of privacy, which is fine when he’s away, but gets bothersome for both of you when he’s constantly in and out.

 Your mind is made up. “That might be nice actually, your place is probably the homeliest option I’ve got.”

 “I try,” Pamela laughs.

 “And succeed gloriously,” you nod sagely.

 With that you get yourself settled, putting your meagre belongings away and quickly washing off the dust from your travels. When you get back to the kitchen Pamela has gotten started on a vegetable stew to last the next few days, so you help her cut some and chat a bit more.

 Frederik’s campaign against swamp water is still going as strong as it did when you left, which is to say not very, and there’s been a bit of hubbub around a new vet that moved in, a refugee from old Hillcrest apparently. Pamela has slowly been getting to know her and thinks she’s a good candidate for CHILL, what with the obvious grudge over what happened to her home.

 Pamela’s clearly excited for you to meet her, but also tactful enough to realise you’ve got plenty on your mind.

 You excuse yourself early in the evening, only to restlessly sit in your dark and silent room. After you’ve spent entirely too long zoned out you reach for your bag and blindly grab your red string, twining it around your fingers and untwisting it again in a calming little ritual.

 On a short trip to the bathroom you catch a glimpse of the waning moon, and the sight lures you out into the cold night. You want to burn some energy – besides, no one other than Hayden tends to be out at this time, which means there’s no one to scold you for unwise decision making.

 You set a brisk pace and keep fiddling with your string, unwilling to part with it if you don’t have to. Without thinking you walk up the hill to Stormgarden and are faced with a closed gate, as expected.

 For a few minutes you just stand there pathetically, staring into the dark, then turn around and stomp back the way you came, eyes burning with something you can’t put in words just yet. You need to move.

 And you do. You wander, not caring where your feet take you, so of course you end up in the forsaken swamp without even the excuse of a wisp having lured you.

 You’re miles from town now, and there’s a noticeable shift in the air. It’s humid and stale, a heavy fog curling around the weeping willows as if trapped underneath them.

 It’s comforting though. It’s like a blanket around you, pressing in, accompanied by a wall of noise – random splashes, croaking frogs and a low buzz from flying insects. The night doesn’t feel so lonely like this.

 You heave a sigh and with sore arms dab at the sweat gathered on your face, settling against the trunk of a tree that’s leaning dangerously over the river. The entire bank is covered in reeds but there’s a bit of a gap here, and you blankly stare out into the wetland.

 It gets harder to keep your eyes open after a while – you’re honestly not sure whether you’ve nodded off or not. Your string almost slips out of you hand, so you make sure to tie it around your wrist and triple-check the knot with bleary eyes. You wonder if she still has hers.

 You dazedly jerk up when there’s a hollow snap just on the other side of the river. You just glance over, ready to dismiss it as a figment of your overtaxed brain’s imagination, but do an incredulous double take when you see a fucking horse.

 It’s got a long shaggy coat, a pure shimmering white heavy and dripping with water. You’re hit with a wave of worry when you realise it’s way too thick for this time of year, the poor thing must be overheating. No wonder it dipped into the relatively cold waters, an array of aquatic plants comically draped over its back the definitive proof.

 You’re shaken out of that specific worry when you take a closer look though; there’s a sickly green tint to either its undercoat or skin, you can’t really tell, but it looks wrong – and then it turns its head, and moonlight glints off empty blue eyes.

 You freeze, breath caught in your lungs and heart hammering in your chest. You’d counted on a mere wisp at most, this is something far worse. Your eyes meet.

 Its sclera turn inky black and it fluidly lunges back, thundering into the river without making so much as a splash – the water simply opens up to swallow it into its depths.

 “What the fuck,” you whisper, so softly the volume barely rises above the sound of your own uneven breathing. Then for good measure you whisper it once more, with feeling.

 And then, of course, your reckless spirit overtakes you and you sidle down the river bank. You blame your fried brain and the undoubtedly dangerous swamp fumes, but really you just have to know, have to touch the water in the hopes it’ll somehow ground you in reality.

 You crouch with a flinch at your loudly creaking knees, and blink in awe when you look up and find the change in angle has suddenly shifted the moon into view once more. It peeks through the clouds and bathes the water in light, so bright compared to the surroundings it has you squinting to adjust.

 You still can’t reach. So you scooch forward, hands slipping on the warm mud behind you, and try again. Your fingers lightly brush the moon’s reflected light, make it ripple. The water is cool and soft to the touch, and you put your flat palm on the surface as if to stroke it, loose end of the makeshift bracelet around your wrist dipping below the surface.

 Then the moon disappears behind a cloud and you flinch, bodily jerk back from the glassy water because there’s pale round eyes staring back at you.

 It’s just there, silently floating right where you had your hand, a dark shape with its lip pulled back over glinting needle-teeth.

 You scramble back up the riverbank, foot slipping and water rushing into you shoe, and you don’t look back once you’re on the road. You clutch the wrist with your damp red string tied around it and dig your thumb into the pulse point, match your breath to the stupid squelching of your boot.

 You stare at the moon as you march back home.

 The next morning you’re notably absent-minded, Pamela has to bump you out of the way several times as she prepares for a visitor. The vet, you think, the name went in one ear and out the other when she told you during breakfast.

 Camilla, apparently. Pamela insists on having lunch outside, so the three of you settle down on a big plaid picnic blanket underneath her apple tree. You force yourself to snap out of your dazed mood, because the spread is absolutely lovely; a lot of effort has gone into this.

 You chit-chat for a while, stick to safer subjects. Pamela masterfully redirects any questions about your whereabouts for the past months, for which you’re grateful. The main distraction is goat’s cheese, surprisingly – you spend maybe half an hour discussing grazing options for hypothetical goats.

 You only slip up once.

 “The weather’s finally reached a point where I might risk a dip in the lake later,” Camilla says, theatrically fanning herself, “I’ve never been one to swim, but at this point I’m desperate to cool off, if even just a bit.”

 You balk in a horribly obvious manner and Pamela shoots you a baffled look, but luckily picks up the slack immediately.

 “Not a good idea, we don’t swim in these waters,” she cautions, voice stern in that way only Pamela can be.

 “Why not? It looks just fine to me,” Camilla says worriedly, side eyeing you – which, yeah, fair. You’re mentally reconciling what happened last night with what you know of the area, so quite frankly you’re miles away.

 “There’s a dumping ground for G.E.D.’s toxicity just past the lake,” Pamela says, unable to resist the snide pun. “Their, ah, actual toxic waste, I’m afraid. Likely leaks into the lake as well, best not risk it.”

 “Oh,” Camilla says, “but don’t you have your animals graze nearby?”

 And just like that you’re back to animal husbandry and grass quality. As the picnic winds down you only barely manage to conceal just how badly you want to be alone for a while.

 You help clean up and affirm Pamela in her decision to induct Camilla, managing to sound convincingly enthused about her vast knowledge when it comes to both human and animal health. And you do mean it; you’re just really not in the right headspace to be social.

 You find an out by telling Pamela you’d like to visit Hayden today. She’s always glad to, in her words, let you drag him out of his shell a bit, so she send you on your way with a pot of honey to butter him up.

 To your surprise you actually encounter him – he’s on his way back home, packed like a beast of burden, and you manage to corner him on a bridge to lend some credence to your excuse.

 “Hmpf, you’re back,” he says, and it’s more of a welcome than you were counting on.

 “Since yesterday,” you answer his unasked question. It’s always best to be brief, spare him the socialization neither of you are very keen on. “How is the marsh today? Calm waters?”

He hums and eyes you shrewdly, gaze drifting down to your one muddy boot, and you’re suddenly hit with the suspicion that he knows.

“Calm, yes,” he mumbles. “But the waters here have never been safe, not even back in my day.”

 With that he shoulders past you, clearly done with the conversation, and mutters a last little “youth”, just loud enough for you to hear and fondly huff a laugh.

 You continue on your set path, not even all that surprised when you see a white shape over by the moon spring, half submerged in the water. Its feathering is idly flowing around its legs, its ears twitching restlessly.

 Water doesn’t part for you the way it does for the creature, so there’s some unceremonious sloshing when you wade in to stand beside it. You twiddle with your string, twine it around your fingers.

 The horse looks back at you, something wild and imploring in its gaze, and though everything in you screams that you really shouldn’t –

 You slowly reach out.

[pluvialpoet]

delicate edges // chapter 2

summary: beneath disdain, there is admiration. beyond betrayal, there is devotion. underneath loathing, there is adoration. even the coldest- most closed-off hearts- are protected by delicate edges of temptation, forgiveness, and absolution. an exiled heart longs for embrace, but desire threatens ruination. will true love become your savior or your greatest sin?

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of wandering hands (noncon touching), and miscommunications (plus, an embarrassing amount of foreshadowing that won't make any sense until later)

word count: 10,302

series masterlist

The tip of an embroidery needle pricks your flesh, and with a discouraged puff, you place the hoop on the chaise beside you. It’s pitiful- both your lack of needlepoint skills, and the design you’ve attempted to craft. What was supposed to be an homage to your house sigil is a mess of tangled thread and stained canvas- an illusion of a pink maiden, indeed. Perhaps if you’d turn it one way, or flip it upside down, or close both eyes and imagine the intended image staring back at you, then a different point of view might paint your work more favorable. After a few rounds of trial and error, you’ve come to accept that it does not.

Frustration urges you to yank and tear and unravel the mess you’ve made, but alas, thread is an expensive luxury that you’d be a fool to waste. Though your patience runs thin, you take a deep breath and attempt to regain your composure. 

You’ve never been one for crafting. Dainty displays of femininity only serve to test your tolerance. Talents and skills you’ve failed to master- no matter how many years of practice you’ve endured- best you time and time again, and a twinge of panic stings your pinpricked wound when you realize that you’re running out of time. 

“I quite like this color on you,” Helaena Targaryen-  the king’s daughter, and Aemond’s sister- compliments your dress from across the room, momentarily distracting you from your plight. “It reminds me of a celastrina ladon.” She adds with a smile, though you’re not quite sure you understand the sentiment behind her words. As if she notices your uncertainty, she plainly praises, “Pretty.”

“Thank you, Helaena.” A gentle smile is passed between the two of you- a gesture of shared gratitude, and perhaps, appreciation for each other’s company. You can’t imagine how lonely she must be. Her only sister abandoned her when she was a girl, and her eldest brother had never really been quite fond of her company. Aemond tries his best to make time for his sister. Out of all of Helaena’s siblings, he is the most devoted to her. With few friends- and even fewer admirers- the princess often spends her days locked away in the comfort of her rooms, threading, dancing, or singing, solitarily. It seems like a forlorn life, but it brings her much joy. It makes you cherish the rare moments of amity she allows you to share with her. You’re grateful for them. Especially since you’re privy to the knowledge that she prefers to be left alone. “Are you looking forward to the evening’s festivities?” 

Nimble fingers continue to weave and thread, only halting their movements to ponder upon the proposed question, and after a brief silence- filled with heavy thought and reflection- Helaena reveals, “I am most looking forward to watching the sun set.” She is a woman of few words, though her speech is far from simple. She is thoughtful- precise in her vocabulary, and silent when additions to conversations are unwarranted. There is oft something woven between the lines of her riddles and tongues meant to be deciphered, and when there isn’t, simple banter suffices.

“On that, we can both agree.”

A pleasant lull fills the space of spoken word for merely a moment, before Helaena’s brow furrows. For the first time, she looks up from her embroidery and meets your stare.

“You hold no interest in the tourney, or the ball?” She asks, and your answer is immediate- as if it’s been rehearsed many times or simply reiterated.

“I believe that they falsify honor with brutality.” You express your distastes with a grimace. “Such occasion justifies acts of savagery under the guise of proving strength and skill. I’m not compelled by displays of power nor aggression- though, I suppose there is something to be admired about the art of it all.”

“Art?” 

“Yes,” You defend, “When Aemond fights, every move is calculated and precise. He moves as if…“ Pausing for a moment to gather your thoughts, you huff a breath, “As if, protection and defense are steps to a dance he’s been dancing his whole life.” You can’t help but smile whilst justifying the difference. “He is poised and delicate and-“ When Helaena grins, you realize that you’re getting ahead of yourself and your cheeks flush with warmth. “Well, I suppose there is something to be admired about it, is all.”

“And the ball?” She inquires, wondering if your opinions on dancing are as strong as they are against fighting, but before you have the chance to reply, a knock upon the door to Helaena’s chambers stifles the conversation. The interruption is unexpected and intrusive- drawing focus and attention away from your previous exchange and demanding awareness, elsewhere- and thick tension threatens to smother. Helaena’s lips part, allowing a quick gasp to pass, without allowing any more air to enter. Her lungs burn with anticipation. Another soft rap against wood heightens the already heavy suspense, and her eyes meet yours- searching, for either fear that mirrors hers, or, valor she could mimic, instead. 

When Aemond enters her chambers, a look of relief washes over her features, and the corner of his lip curls into a gentle smile. It’s obvious, in the way that they gaze at one another, that they care for each other immensely, and you’re grateful that despite whatever loneliness they suffer, they have the other.

“Mother is expecting us,” He announces, fiddling with his hands behind his back whilst he informs his sister that they’ve been called upon. She nods dutifully, setting down her needlework and smoothing down the skirts of her dress as she stands to join him. “And your father is waiting for you,” Aemond adds, his gaze shifting to where you sit. You find yourself wondering if he likes the color of your dress- or if he finds it too blue? Are the sleeves too short? Does he believe that it flatters you? Does he notice at all?  It’s not like you’ve worn it for him, specifically, but you value his opinion and hope that he might spare you a compliment like his sister had. 

He does not.

“Thank you.” With a sheepish smile, you rise, abandoning both needle and thread as you cross the room to Helaena and loop your arm with hers. He bids you both adieu with a nod and as your footsteps retreat, he catches sight of the embroidery hoop you’ve left behind. Curiosity intrigues him, and before he can stop himself, he wanders over to get a better look. 

Unsurprisingly, he can barely make out what you’ve attempted to create. Based on the colors alone, he deducts that it must’ve been a supposed tribute to your house sigil, but it hardly resembles the intended. It’s a charming disaster of chaos- pink, white, and blue tangled, knotted, and intertwined- and he’s captivated by your lack of aptitude when it comes to needlework. It’s a good thing you’ve deserted the cloth. If you had intended to pass it off as a favor, he’s pleased that you’ve saved yourself the embarrassment. He can’t imagine the ridicule you’d suffer if anyone else were to witness your craft. To spare you, he folds the homely handkerchief into his pocket- with the intent of pardoning you from mockery and returning it to you when the time permits, of course.

Why else would he be so mindful of creasing the monstrosity before tucking it safely into the pocket of his doublet?

You quickly lose interest in the tournament. Each match seems trivial and repetitive- in the sense that two men spar against one another until one bests the other. Perhaps, you hold such little regard in each aimless battle because you’ve grown used to watching seasoned knights train with purpose, not just for show. You’re not as easily amused or entertained by the performance and find yourself trying to figure out how much longer the ceaseless act will dwindle on for by trying to gauge where the sun hangs overhead.

Beside you, your father leans over. Ever observant, he takes an interest in your disinterest. Your chin rests in the palm of your hand, boredom apparent and overwhelmingly evident. He stifles a laugh. Surely, you’re not so uninterested in the events taking place before you that you find yourself prone to slumber. When you were a girl, you used to love watching the knights joust. It was your favorite part of celebrating the spring solstice. Now, you’re practically nodding off beside him. If he looks close enough, he can still catch glimpses of his little girl in a woman grown.

“I have a proposal for you,” He clears his throat softly, coaxing your attention away from the mock battle. “Before the next round, choose a winner. If you are correct, I shall award you a halfpenny.”

“Only a halfpenny for my knowledge?” He’s not expecting you to frown, but your lips pucker and pout, visibly unenthused by what he thought made an otherwise tempting offer. “I’d wager my talents are worth at least copper stars.”

“Do you now?” His eyes crinkle with laughter, the sound stifled by the roar of the crowd. “Well then, you must forgive me, darling, for I did not know your talents were so valuable.” Your father ribs softly. It’s nearly impossible not to mirror his joy when it’s so contagious. “Perhaps if your knowledge can predict the outcome of each match, I shall reward you with a gold dragon.” 

“Truly?” With wide eyes, you ask.

“Have you ever known me to jest?” A gentle scoff is accompanied by a teasing glint. “Now, perk up,” He warns with a playful grin, and you have no reason to argue.

Between wagers with your father and idle chatter with Helaena, time passes comfortably. Match after match concludes with applause granted to the victor, and at some point, the acclamations start to lose their novelty. You find yourself joining in on the celebrations to avoid being the only one left out, but it’s all forced- every smile, every congratulatory cheer, even most of the sympathetic grimaces offered to those impaled by a lance or bathed in mud and defeat, lack genuine sincerity. 

The royal box obscures your view of the sun, but you can still feel the warmth of its rays- even eclipsed by stone and canvas above. It’s an unforgiving heat. Wet and sticky. Each breath is labored, and excess moisture is absorbed by the fabric of your gown, adding phantom weight to the garment. Dampness kisses your hairline, decorating the expanse with pearls of sweat that glisten in the light. Fine hairs start to curl outwards, rebelling against the braids they were forced into earlier this morning and you resist the urge to comb them back into place.

Thunderous applause distracts.

Another champion rides forth, and the splintered pieces of House Mallister’s sigil become trampled by the hooves of an auburn stallion. The rider guides his beast toward the royal box, but the mount does not advance without a fight. He whinnies in protest, letting out a huff of refusal, before taking to his hind legs. Onlookers murmur and gasp as the knight struggles to control the horse. Another irritated puff, another crack of a whip, and then, finally, the animal obeys. 

The mystery knight’s helmet is discarded and the Master of Revels introduces Ser Edmund Flowers- a hedge knight from the Reach, said to be the bastard son of Willem Ball. He’s rewarded with far less praise once his identity is revealed, but the celebration never truly ceases. Dark, unkempt hair falls into his eyes and he shakes it away to clear his line of sight as he looks up towards the royal box. He’s young- no more than a year or two older than you are- and it’s a miracle that he’s managed to survive the joust without the same amount of experience most fighting knights possess.

Helaena flinches beside you.

The sudden movement catches your attention, and you spare her a glance as she fidgets with her fingers. Her eyes are wide, her pale skin ghostly and gray, and you can’t help but feel concerned for her. Knowing of her aversion to touch, you fight the urge to reach for her hands and stop them from trembling. Something has spooked her. A look of equal parts fear and anger influences her features, and her stare narrows.

“No, no, no,” She mumbles to herself, and you briefly wonder if she’s made wagers against the victorious knight. Perhaps she’s found herself in debts she can not pay. If she requires coin, she merely has to ask. Whilst others remain in good spirits- cheering and applauding- the princess appears sullen and agitated. The sight of her distress is enough to warrant concern of your own.

“Helaena, what is it?” You ask lightly, mindful not to add to her unease by making sharp, sudden movements, or using a voice that might appear louder, or harsher than intended. She looks to you then, her stare blank and her eyes glossed over in either terror or detachment- it’s difficult to tell. Her answer is decided, but the words evade her, and she struggles to formulate the intended reply. Instead, her lips part, and press, over and over again, like she’s gasping for air.

The sound of her quick breaths finally catches Aemond’s attention, but before he has the chance to spare his sister concern, he’s interrupted.

“Lady Piper,” Ser Edmund addresses the box and you immediately suck in a sharp sigh. He beams with a confidence rewarded by glory- void of the arrogance granted by experience- and offers a peaceful smile. “I’ve prayed to the Seven for protection, but I look to you and your favor for strength.” The proposal, which sounds more like a plea, is met with silent anticipation-  from both the gathered masses and yourself. 

He is a stranger- a name you’ve never heard of and a face you’ve never seen until today. His status, or lack thereof, is not what causes your chest to tighten. It is not his fault he is a bastard, and you don’t hold him in low esteem because of it. He is boyishly handsome- at least, you assume, with the distance between you and the glare of the sun’s rays, that he is- and it’s enigmatic, trying to decipher what flutters inside of you at the prospect of accepting his advanced.

It is the first time you’ve been called upon with the intent of a potential courtship. 

It is the first time you’ve been desired.

It fills you with gratification- to know that you’re wanted, to know that you’re sought after. So strange and so new is the feeling that you don’t know what to make of it. The only time you’ve felt something similar- the only other time you’ve been kissed by the flames of attraction and burning- is when you find yourself in the company of your eldest friend. Whatever flush set alight by the knight asking for your favor is snuffed out by the fondness you feel for the second Targaryen prince.

“I do not take without giving, my lady, and I offer this flower as a token of my gratitude.” Withdrawing something from underneath his breastplate, tucked safely between chainmail and steel- he presents a favor of his own. With purple and green leaves- and roots still attached to a clump of soil- he holds it out to you and you rise to your feet. 

Aemond watches you smile sweetly at the gesture, enthralled by the lavishness of the offering, and his lip curls bitterly. The bastard knight has offered you nothing more than fireplum- a weed- likely plucked from lands that don’t belong to him, and never will. Yet, your eyes crinkle with affection at such a simple display of yearning. His nostrils flare.

“Thank you, Ser Flowers.” You bow- simply to convey decency- and his smile grows. The air stills. Heavy, with something other than humidity, each breath fails to satiate the need for more air in your lungs. Whispers travel. Murmurs intensify. With a sudden reluctance, your intestines twist- but your smile never falters. Against better judgment, you spare a glance over your shoulder. You expect to be met with the familiar comforts of violet and sapphire- concealed by leather- but Aemond looks beyond you. Even when you attempt to catch his eye, he refuses to meet your stare. Breath catches in your throat. 

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Dejectedly, you untie one of the purple ribbons from your hair and wrap it around his lance- seemingly accepting his favor and offering your own in return. “Best of luck to you.” 

The crowd erupts in support. With a thoughtful grin, he boasts your favor and dons his helmet once more. You return to your seat, where Helaena remains fitful, and brush the tips of your fingers over the leaves of your token. Beside you, your father offers his sympathies with a tight press of his lips and you awkwardly return the gesture before trying to sneak another glance at Aemond- whose peripheral is blocked by his patch. Despite this, he can feel the weight of your stare and wills himself to look forward.

Ser Flowers is thrown from his horse the next round, and Aemond makes no attempt to hide his spiteful smirk of glee whilst he watches the defeated bastard limp from the tourney grounds. It’s a sight to be seen- a Flower daubed in mire- and he’s lucky he has at least one eye to see it. The loser spares a pitiful glance towards you, and you offer your sympathies silently- with a gentle nod.

The tourney drags on. A winner is announced, and then a loser, and so on and so forth until only one knight- from House Darklyn- emerges victoriously against all of his competitors. Holding true to tradition, a wreath of flowers is placed atop the head of a plain girl from Tarth. Precious petals are cushioned by hair that resembles straw, and when she smiles, it’s revealed that she’s still missing a few teeth from her youth. She’s a bony child, nearly as tall as the knight that’s crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, and even with only one eye, Aemond can see clearer than those blessed with two- she is not the most desirable maiden in attendance nor the most striking. She just is. Simple. Forgettable. Ordinary. Yet, onlookers cheer for the homely daughter of the Evanstar, praising and celebrating her as if she were the fairest across the land- an actual sapphire unearthed amid bedrock and clay.

Why is she so easily accepted by the masses and he shunned? Why is she celebrated whilst he is ostracized? 

Envy is sour, and his lips purse with distaste as he forces his attention elsewhere. He will not honor the chosen outsider- a child with nothing to give to his people- whilst he remains snubbed. Grateful for the distraction, if nothing else, he uses the celebration as an excuse to quietly slip away, back into the shadows that welcome him when he’s grown tired of parading about the light. Perhaps his only regret is that he’ll miss the sunset, but he doubts that you won’t find a way to recount the sights to him the next time you cross paths. With a vivid attention to detail and a picturesque prose, the story he awaits is likely more mystical than the actual event- like childhood lore, meant to lull, but stirring imagination instead, he reckons he could listen to the same tale echoed forevermore, as long as it’s from your view.

On a dias, sat high above the company of lesser lords and commoners, Aemond sits alone. He is surrounded by his blood- save for the empty seat next to Helaena where his brother, Aegon, is meant to be seated- but he remains solus. The feast is a joyous occasion for gluttons and peasants alike, luxuriating in grub and cups without a care beyond what they’ll shove down their gullets next, and he loses his appetite in the presence of greed. Below they laugh, dance, and indulge, leaving the prince with no choice but to observe the same people that have rejected him partake in merriment. He has always been the spare- second to Aegon, and third, fourth, and so on to the children his future wife might bare- but he still occupies a seat above them, a seat that watches over them as they mingle and gawk whilst he has no choice but to remain dutiful. Forced to portray amiability when all that bubbles in the pit of his stomach is animosity.

The glances spared his way- the ones purposeful and deliberate, not accidental or unintentional- are filled with the same judgments and scrutiny he’s been condemned to since childhood. Though he’s much too far to hear the whispers sat atop his pedestal, he holds no delusions that the gossips have seized their hearsay in favor of silence. They’d be driven to madness, otherwise. Cornered by elation, trapped in a festivity of joy, he remains sullen. He clasps his hands together- tight enough for the color to drain from his fingertips- and with a look of repugnance, he watches over the citizens that have prospered with newfound sustenance- even if only for the evening- by suckling from his family’s teet.

Through small talk and amicable gestures, you’ve managed to avoid the awkward prospect of falling into step with a suitor who would quickly lose interest the moment you spun out of turn, or stepped on their toes- like the last time Aemond’s uncle, Daemon, had asked for your hand. He didn’t speak a word to you, and hardly spared you a glance whilst he lead you through the dance. Instead, he glared at his nephew with a smug smile that quickly vanished when you accidentally lost your footing and landed right on his foot. Aemond laughed at that.

The urge to flee is immense. You long to retire somewhere thinly populated- free from the burdens of socializing and the threat of celebration- but as you look upon the grand dias that seats the Targaryen family and catch Aemond’s eye, your devotion morphs into something much more selfless.

He holds your stare. Despite the exuberant mob of conversation, drunken joviality, and waltzing pairs, he finds you. Somehow, he always does- and, with a talent far less impressive, you manage to find him. Never first, only after you feel his eye upon you. Even from far away, you note the discomfort reflected in his gaze. Invisible to everyone else in attendance, you notice him. Always. You rise, abandoning grub and beverage in favor of more familiar comforts, and across the room, Aemond does the same. The simultaneous movements fail to garner the regard of inebriated guests- drunk on glee and mead- but they share the same intentions. With a smile you’re unable to contain, you weave your way through the crowd. When you finally make your way to his side, he greets you with a thin press of his lips and a nod, and you mean to make conversation with him, but someone clears their throat from behind you, contending for your attention, instead.

“Lord Corbray,” Your smile is forced, yet reserved. With grace and diplomacy, you greet Leowyn Corbray- a stocky man with little respect for chivalry, as he oft forgets himself in the company of women. His dark, stringy hair is sparser than the last time your paths crossed, but it is still slicked back with grease and clumped in patches. The top button is missing from his doublet, the front of the garment soaked through with either sweet wine, mead, or sweat. He appears to be in good spirits, either way. The lines around his eyes crease as he greets you, smile stretching wide to reveal a crooked display of teeth. He is nearly thrice your age, but the years don’t prevent him from reaching for your hand.

“Lady Piper,” He happily accepts your pleasantries by pressing his lips to the back of your palm. It is revolting. It is repulsive and distasteful. Despite how sloppy the gesture is, despite the quick swipe of his tongue against the dorsal of your hand that makes your skin crawl, the worst part about the entire exchange is that his grip tightens around your fingers- effectively, and forcefully, stopping you from retreating from the seemingly innocent assault.

Luckily, unlike the last time you found yourself in his presence, you are not alone.

“Prince Aemond,” Leowyn acknowledges the man beside you only because of the title he dons. If Aemond had been a squire, knight, or even another lord, he wouldn’t have paid him any mind. But alas, propriety mustn’t be forgotten in the presence of royalty. 

Next to you, Aemond stiffens. Though he is completely unaware of the strength Lord Corbray uses to keep you in his grasp or the grievous attack of his lips upon your skin, he finds the entire exchange unsettling. He thinks back to your conversation a few days prior- the one where you voiced your distaste for marriage and motherhood- and he believes he understands better than he did then. Watching you interact with a man who is closer in age to your father than he is to you, is confusing. He doubts that you would find yourself in a happy partnership with a man as absent-minded as Leowyn Corbray, and the longer he considers the possibility, his insides begin to ache. Akin to that of an upset stomach from boyhood, he watches you smile and wipe your hand against the skirts of your dress before shivering, and the twisting in his stomach intensifies. Coupled with a tightness in his chest- equivalent to the labored, strained breaths after a taxing day of sword training- he watches as a pair of light brown eyes meet yours, and knows not what to make of such strange, sudden sentiments.

“Not even the stars rival your light tonight, my lady,” Leowyn slurs, whilst attempting to flatter you, no doubt. Perhaps from anyone else, the compliment might’ve brought forth a warmth to your cheeks, but from his tongue- past his lips, in a boisterous tone, with an arrogant grin, as if he were certain such praise would have you falling at his feet- you feel nothing beyond irritation, and even a bit of pity, for the man making a fool of himself. Still, you’re too well-mannered not to accept his kind words- even if you refuse to take them to heart.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Under no delusion that he’s come to simply pay you a compliment, you wait with bated breath for him to reveal his true intention. The silence- which only lasts a few seconds- feels like it stretches on for days. You’ve grown dizzy, plagued with worst-case scenarios and nightmarish figments. Though, when he speaks again, your worries do not remain somewhere far off. They intensify.

“Perhaps, you would bestow me the honor of a dance?” His tongue sweeps across the front of his teeth in a manner that makes the crooked ivories nearly mistakable for a set of fangs. The color in his eyes dissolves, darkening an already menacing stare tenfold. “It would be a privilege to turn with the fairest maiden amongst the seven kingdoms,” Memories haunt. Time has faded bruises, but it has not healed old wounds split open by fear. Though, back then you knew not what to expect. Now, you dread what you know. 

“Have you met them all?” It’s a shock that your voice finds you at all. The sly leer falls from his face. Arrogance and brawn are discarded like a mask, revealing a timid, feeble, drunken man underneath the brazen facade of a lord- whose only real power comes from a title handed down to him, not strength or wit, or even charm.

“I beg your pardon?” He sputters, mouth agape and taken aback by the challenge he neither expected nor prepared for. 

“All the maidens in the seven kingdoms?” Rage and trepidation influence your speech, demanding answers to questions you wouldn’t even dare to ask had you found yourself alone in his company. “Have you the privilege of meeting them all before deeming that I am the fairest?”

Aemond bites back a snicker. There’s something comical about the exchange, and something even more gratifying about watching you reproach a man as vile as Leowyn Corbray. His chest blossoms with something parallel to pride, but not quite equivalent, and it makes each breath a little easier to breathe when he glances upon the fool’s face and witnesses a look of utter stupefaction. For once, he is not the object of ridicule. Thus, if prompted, he will not refrain from joining in on the mockery he’s only ever witnessed his whole life. Perhaps he is as wicked and twice as heartless as whispers have painted him out to be. Thirsty for nothing short of revenge against any and all who have ever wronged him, he thrives for vengeance. But then, he looks to you- the only person who has never made him feel any less whole, solely because he is missing parts- and such temptations are quelled. 

For nearly a second, he gazes at you with fondness.

“Lady Piper, I-“ A proper apology evades the man before you. Perhaps, if he’d offered his condolences more, he might’ve been better acquainted with the words meant to ask for pardon. Alas, his following sentiment disappoints, “I meant not to offend, my lady- only to compliment.” 

“I see,” You agree, but your expression betrays you.

“Perhaps my intentions were unclear,” He’s too self-righteous to surrender. If he were a leader in battle, he would lead his men straight to their deaths. His pride will forever be his downfall- an attribute he will never outgrow, a characteristic that will never change.“ But I wish to dance with you, my lady,” If you did not know him, you might believe the sincerity behind the notion, but Leowyn Corbray is a vain man, not a genuine one. “Unless of course, you are already spoken for,” As his eyes flit between you and Aemond, you suck in a sharp breath. The insinuation fills you with hope- hope that the prince’s presence might discourage him, hope that you will not be forced to dance with a foul man, hope that Aemond might take your hand in his and lead you away to the gardens where you first asked him to dance all those years ago- but Aemond physically recoils at the implication. You are not his. The revelation invites your suitor’s advances once more. In the blink of an eye, the color returns to his face, and his eyes brighten with anticipation and excitement. “Very well,” He exclaims cheerfully, directing his attention solely to you. “Lady Piper,” Brandishing the pudgy fingers of his palm, he demands under the guise of a query- as if you have a choice to deny him. “Your hand?”

Suddenly, you feel trapped. When you try to catch Aemond’s eye, he casts his gaze downward, refusing to meet your stare. The reaction causes a dull ache in your chest. All too quickly you understand the prospect that awaits you if you do not intervene. Perhaps, as foolish as it sounds, the child within you still fears the anticipation of dancing with another. Despite the number of times you’ve turned with a partner, each time has only intensified your insecurities and doubts. There’s a reason you’re desperately trying to avoid partnering with Leowyn for the evening, even if only briefly, and your pulse quickens with fear when you realize that you do not have a legitimate reason to turn him away.

“Where did you say you saw my father?” The question draws looks of confusion from both members of your company. It tastes just as mindless, but you present an inquisitive front. Your eyes plead with Aemond, silently hoping that he wouldn’t force you to outright beg for his aid, but he peers straight past your guise- failing to appreciate your quick wit and allowing your call for support to go unanswered.

“I have n-“ Aemond shakes his head, bewildered by the oddities that slip past your tongue. As of late, you’ve stopped making sense, and he’s found himself growing more and more concerned with your strange behavior. You speak in riddles he can not understand, and it perturbs him. He longs to understand, but you make it so difficult. Your face falls and he feels himself growing frustrated. He’s no stranger to disappointment. Having been born a failure- sharing a cradle with an egg that refused to hatch- he knew, even then, that he would continue to be a letdown. He was half the size of Aegon, and twice as fierce- he had heard- but before he could savor the feeling of air in his lungs, he had let his father down. Why else would the king have scorned him for all of these years? He was only his second son, after all. Despite the odds stacked against him, you have yet to make him feel less than- like he’s unworthy simply for being- and as he watches your eyes try to convey what you won’t allow words to, his chest tightens. It’s as though you expect him to understand a completely different language, without revealing the translations- about as effective if he were to speak to you in High Valaryian.

He can’t take it anymore. You are an anomaly he can not make sense of- and it vexes him.

“Forgive me, lord, but I must-“ Looking past his stocky frame, you try to catch a glimpse of your father, or at the very least a glimpse of a familiar face- truthfully, you would’ve settled for one of Helaena’s handmaidens- even though the most familiar face is standing right beside you, and looking at you as though you’re a stranger. Your eyes begin to water, threatening tears, and you try your best to blink them away. It’s a pain you never could’ve fathomed, which is why it stings so deeply.

“Are you refusing me?” Much to your horror, he catches onto your plans to escape. In an instant, he discards cordiality in favor of a menacing ire. “Doing so would surely bring great shame to your house- not to mention your father,” His presence is so daunting that when he takes a step closer, Aemond finds himself stepping forth to shield you. He takes half a step, angling his body to protect you from the wrath of the arrogant prick that threatens you, and stares Leowyn down, halting his approach.

He doesn’t quite like the tone that’s been taken with you.

“Your father is just over there, lady Piper,” His eye never leaves the pathetic excuse of a man before him, though he addresses you. With his back towards you, you’re unaware of the darkness that bleeds into the light of his iris, but Lord Corbray swallows thickly when Aemond narrows his stare. “Perhaps you should allow her a moment to speak with him before pestering her for a dance,” It’s not a suggestion- it’s an order, that Leowyn has no choice but to obey.

He clears his throat, ridding the passage of phlegm and panic, and presses his lips together. The prince is easily a head and a half taller than he is and built of lean muscle and years of strength training. He may be inebriated, but even soaked in booze, Leowyn’s wise enough to know that he’s no match for the marred prince. At least he does not have to cover his monstrosities. “Very well,” He heeds to Aemond’s warning with a weak smile. It does little to convey the ease it’s intended to, and Aemond barely registers the feeling of his fingernails digging into the meat of his palm when his adversary tries to meet your eyes over his shoulder. “I shall return once your affairs are in order.” He promises, though it feels more menacing than a threat.

His boots click once, twice, three times against the polished stone floors, and you abruptly turn to face Aemond. Your heart is pinned to your sleeve- a raw, irregular display of fear, sorrow, and trepidation that flaunts all you attempt to obscure. Each pulse sends a tremor through your body, and your eyes flit nervously around the crowded room in search of ever-present danger. The music has faded away almost completely, eclipsed by the sharp ringing in your ears. Even conversation and laughter have merged into something so dull and muffled they’re almost impossible to make out. Your fingertips tremble as you reach for Aemond, and you seek his comfort blindly as the room starts to spin and vivid colors threaten to dim to black.

He does not notice.

“Aemond,” His name is barely a whisper, and he exhales heavily as you plead, “Please,” You croak, each word more and more difficult to pronounce with the tightening of your throat. “Please do not make me dance with him,” 

“He’s asked for your hand.” The reminder is clipped, and could have easily been mistaken for something harsh or bitter, had you not known the truth of his nature. Still, he refuses to gaze upon you whilst he delivers the cruel truth. He can not bear to watch the color fade from your cheeks. He will not subject himself to the punishments of watching sorrow seep into your smile, or the light dim behind the darkness of your eyes. It’s an agony he refuses to brave. Instead, he cowers away- yielding to surrender for the first time in his life. A blaze burns in his lungs, and he swallows smoke and flame alike, igniting a searing rage deep in his chest. His torments are self-inflicted, yet he continues to ache. Damn, his pride. Damn, his ego. It is what fuels his malice. Though he holds no desire in asking you to dance- refraining from creating a spectacle on both of your behalf- it maddens him to know that someone else will turn with you instead. Some pompous lord will ask to spin you, and then another will follow, and for the rest of the evening he will be forced to watch you partake in a custom you dread- and only he will know of your pain.

Pain. It’s what you remember most about the last time you were forced to dance with Lord Leowyn Corbray. The way his nails dug into your flesh. The way his palms squeezed and manipulated. The purples, blues, and greens that have since faded, but the terror and shame that still remain. Aemond is so much more than an ally amongst men, he is a friend, and you stand before him beseeching him for refuge- but it seems as though he’s drawn his gates and barred the windows to his sanctuary, leaving you stranded and alone for reasons you can not fathom. He values honor and tradition, but he is not wicked. He would not condone the heinous acts committed against you, if he were privy to them. To make him understand, you must divulge, but revealing the truth also means bearing your humiliation. 

Would he treat you differently? Would he hold you in less regard if he knew the secrets you’ve kept to maintain a respectable appearance? Would he discard you, thinking you’d been sullied before marr- no. Despite doubts and impending anxiety, you know Aemond’s character. He is not vile. He is not brutal nor merciless. He will understand. As soon as you can find the words to help him, he will understand.

“Y-yes but, his hands…they…” Your demons claw at consonants and vowels, greedily snatching every letter from the cavern of your mouth before it may pass your lips, and you struggle to convey what is of utter importance. Through your panicked haze, you do not notice the furious glint that obscures lilac to violet. Aemond feels a fury. Until this very moment, he had only been blistered by the flames alight within him. 

Now, he burns.

“What?” The heaviness in his voice doesn’t register. Lost upon you, the same way the clenching of his fists and the pursing of his lips is, you barely notice how he fails to conceal how deeply your confession has affected him. His temper has been tempted, coaxed from the places he tried to bury it in his youth- and he welcomes darkness to light.

When he looks at you now, he recognizes your fear. It’s as clear as looking upon a reflection of his childhood. For a moment, he feels regret. He had been so blinded by his own self-importance that he could not recognize your affliction. It’s a fleeting feeling, replaced by a rage he has no intention to quell. The tips of his ears flush with his wrath. The skin around his scar splotches pink and red with an influx of internal heat, but he barely registers the discomfort. He waits, with clenched teeth and an attentiveness previously reserved, for you to confide in him- and the truth pierces straight through his armor.

“His hands wander.” The confession warrants carnage and the urge to drain blood. He fails to detect the taste of bile as his rage consumes him. “Once, when I was a girl, I-I was forced to dance with him a-and I-“ 

“Go to your father.” Aemond orders sternly. The assertiveness of his voice- something more forbidding than you’re used to- causes you to stiffen. Caught off guard by the change in his demeanor, you hiccup softly and begin to protest- fearful to part from the assurance of his presence- but you never get the chance to.

“A-aemond, I-“

“I will be but a moment,” He tells you, void of gentle reassurance and warmth. An iciness not meant for you sends a chill through your blood. Everything stops, suddenly, and you forget your sorrows in favor of concern. You do not recognize the man stood before you, or the glint in his eye- but it does not frighten you. He does not frighten you. If anything, you find yourself unsettled by possibilities crafted from figments of panic and distress, woven together like threads to create a visual of your worst fears. Both reluctant and eager to follow his orders, you find yourself frozen in place. Meeting his eye, you search for something calm within the chaise of lilac- something familiar- and Aemond’s nostrils flare at your hesitation. You spare him one last glance, hoping that it conveys all of the sentiments your tongue fails to- be careful, be safe, do not search for trouble, come back to me- and with an uncertain nod, your feet begin to guide you away.

He remains still with his fists clenched by his sides until he’s sure your father has noticed you. Then, he sets off.

You feel faint.

The room, and the people within it, spin dizzily, and it takes every bit of willpower you have to keep walking toward your father. He’s easy enough to spot, and you’re temporarily riddled with vexation that you weren’t able to find him sooner. He smiles when he sees you- his face rosy from indulging in the evening’s festivities- but his grin falters when he notices the look of utter terror you don.

“What troubles you, darling?” He skips a greeting altogether, “You seem…unwell.”

“I am,” You attempt to convey what you’re feeling, but the words fail you. Instead, it sounds like you’re agreeing with him, and it only heightens his worry.“I-I am-“

“Has something happened?” He tries a simpler question, urging you to divulge what’s gotten you so riled up. “Take a breath, love,” A warm hand finds your shoulder, and he crouches down to meet your line of sight- that somehow searches beyond him for a head of silver. “What has happened?”

“Aemond,” Through your panic, decency evades you, and you find yourself unable to mutter any explanation beyond calling out his name. “Prince Aemond, have you- can you see him?” Questions remain unfinished, true inquiries remain unasked- cut in half and left partial by quick breaths- you find it increasingly difficult to simplify your urgent need to discover his whereabouts. “I-I’ve lost him.” You supply, but your father struggles to make sense of the minimal detail. “We were together, you see, and we parted ways and I haven’t- I must-“ 

You’re visibly shaken. Your inability to form a coherent sentence, coupled with the fact that the whites of your eyes shine with a fear he’s prayed you’d never feel, fills him with dread. He sets his goblet down. Acidic spirits already savored sour in his gut. He takes a breath, and then another, his tongue swiping across the wine-stained cracks in his lips before he leans in and accuses, “Has the prince caused you such distress?”

If anyone were to overhear the accusation, he would certainly face repercussions for such foul allegations, but when your well-being is at stake, he could care less about the threat of his tongue being slit, or his head being placed atop a spike.

His love for you truly knows no bounds.

“No!” You’re quick to deny the slander against Aemond’s name, horrified at the implication that he could be the cause of such affliction. “No, he…he could never.” Your voice finds you then- in the surety of defending Aemond’s honor, no doubt- and with a breath, you try your best to explain. “I just-“ 

“Good evening, Lord Piper.”

An angry flush kisses Aemond’s cheeks- a startling contrast against the fairness of his skin that proves difficult to hide- but he bows his head respectfully, greeting your father, properly. Your eyes widen. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you search for any indication of an altercation- first his brow, and the delicate skin around his scar, then his neck, and any other exposed skin, before finally landing on his knuckles. With a sickening realization, it dawns on you that you’re searching for blood. Your father watches you intently, his eyes never leaving your face until a look of relief overcomes your features. He waits a moment more, ensuring that you’re truly at ease. Then, he returns the prince’s sentiment.

“Good evening, Prince Aemond, and happy solstice to you.” He presses his lips together politely- though his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Silence follows. Neither you, nor Aemond says anything. Instead, you gaze upon one another, and as your father looks between the two of you, he realizes that an entire conversation is taking place- and he can’t decipher any of the words. Reluctantly, your father spares you one last glance before huffing a sigh. “Well, I believe it is not my company you’ve sought this evening,” He announces before turning towards you once more. There’s a look in his eye,- a look that urges you to seek him, to confide in him when the time permits- and with a gentle nod of understanding, he bids you farewell, entrusting you in Aemond’s care. “Darling,” 

As soon as your father departs, you huff a sigh of relief. “Aemond,” His name passes in a breath, and your brows furrow. “What did you say?” 

“If you were meant to hear, I would not have sent you away.” He tells you. His jaw is tense, the muscles pronounced and much more prominent when he forces himself to hold his tongue behind an army of clenched teeth, and you notice the flush of his cheeks- a dark red hue that’s obvious against pale skin- and the way his chest heaves. His eye doesn’t meet yours, instead glowering somewhere behind you, and you have to resist the urge to reach out for him- to find the sharp point of his chin with the tips of your fingers and save him from his thoughts. With a heavy exhale, he sighs, “It matters not, just know that you will never have to endure his company again.”

Your gaze narrows. It can not be that easy. With no signs of a physical confrontation- save for the barely there trembling of Aemond’s clenched fists- and no visible blood spilt, you’re left to assume that such a conflict was resolved with words- which seems impossible. You suppose that his stature might’ve been enough to intimidate the lesser lord, but still, you can’t help but wonder what was spoken amongst men- and why it’s seemed to agitate him so. Somewhere, between the vagueness of his reply, the truth remains, and you have to accept that the only two people privy to such knowledge are Aemond and Leowyn. With his word that you’ve been spared, you know it to be so, and a feeling of utter relief eclipses the affliction you felt mere moments prior.

“Thank you.” Pressing your lips together, you express your gratitude with a smile. Aemond attempts to mirror the gesture politely, but the firm, morose line pales in comparison. He catches the eyes of a pair of lords who have taken a sudden interest in watching the two of you. They whisper to one another, leaning in close to share secrets about him, no doubt, and he can only imagine what vile things they must mumble- what wicked sights they must see as outsiders looking in. It must be quite a display, to watch someone as grim and menacing as he is- someone as aloof and unapproachable- speak to someone as fair and kind as you are. He wonders what judgments must pass when he is in your company? What do the outsiders believe to be true? Perhaps that you’ve taken pity on him- as he did, briefly, in his youth. Or, perhaps you’re performing an act of decorum. All his life he’s been subjected to repellent remarks and ugly accusations, but this is the first time he finds himself wondering what people must whisper about you- for choosing to stand by his side, in a room full of people. The revelation causes his tempers to flare. A fleeting rage returns tenfold and he has half a mind to confront the onlookers on your behalf, to make them rue ever speaking illy upon your name, to make them suff-

“Would you fancy a dance?” You ask, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil and the perceived judgments passed onto the pair of you. “Unless, of course, you wish to retire to your chambers, or evade our company altogether-“ There’s a hint of teasing thinly woven within the suggestion, and it’s enough to reel his attention back from the shadows of his mind. A coy, little smirk threatens to turn into a taunting smile, and Aemond finally turns to face you.

“Still haven’t found a knight or squire to teach you technique, have you?” He jests with the hint of a barely-there smile, alluding to the faithful night in the godswood in which your paths crossed. 

In truth, you’ve found plenty- but you’ve chosen him. Such a vulnerable revelation feels as though you’ve permitted him to look right through you- beyond blood, bone, and marrow- straight to an arrhythmic heart, and you fear that he sees it- your feelings for what they are, and you for what you truly feel. Before him, you are defenseless. Always. Never exposed nor endangered, but at the mercy of him, entirely. There is no need for armor- nothing to gain from chainmail, steel, nor shield- because you do not need to protect yourself from him. The only weapon he wields is a blade of rejection, sharpened and polished to pierce through the entirety of your being. The notion alone threatens to dampen your lashes and you’re forced to confront a question you’ve refrained from asking aloud; is it better to tell him how you feel, or spare yourself the pain of possible rejection? You do not know the answer.

Aemond, who notices that you appear crestfallen rather than jovial, as he intended, sucks in a sharp breath before agreeing, “Very well,”

He extends his hand to you- long, inviting, pale fingers beaconing you to join him- and you swallow down the last inklings of doubt, before reluctantly taking his hand. Beyond the crowds, near the outskirts of partnered pairs and intoxicated onlookers, there is a clearing. An abandoned corner- so secluded, yet so exposed- has never appeared more enchanting, and you allow Aemond to guide you toward the private opening. The smell of booze is overwhelming, rivaled only by the unmistakable odors of sweat and urine. It’s pungent, but a welcome reminder that cups are filled to their brims, and the surrounding folk are too busy drowning in their own pleasures to pay you any mind.

You are a stranger amongst the shadows, and Aemond steers you.

Once an appropriate distance from the rest of the crowd- a separation far enough to grant privacy, whilst remaining accessible enough to heed to societal standards- Aemond turns to face you. Though traces of agitation, spite, and irritation still linger across his features, there’s a softness that wasn’t there before. As if you’ve been offered a glimpse of a knight free from the protection of his armor- bare from the defenses of his shield- you meet the ambiguous intensity of his eye. A round of applause is muffled by the fervor of his stare, and you can’t help but hold his gaze.

In the reflection of his iris, you see yourself, and you can’t help but wonder if he notices himself in yours?

He takes a step forward, approaching you slowly and positioning his stance. You follow suit, albeit less confident and sure than he is. For as far removed from judgment as you are, your stomach still twists unpleasantly. Though, all churning seems to seize when you feel Aemond’s hand reach out for yours. For a moment, you’re stunned. Even with the knowledge that you’d have to hold him to turn with him, you weren’t prepared for such an intimate affair. So lost within your thoughts are you that at the first sound of strings threaten your feet to move on their own accord.

“Not yet,” He whispers, so softly that you still. Warmth seeps from your palms, and you wonder if he can feel the influx of heat where your hands are joined. If he notices, he makes no mention of it. Instead, he takes the smallest step forward and readjusts your hands for a more comfortable hold. Where you’ve let your palms hover a few centimeters apart, he presses them flush together. Your breath hitches as your lifelines meet and his slender fingers wrap around the back of your hand. For as callused and rough as his hands are- from years of sword training and dragon-riding- he holds you with a gentleness that betrays his ruggedness, and something swirls in the pit of your belly. Hot, aching, urgent. The need to be closer to him is overwhelming- and impossible, considering you’re already so close to him, but it’s not enough. You long for more. 

You desire more. 

How can you yearn for something you’ve never experienced? How can you want more than you already have? Your legs nearly give out from under you when you realize, and when a silent gasp escapes your lips, Aemond is there to hold you steady. He hasn’t forgotten about your fear of dancing- of being forced to dance with partners you can’t refuse, of enduring their wandering hands, of the scrutiny of a misstep- and he keeps you upright when your limbs threaten to betray you. When his eye meets yours, you feel lightheaded. The sound of a harpsichord echoes around the hall, and before you have a chance to catch your breath, Aemond instructs, “Now.”

At his command, you step forward, unsure of where you’re meant to be headed, but willing to follow him into the abyss as long as he is the one leading. You stumble slightly, your movements timid and doubtful despite years of solitary practice. Without meaning to, you tense and unintentionally tighten your grip around his fingers. He does not wince. He does not fidget, nor does he yelp or demand that you unhand him. He remains unfazed- save for the erratic thudding against his ribcage that is hidden by bone and flesh and concealed by the naked eye. Looking down the long slant of his nose, he watches you fret over each step. Your stare never meets his. Instead, your gaze remains fixed on the ground, watching your feet to ensure that you don’t stumble over them. Aemond uses the distraction as an excuse to watch you. It’s difficult to believe that though you still turn like a frightful child, you’ve grown into something beyond. Brazenly, he stares- at the few freckles that kiss the fullest point of your cheeks, to the slope of your nose and the bow of your lips.

Something ignites within him. He flushes, not with fury or malice, but with a comforting warmth- an ember of unknown origin alight amongst the ashes of stone-cold nothingness- that feels simultaneously foreign and familiar. 

It is a feeling that tempts him- a feeling he wishes to never part from; but there is no place for light within darkness. A glimmer is no match for a void. Not enough for it to fester, anyway. Eclipsed by shadows, a single star can not shine, just as a glimpse of tenderness can not absolve a heart and mind plagued by vengeance.

“I was not aware you knew how to dance, my prince,” A light laugh bubbles past your lips when you feel his eye upon you. It’s a feeling so familiar that it’s become unmistakable. In an attempt to alleviate the palpable tension in the air, you jest. 

“And why is that?” Prompted by the challenge, you turn to look up at him. 

“I’ve never seen you partake in such festivities.” 

It is fact. Aemond does not indulge. He has no appetite for celebrations. Hence,  he refrains from satiating an otherwise illusory desire to mingle and mix. Where his brother is gluttonous, he is abstemious- so moderate in his rapture that he could not describe pleasure or delight if there was a rope knotted around his neck. Perhaps, his idea of indulgence varies so drastically from the norm that it takes on a different meaning, completely. He seeks satisfaction elsewhere. Cups do not gratify him. Skin does not tempt him. Company does not fulfill him. Though, your company is often welcome, he rarely seeks it, but when he does, he’s rewarded with a sense of ease- a calmness that quells the most fervent of his anxieties, even if only for a few moments- something blissful and content. 

His own movements stagger at the realization.

“Forgive me, I-“ You’re quick to apologize, assuming that you’re the one that’s made a misstep and scuffed the leather of his boot with the bottom of your slipper. Your eyes widen with remorse and you loosen your hold on his hand, expecting his fingers to release yours as well, but he tightens his grip, holding you closer as you nearly come to a complete halt.

“Allow me to guide you,” He offers lowly, and with a timid nod, you agree. Hesitantly, he sneaks a glance around the hall to make sure that no one is watching the pair of you, and once he’s certain that you’ve not caught the eyes of any onlookers, he huffs a breath. “Lift your skirts,” The whispered command rids you of breath, and your lips part in a stunned gasp. You’re left breathless, mouth agape and speechless, as a fury of emotions glaze over your eyes. Hurt. Betrayal. Intrigue. Horror. Shock. He watches them devour you.

“I beg your pardon?” Something akin to anger lingers in your tone, and he realizes he’s never seen you seethe before. You’re not so naive to believe that men hold feelings of love and adoration above feelings of temptation and desire. Men like Leowyn Corbray indulge without repentance, and they do not ask for forgiveness. You’re no stranger to the cruelty of men and their advances, but you never thought Aemond capable of such vulgarity. Perhaps, you’re credulous. Blinded by your devotion to him, perhaps you’ve overlooked the traits you’ve grown to despise within other men. How is it that he was so enraged to learn about Leowyn’s advances, but holds no reserve when proposing his own straightforward sin? How could he hold you with such a delicacy whilst demanding such a carnal desire? Who is the man that stands before you? Do you even truly know? Is he a stranger, or is he-

“Just…” The pointed tip of his boot aligns with the tip of your slipper, and you can feel him cautiously nudge your foot with his. When he and Helaena were children, they danced in a similar manner- in which his sister would stand atop his feet and he would guide them both. He held no intention of offending, insulting, or upsetting you. He only wished to guide you. “Allow me to guide you,” Aemond suggests, and suddenly, you understand. You flush with embarrassment, heat burning your cheeks with guilt, as you carefully accept his invitation and allow him to take a few steps. “Better?”

“Much.” You press your lips into an apologetic smile as Aemond continues to guide the both of you through the dance. It’s such a strange sensation. It’s weightless and carefree and blithe- almost what you imagine flying must feel like.

It dawns on you then, as his eye meets yours, a silent vow is made- under his guidance, under his protection, you would never be led astray.

a/n: finally finished an update after being in and out of the hospital for a week! woo! hope you all enjoy!

series taglist: @just-emmaaaa @seasidh @randomdragonfires @misspendragonsworld @bellaisasleep @helaenaluvr @travelingmypassion @youtoldalie @fangirlninja67 @aemondsversion

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