#with time his habit of bequeathing homes will be repeated

[thedaslut]

Have a short solavellan ficlet, set immediately after VG (Obviously spoiler heavy)

Solas does his best to keep it together but… these past few minutes have been some of the most exhausting of his life, and that's including the fight with Elgar'nan's archdemon just before then. He barely registers the bleak greyness, the monochrome light as he finds his knees buckling and vision swimming.

But he does feel the warmth as his vhenan grabs him to steady him, hears her voice as she calls his name - though the sound of it is muffled and distorted he knows it from her lips.

She speaks to him as he's lead to a fallen pillar. He thinks she tells him to look at her, but he's not sure. He does anyway. He sees two of her, and the thought that he's twice as happy flits through his mind and makes him smile.

"You look a mess, vhenan," she says, both of her smiling back. "Rest. I am here. I will be here when you wake up."

He could obey and lean back, he knows. Already his beloved is searching through her field-kit with a deft hand that looks like something Ghilan'nain would approve of in his swimming vision, but he doesn't close his eyes or look away. He doesn't want to. He never wants to stop seeing her.

Still, his vision dims as she works, cleans, heals. Pulsing darkness at the edges, or perhaps simply blinking. He closes his eyes when she whispers something reassuring and reaches up to the gash over his eye with a needle and thread and he doesn't open them again. He says something, he thinks it is her name, and it feels like a promise.

He's warm when he wakes up.

The prison has never been warm.

Opening his eyes is not as easy as he thought. One eye is swollen, and both hurt like a bad headache with reinforcements. He doesn't feel heavy - his armor removed - and he is resting his head on a red piece of cloth. Vhenan's sash, he realizes when he turns his face towards it and catches her scent. Still the same, after all this time. Her coat covers him best it can, and it warms more than just his frame.

Something in front of him flutters as he breathes. It takes a good while for him to focus his gaze on it.

The grey rock of the prison is as familiar to him as it gets, cold and merciless like the past. But from a crack within the stone a bright, green sapling has unfolded two leaves that dance with his breath.

He lifts his head, and sees light. Warm light, sunlight. He feels wind, light and gentle. At the edge of his hearing he can hear flowing water.

And not too far away from him, but far enough for him to know that she's been exploring, is his heart. Standing within a sunbeam that turns the grey stone around her golden.

Her hand extended, a tiny whisp dancing in her palm. A guest, who slipped through cracking walls? Or something formed here where he meant for no life to thrive?

A breath of relief, a sob of a pain ended, the pain in his eyes washed away as tears form. She was right. It wouldn't be terrible if they are together.

[fandomflail]

title: Recognition (8/9)

rating: M

summary: Soulmate trope AU. Set in a world where humans and elves coexist.

a/n: i should be wary of promising exact dates as I have a habit of running the edit brush over and over again until i finally reach a point where i can edit no more. and still, the length of this chapter is monstrous. there will be another chapter, as giving myself an additional chapter before the end has allowed me to share more of the world with you. i hope you dont hate me for it. 

also on AO3

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CHAPTER 8: Reveal

Killian kissed Emma fiercely, before he, Liam and Elsa sped off. Killian had left Emma with the keys to his home, and it had been hours now since they’d left. She had little word from him and was doing her best to not worry.

Jefferson had regressed, and was now quietly speaking on the communicator to someone she couldn’t see. Belle had taken the opportunity to tutor the kids in History, walking them through the royal lineage.

Emma joined them after she had cleaned the penthouse, thankful for the sore in her muscles as a lot of the anxious energy had been burned off. Despite the fact that Henry kept interrupting Belle with questions, the Head of the B.E.A.S.T was patient and kind in answering them.

She faltered however, when Gracie suddenly asked, “All the kings and queens mentioned have had long lives. And the ones who have died early, like King Brennan, has been a result of foul play. Was he assassinated?”

Belle looked uncomfortable, tossing a glance at Jefferson who paid them no mind. “Well, it’s too early to say, isn’t it? And that’s a rather… well, it could have been mind maladies, an accident, anything. We can’t know for sure. Why jump to that as the first explanation?”

The girl pursed her lips. Emma watched her, the look on her face was so like her father’s it was uncanny. “Papa may have…” her eyes darted to her father who was still in conversation, “he may have alluded that the Queen…” she trailed off, losing her nerve.

“But why?” Emma asked, jumping into the conversation. Her one and only interaction with the Queen Consort had been highly unpleasant, to say the least, but she stood to gain nothing from a dead king, “Liam’s next in line.”

Gracie, Henry and Belle shook their heads in tandem. “That’s not how it works.”

“But he’s the first born son!” She defended.

Her outburst must have caught Jefferson’s attention, because he interjected, “The way the rule works is that, the next ruler must be chosen by the previous.” He clicked off the communicator, joining their side of the room, “Now of course, Kings have long since just ‘chosen’ their children, thus making it a blood lineage, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“That’s right, and precedence was set thousand of years before the Landing of the First Men, during the rule of King Sanfant, who died young and childless. Queen Elligent became the automatic ruler, and re-married. Her daughter would inherit the throne.” Belle recited, as if she could see the book in front of her. “I think there was opposition to automatic inheritance, which led to the formation of the 13,” Belle finished, her tone unsure as she looked to Jefferson, who nodded to confirm her statement.

“But if the ruler was assassinated or died without naming a successor…” Jefferson said, his tone flat, “then the Council would be forced to ascend from their lofty abodes in Irska and decide. Of the 13, most favor Prince William as he spent a long time in Irska. He would most likely take the throne given that he is well liked and has been cultivated as a ruler since he was knee high. However, that appointment won’t come without politics.”  

“You seemed to know this with a certainty…” Emma remarked, watching Jefferson closely. It was imperceptible, but she saw that slight change of expression that told her he hadn’t meant to reveal his depth of knowledge on the matter. Emma realized then that she didn’t actually know what Jefferson did. He kept a remarkably low profile, had little relationships with other elves that she knew of (courtesy of Henry through Gracie) and was really more secretive than was warranted.

Jefferson seemed rigid as he shrugged his shoulder in nonchalance. Emma caught Gracie watching her father critically, validating Emma’s thoughts. “It’s common knowledge,” he said, “just like how one of the barriers for Prince William’s appointment will be whether or not he intends to pass the line to Prince Killian or his own children.”

It may have been an attempt to distract her, but Emma couldn’t help the question, “Why wouldn’t they want Killian to take the throne?”

“I don’t think they like him, mum,” Henry said with an expression that said he severely disagreed with that.

“But why?”

Jefferson sighed, rubbing his neck. “You do remember what I told you all those months ago at the Open Court? That he had eschewed his elven responsibilities and all but left to be human?”

She nodded. Killian had shared with her why he had left, and what he had done in that time.

“It’s a great insult,” Gracie said, nodding sagely.

“There’s 3 books about the incident,” Belle said, squinting her eyes like she was looking through book catalogues in her memory.

“It was big, when it happened. Mostly because of how he did it.The insult to pride has not abated, no matter how nice they play now. I can almost guarantee that one of the conditions of Prince William’s ascension will be that the line will never pass through Prince Killian or any of his progeny.”

Emma felt a wave of rage at the injustice of that, despite the fact that they had not discussed children. Heck, they hadn’t even really discussed their own future! She was also pretty sure Killian had no desire to rule. It was just… the principle of it.

“And Liam will agree to that condition?”

Jefferson scoffed. “Easily. He would not take likely to anyone insulting his family’s honor, but even he would easily agree to such a term. That’s not what will tip the scales.”

“What, then?” Belle asked.

Jefferson sighed, his eyes glancing at them and around the room, as if deciding how much to tell them, and what. His eyes landed on the closed doors, on the eagerly awaiting faces, and when his eyes caught Emma’s, he sighed.

“Understand,” he said in a voice lower than usual, “that what you’re about to hear would be… problematic, to say the least, if repeated elsewhere. Consider perhaps, that some may be hearsay, or completely invalidated.”

“We understand the disclaimer, Papa” Gracie said, sounding impatient.

He sighed again. Emma too, was feeling impatient.

And then, it was like a damn burst.

“The Queen has a rather interesting history, one surprisingly that even escaped the Sukrasa. She’s reinvented herself of sorts. It’s a long story, but she’s from a kingdom far, far, far away. There’s rumored to be a band of elves in the vast desert systems of the Orken, and as no one really knows how to find them or has had much contact with them over literal millennia; most people consider them mythical.”

“They are real?” Belle asks, sounding like someone just told her she’d won a million Glyd. Emma’s sort of glad to see that Henry and Gracie both look as confused as she personally feels.

“It appears so. Her Highness Coraline, though she was nothing but a maiden named Kara then, was… exiled. She was no older than 14 I hear, though I cannot be certain of her age when it happened. It seems she murdered someone, again unverified, or at the least, benefited from the death of some high ranking person in their society. In any case, they sent her to live in a cavern below their systems. Intel implies a deeper level of cave system. In any case, she must have escaped sometime later, though she did so with a baby in her belly.”

“Wait, what? What does this have to do with Liam? How do you know this?” Emma interrupted, incredulous.  

Jefferson held up a hand, as if to say, be patient. He eyed Henry and Gracie, as if regretting that they were hearing this, but must have surmised it was too late now, as he continued, “She made her way to a settlement somewhere on the borders of Snoland and Nysno, where it was said the child passed during birth - that a decision had to be made so she chose to live. Fashioned a completely new identity there, became a key strategist in Snoland, was recommended to serve in Irska, where she met the widowed King Brennan, and is now as we know, Queen Coraline.”

Emma had more questions than ever.

“The child, didn’t in fact pass. In fact, the child has grown up to be a very powerful alchemist. Unfortunately, she has taken after her mother in both ambition and ruthlessness. You see, two months ago, my network, don’t ask who or how, received intel about this elf, about 350 years in age, who had set sights on Irska. Not uncommon, to be fair, except that her brand of alchemy dealt strongly in dangerous arts, poisons and services of revenge, both petty and malicious. This was all hush hush. On the surface, she did plenty of healing art too. But then one of the agents had a hunch, and a good thing too, for he tracked her, got close to her, and found out all that I’ve relayed to you now. Her name is Zelena, beautiful, red haired, and fair skin. She’s already in Irska, and she knows whose daughter she is. What we don’t know is if she’s confronted her mother, or worst, is scheming with Coraline to ingratiate herself for the crown. She’s first born. Then of course, you have Coraline’s own child, Princess Regina, who the crown would most certainly pass to if The 13 instate the Queen as Regent.”

“Oh shit,” said Henry. 

“Henry, language!”

“So if I understand,” Belle said haltingly, “if King Brennan didn’t bequeath the crown to Prince Liam, then The Council of Elders will be called to decide if the crown goes to him or Queen Coraline. If the crown goes to Queen Coraline, then she will later give it to Princess Regina, provided her alleged first born Zelena, doesn’t come in to demand her rights. Did I get it right?”

“Does Regina know about her sister? Or Coraline know about her daughter?”

“Yes,” said Jefferson pointing to Belle, and “No, I don’t think so, and not sure, we don’t know if she’s confronted her,” he said, answering Emma’s questions.

“This is ludicrous, Papa. Is this true?”

“If Zelena is to be believed. But regardless of whether or not Coraline’s past is true - perhaps she herself made up the rumor about Orken for intrigue -  the present remains that the King was, most likely, intentionally disposed. And if so, then it must be because the stars have aligned themselves for some nefarious plan that one, or both of them, are cooking up.”

“Then Killian is in danger. And Liam, and Elsa.” Emma breathed out. “Wait, why the hell haven’t you told anyone this?!?” She demanded, rounding on Jefferson.

He gave her a long hard look. “The ones who have needed to be informed have been. But clearly, they have failed. I don’t know who has been compromised.”

“The Sukrasa?” Belle asked.

“Were aware. It remains to be seen if they failed or were… compromised.”

“But they have a code,” Emma said unthinkingly, remembering that night at the ball.

“Yes, a code,” Jefferson said impatiently, “but morality is separate. It would not be disloyal to follow Queen Coraline’s orders, especially if they didn’t—-“

He stopped, looking like he had just figured something out.

“What?” Emma asked.

“Papa, you’ve lost colour.”

“Belle, I need you to stay here, lock the doors, and keep the children safe. Can I count on you?”

“What is it?” Emma pressed, but he wasn’t looking at her at all.

Henry and Gracie protested immediately, but Belle’s voice was the firmest Emma had ever heard it. “Yes, we won’t move. They will be safe.”

Jefferson turned to her, something blazing in his eyes. “We need to go, now.”

Emma had a million questions, but there was something there that told her she could ask it on the way. She trusted Jefferson, despite the evidence suggesting she shouldn’t. She nodded, and went to Henry, hugging him tightly.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this drama, kid,” she whispered into his hair.

He laughed, despite the worry she felt radiating from him. “Are you kidding, I’m living in a movie. Just,” he inhaled sharply, “just be safe, mum, please.”

“Of course. I love you,” she said, feeling warm when he responded in kind.

She kissed him on the forehead, touched Gracie’s forearm gently, thanked Belle who waved her off, and went with Jefferson.

The dizzying emotions kept her quiet as she warred with the side of her that screamed I told you so!, I told you he’d be nothing but bad news, which she knew objectively was untrue, but also sort of true - getting mixed up in whatever political intrigue was happening was way above Emma’s comprehension and interest. But she also knew that she’d go to the fiery pits of Anbar for him; she loved him, whether or not she was ready to say it.

She had so many questions that figuring what to ask first kept her quiet, and the urge to just show up to the palace and … punch, or kick or just slap the Queen was making her skin itch. This inaction was making her antsy.

Jefferson too, seemed preoccupied. He was fiddling with his communicator, clearly processing a million different things at once. It wasn’t until they were safely tucked in his pod and their harnesses buckled did Emma speak. So did Jefferson.

“I know you must be wondering—“

“What the hell is going on—“

The pod was moving at full speed; Jefferson was masterfully guiding the craft towards the borders of Alamané on the other side of the river.

“There’s too much to tell you, so here’s what you must know. If, if the Sukrasa are executing orders from the Queen, it means that her actions or promised outcomes are likely to be for the better of the realm.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“Maybe so… but she’s smart, and plays the game of politics for more masterfully than the King, or the two princes. One King dying of young age is suspect enough, but two princes? No, they are not in immediate danger - unless they threaten to expose her. How likely is that?”

“If Killian or Liam thinks their father has been murdered—“

“Exactly. Until this moment, the Zelena connection has been tenuous at best. Despite the intel, there was no actual proof, no evidence to suggest the entire story was true. I’ve met both Zelena and Regina; very similar in temperament, both… unpleasant, but  smart. Also quick to anger, and impatient. Where Coraline would play games for centuries, Zelena finds waiting to be strenuous. About 7 minutes ago, confirmation has come through that the King was indeed poisoned.”

“Fuck them,” Emma said, hating the she-elves the more she learned about them. “Of the three, who do we need to worry more about now?”

“Coraline, Zelena, Regina, in that order,” he said, without a moment of hesitation.

“Oh shit,” Jefferson exclaimed suddenly.

“What? What?”

“We’re almost at the border into the Ekilon Forest, where the first checkpoint is.”

Emma had never been there, but she understood.

“Oh,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks unbidden, “I actually… I have right of way.”

“What? How?”

Emma pulled out the chain she never took off, the one that kept Killian’s ring by her skin at all times. She dangled the ring, and the pod swerved slightly to the right as Jefferson reacted to the sight.

The ring Killian had given her was no mere ring. It was delicately crafted, and the official signet ring of Killian Aearinön. At the time, she hadn’t understood the full significance of the gesture, as he’d merely told her that it would allow her to find him, always. Only later had he explained that someone who carried that ring could march right up to the throne room in Irska itself and not be stopped, for it was their right and honor. Each royal had only one to give away, and she had his.

She had wondered if anyone would actually believe that it was a real signet ring. He had licked her cheek, making her laugh and smack him in protest. Then he told her lovingly, that it was made from pure Innenfra which had made her gasp into silence. It was a type of metal that when worn for long periods of time, made elf blood sing, providing harmony to the body. Most elves wore some type of Innenfra, mostly just as a small earring like Jefferson did, as it was rare and terribly expensive. A whole ring was royal indeed.

“Wow,” Jefferson said, “well, that solves one problem at least. Though perhaps not as inconspicuous as I hoped.”

They arrived at the checkpoint, and Emma gave her name, doing her best to remain plain even as she showed them the signet ring. She could see the arch of brow at that, but they did not question her further, allowing their pod to pass through unencumbered. Their mood was not sombre as she thought it would be, they seemed  to be mostly unaffected, as if they hadn’t heard about the death of their king.

“Are these elves loyal to Killian’s family? They don’t seem like they’re mourning.”

“Mourning is what we reserve for the tragic loss, like that of a child. A mother’s death is a warrior’s mourn, for she died in the most noble of battles. And as for King Brennan… no one knows about the murder yet. For that, there shall be anger, and a swift retribution.  But common deaths? Oh, we celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“We live longer lives than you, ah I mean to say, humans, and so we do not fear death as much as humans, only a life left unfulfilled.”

“So, Cora?”

“There’s more questions than answers. But I have a theory if you will, and it goes as follows. Once the King is disposed, the sons must be discredited. Of the two, Prince Killian would be the easiest to lay blame on. If he is found somehow responsible for the death of his father, that casts aspersions to the whole lot of them. Prince William will be expected to sentence Prince Killian to death, which he would not do, mostly because he will not believe his brother to be conspirator, no matter who accuses Killian as the mastermind. Queen Coraline however, as broken hearted as she will appear to be, will of course avenge her husband. Once her mother is in position, Zelena will appear suddenly, taking credit for setting the whole thing up, if she hasn’t already.”

A sudden, sinking feeling settled in Emma stomach. One that had been building since  earlier that day, one that had been growing in the pit of her stomach but she had ignored in favor of other pressing matters.

“This is your best theory?”

They were speeding through Ekilon; she could see the next checkpoint into Irska itself, with its glittering castle not too far in the distance. She needed to play this right.

“I told you, I’ve met Zelena. And Regina.”

“Very well met then, to make such accurate predictions?” She asked more sharply than intended. Cool down, Emma, almost there.

She was looking straight ahead, but she could feel the weight of his stare on her as he glanced her way.

“Enough to know that this is the play she’d make, rather than attack directly.”

“How do you suppose she’s getting information?”

She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, his face remained impassive, though his left hand twitched imperceptibly on the control - she would have missed it if she had blinked.

“Her mother, most likely. Otherwise, I don’t know.”

“Right.”

Clearly, she was terrible at subtlety, because Jefferson, for the first time since she’d known him, growled irritated.

“What are you insinuating?”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re not being subtle, Emma!”

“Fine! Are you working for the Queen? Zelena? Or Regina?”

“You have a lot of nerve asking that,” Jefferson said, voice turning dangerous. Emma balled her fists, ready to swing if it came to that.

“Answer the question.”

He huffed, and the pod jerked, accelerating forward faster. He swerved off the main path into a smaller one off to the right, and stopped suddenly at an alcove.

“Jefferson!” Her hand jumped to the handle.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said angrily, “I’m not working for them… anymore.”

“WHAT?”

He had his hands in his hair, gripping it tightly. He looked absolutely mad. Emma had no idea how everything had unravelled so quickly, but she had her balisong in her left hand, ready to be flipped out to become a dangerous blade if needed.

“Look, we really don’t have time for this. But here’s the short of it. I worked for Zelena, before I knew all of her connections. I’m the one who basically… connected the dots of her family line, led her to her mother, so to speak.”

“You said you only found out about her a month ago!”

“I didn’t lie, though there might have been omission,” he admitted.

Emma cursed at him, but he ignored her and went on, “I worked with her on something, unrelated, and we found out her heritage almost by chance. In any case, she wanted me to do…more, threatening Gracie, who was a mere babe at the time; I refused. Needless to say, I disappeared, moved to Alamané. When we found out about an unknown alchemist, and Gr—my partner did digging into it. It’s when pieces started to fall into place. My partner has been very close to Zelena, and we’ve had nothing further to act on since then.”

“Jævla deg,” she cursed at him.

Despite looking frazzled, he laughed. “Prince Killian is teaching you the good stuff, I see.”

“Jefferson, I thought we were…” she faltered, the word friend dying on her lips because they weren’t quite that.

“I mean you no harm, Emma. Truly. But we need to get to the place now. One, to make sure in anger that neither prince jeopardizes their claim to the throne by unwise actions, and two, Zelena is on her way to the castle. She knows something, she had some kind of leverage, and my partner believes he knows what it is.”

“Which is?”

With a deep breath, as if he too were wishing this was true, “The last letter of King Brennan Blåoyne, which states indubitably that he intends for the crown to pass to Prince William. It’s not quite the official bequeathing ceremony per say, but it should be enough to convince The 13 of the will of the king. They would lose face and cast aspersions to their character if they went with Queen Coraline after that, unless of course her reward was more enticing than we could imagine.” He begin moving the pod back in the proper direction of Irska.

“I can imagine an awful lot,” Emma said, annoyed.

“Yes,”  Jefferson agreed, saying nothing more.

The rest of the ride was in silence, as Emma, despite her anxiety, irritation and feelings of betrayal, could not help but be awed as the pod moved into Irska. The forest gave way to a valley, with a clear river flowing off to their right. It was the same side where a tall mountain cliff stood strong, and a thick jet of water sprung from its top, rushing down to the river below.

The architecture was so very different from the clean industrial designs of Alamané. Irska was a city built into nature, with buildings carved into the mountain side, wood, stone and marble; and roads paved to curve around the trees. The energy was ancient, and it showed in the intricacies of design; elves of old had plenty of time to dedicate their lives to a small area of mastery, and so the attention to detail was magnificent, even from the little that she could see.

Damn, Emma thought, no wonder elves are so uptight about preserving this.

Ruby would have been pissed to hear her thoughts, but Emma wasn’t thinking of that.

* * *

The security around the castle was heightened, but The Sukrasa gave her no resistance as she showed Killian’s ring. It wasn’t until she was at the front doors itself was her movement given pause.

The tall elf standing straight near the doors wore a bright white uniform, his skin sun-kissed and his arms muscled. He was a person of authority, and wasn’t used to having it questioned.

“You’re the Lady Emma?” The elf asked. He wasn’t eyeing her with distaste, exactly, but it wasn’t friendly either.

“I don’t know about Lady…but I’m Emma, yes.”

“Vi må se prinsen, voktere,” Jefferson said, giving the elf a short bow.

The elf answered in their language, clearly giving Jefferson a set of strict directions. Emma opened her mouth to ask, but the elf turned to her. “My name is Robin, Kjærlighet.”

“Char-lie-et?”

“It’s the title of royal paramours.”

Emma felt her face heating - being labelled a paramour seemed so clandestine.

“His Highness, Prince Killian has been alerted of your presence. He awaits you. Adel Jefferson, you may —“

“I will accompany Kjærlighet Emma.”

Robin’s face soured. He gave Jefferson a severe look before he said, “If she would allow it.”

“Uh,” Emma said, taken off guard. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him exactly. He couldn’t be trusted for one, especially since he seemed to be keeping everyone on an information diet. But she could often tell when someone was lying, and he wasn’t… she didn’t think he was being malicious. But she wasn’t sure, either.

“Okay, yeah, he can come.”

“As you wish,” Robin said, turning heel with the air of someone who expected they would follow.

So they did.

* * *

When she saw him, she rushed into his arms without even thinking about it.

“Killian!”

“Emma,” Killian laughed in surprise, “it’s only been a couple of hours.”

“A hell couple of hours,” she muttered, to which he agreed by kissing her on the side of her head.

“Highness,” Jefferson said, his tone indicating whatever he had to say was going to be about the matter at hand, “I have some news. Is this a safe place to talk?”

“Is anywhere in this place safe from prying ears? But I reckon Liam is going to want to hear whatever you have to say,” Killian said, his body straightening against hers as if preparing to fight.

They gathered in a small room, with Liam looking troubled and Elsa with a frown marring her features.

“You seem to be a little too informed, lytting” Liam said, watching Jefferson suspiciously after the elf had told them what he had told Emma in the pod. Killian had only just avoided decking him in the face.

Jefferson shrugged, “In any case, that’s the start of it. There were traces of Marjaga in his late highness’ blood.”

A sharp intake was heard, and Liam slammed his hand on the table. The name Jefferson mentioned niggled at a memory, but she couldn’t place it. More importantly, it seemed that they hadn’t known about the king’s cause of death.

“I knew it,” Killian hissed. “Damn snake.” He increased his pacing, looking like a scorpion ready to sting. Emma remained perched where she was, looking away from him as his pacing made her queasy.

Elsa stood up suddenly. “I’ve seen her. I’ve seen her.”

“Who? Zelena?”

“Yes! She’s the healer they sent for Voktere Walsh when he was injured from his fall a few weeks ago. Beautiful redhead, he seemed to forget his pain when she was tending to him.”

“Whose security detail is Voktere Walsh on?” Jefferson asked.

Elsa shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I only saw everything from a distance.” She turned to her husband, asking without words if he did. Liam shook his head.

“Okay, so she’s in the palace. A Sukrara may have a a soft spot for her, making him easily manipulatable. By the time the royal coroner gets the full test, the Marjaga might be undetectable. The 13 should be arriving within the hour to convene.”

“Why should we trust you?” Liam interrupted, his body language reminding Emma of a wild animal about to spring.

“Because I have information, and you have whatever they tell you. And because, it is in my best interests that the throne does not pass to the Queen or her brats.”

Killian and Liam had been looking at each other every time Jefferson let loose another nugget of information, glancing at one another as if able to communicate by eyes alone. Maybe it was a sibling thing.

“I would like to skin her alive. And I’m surprised Killian has shown restraint thus far in not rushing out. But we must not loose our heads or our upper hand. Your partner,” Liam said, getting up and walking to Jefferson, “is he still in position?”

“Yes,” Jefferson confirmed, “though if we want him to… incapacitate Zelena, we would have one shot of it.”

“And what about dear stepmum?” Killian asked, every syllable dripping with venom.

For the first time since Liam had hugged her hello, he smiled. “I took care of that actually. We didn’t want her to be… distraught, see, so I gently suggested to her maiden that she be given strong dose of a magnolia bark, valerian and blue skullcap mixture.”

“What do those do?” Emma asked.

It was Elsa who answered. “Put one in a deep, deep, deep sleep. Oh, and I might have suggested a bit of chloroformius orchids, just to make sure she stays really relaxed.”

Emma stared in Elsa in surprise while Killian let out a whoop and clap. “Well done!”

“So that leaves Zelena and Regina.”

“Regina just left the palace in Snoland about an hour ago, it will take her at least two days to get here.”

“How do you know these things?!” Killian asked Jefferson.

“Can’t you trust that I do?”

“No,” Emma snapped.

“Fine. Your accusation was right, Highness,” he said looking at Liam, “I’m a lytting, though I’m sure when you called me that it was an insult. I served as the second in command to the Master of Whispers in Snoland, before the Snowdrop Wars, under the command of Queen Eva. The networks I built there reached Irska, and many of those relationships are active, even though I no longer serve the house that sits there. As you know, Princess Regina married King Leopold and she’s not who I wished to serve. If she succeeds in bearing him a blood heir since his first daughter’s family was killed in the Snowdrop Wars, and her mother bequeaths her Irska, then they become a powerful line indeed. And I’m not ready for the abuse of power that would follow. There, you now know my motivations, is this enough?”

* * *

As Emma walked to the dais where the dead king lay, she took a moment to reflect the insanity her life had become. She was now dressed in a dark blue dress of Elsa’s that was suitable for the occasion; it was a party after all. Elves left and right were high in spirits, regaling tales of the late king, surely embellishing details about how big the monster was, or how clever the foe.

It seemed Liam and Killian were showing the kind of restraint and strategy she thought went against their very nature, two whirlwinds of emotions now having to temper their anger for the bigger picture. There was a greater plot at play, and Emma wasn’t sure if she wanted to know it all. The Sukrasa Jefferson had warned, the informant in the palace, was no where to be found, suggesting another brand of foul play that may have resulted in the death of the king.

They had sent a trusted maiden to collect all of the Queen’s notes from her study, anything to link her to a plot. Jefferson’s partner was busy collecting and recording indisputable evidence that Zelena was part of it too. Liam had been summoned to The 13’s chambers. It seemed like a great wheel was spinning and the pieces would soon fall, once the blue smoke rose from The 13’s fire which would indicate a chosen ruler.

Emma reached the top of the dais, Killian holding her waist gently.

She stared down at the face of King Brennan, whose face had sunken in from the water loss. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your father,” she said finally.

“I’m more sorry that Liam has to take his throne this way.”

“Killian…”

“He wasn’t much of a father, to be honest. Vengeance will be mine, on his behalf, but I’m more sorry for all the trouble this is causing than anything else. I’m tired, Emma. It’s why I left. The title of a prince means little. We honor it and traditions because without it, elves are little else. Stuck in the past, averse to change. For what? So we can delude ourselves with grandeur and importance? I’ve paid my respects, let’s just go.”

He turned, but Emma stopped. She had just realized something.

“Killian, there’s ink on his hands.”

“What?” He turned back. “That’s not possible, they clean and dress bodies to ensure they keep for the Death Day Celebration.”

“Well, yes, but look at his fingernails. Look at the pad of that finger there.”

King Brennan’s nail bed had ink on them. Dark blue ink that could easily be mistaken as discoloration. There was a tinge of Aurum ink on his right index finger, and on his signet ring. Barely there, but now that she was looking, she could see it.

“You think he was writing the document Jefferson mentioned? The bequeathing letter? A bit much as coincidences go, don’t you think?”

There were whispering to each other, but Emma felt the hair of her neck stand at the implications of this discovery. “But what if it wasn’t? What if that’s the reason he was poisoned?”

“We’ve got to go find Liam and search father’s study, let’s go.”

* * *

Their search turned up nothing, but the whole thing was for naught. Because, too quickly, though a day had since passed, a blue fire rose into the night sky.

It happened just as Emma shut off the communicator, having been assured that Henry and Gracie were fine.

Jefferson moved to stand next to her, as Killian gripped her waist. The late king was to be interred in a few hours. Hhe had professed to her that he wished to just go home after that and lay in bed with her and forget the world for a while. Perhaps his father’s death and the plots surrounding it had affected him more than he care to let on, but he wasn’t talking to Emma about it, and as much as she wanted him to, she knew she had to give him space.

After all, she was aware enough to know that she’d have demanded the same.

The elves of court moved into the hall, with Liam and Elsa leading the front. The air was markedly more solemn than it had been earlier where King Brennan lay, but Emma had since given up understanding elven culture. She’d leave that to Henry.

An ancient elf stood; he looked like he had been left in the sun too long. His skin was weathered, voice deep and coarse. He might have been the oldest elf she’d ever seen.

“Sem Artur Pendrégon in sluzim Svetu starejsih. Var første og helligste plikt er abeskytte alvene, alvenes frihet og var guddommelighet. Felly mae wedi bod. Ac felly y bydd.”

“Felly mae wedi bod. Ac felly y bydd,” the elves repeated.

She looked up at Killian inquiringly. He was holding her so close to his body that every exhalation blew her hair to her cheek.

When he whispered the translation, her body reacted, suddenly very aware of the close proximity of her… of him.

“I am Arthurus Pendrégon, and I serve the Council of Elders. Our first and most sacred duty is to protect the way of life of elves, the liberty of elves, and our divinity. So it has been. And so it will be.”

But Arthurus was already speaking.

“Danes ne bomo stali na hitro ali slovesno. Razmislili smo, kaj je najboljše za irsko kraljestvo in kraljestvo vilinov, kot ga imamo vedno. Krona ni narejena samo iz dragocenih draguljev in kamnov, niti iz auruma in srebra. Krona je narejena iz discipline, pravičnosti, poguma in hrabrosti. Kraljeve linije so izbrane tako, da služijo ljudem, in tega ne smejo pozabiti nikoli tisti, ki služijo, in tisti, ki jim je služeno. Svet starejših se spominja in ohranja tradicije vilinov že od nekdaj, in to bomo storili, dokler ne bo stal zadnji vilin. In zato smo danes sklicali sem, da bi izbrali naslednjo Irska krono.”

“We will not stand on prompt nor ceremony for today. We have considered what is best for the kingdom of Irska, and the realm of elves, as we always have. A crown is not made of just precious gems and stones, nor of aurum and silver. A crown is made of  discipline, justice, courage and valor. The royal lines are chosen to serve the people,    and this should never be forgotten by those who serve and those who are served. The Council of Elders remembers and conserves the elven traditions from time immemorial, and we shall do so until the last elf stands. And for this, today, we have convened here to choose the next crown of Irska,” Killian said, translating to his best ability as Arthurus spoke. The words spoken were solemn, and they made Emma feel like she was now apart of something bigger. It was silly, but the atmosphere in the room of the noble elves, the grandeur of the hall and the way Arthurus voice reverberated made her forget she ever lived on the streets as an unwensket.

“Vi har ogsa mottatt det siste skrevne ordet om Hans Oppstegne Højhet, King Brennan, som overlot sin krone til et valgt individ.”

Killian stiffened, as did Jefferson beside her.

“What?” She asked.

“My father must have… I don’t know how, but they got it. The letter.”

“She’s here,” Jefferson hissed.

“What? Who?”

“Zelena is here, corner of the room to your left, in the dark green hood.”

Arthurus’s voice increased in volume. “Vi fant ingen alver mer egnet for dette. Vi fant ingen alver som ville hedre kronen like mye som Prins William Beriothien. Mine edle alver, jeg presenterer deg, din neste kral, Kral William Beriothien.”

Emma didn’t need a translation for that last bit.

“They chose him! Their plots were in vain!” Jefferson uttered, looking as though someone had slapped him.

Killian let out a giant breath of relief, as Liam, walked up to Arthurus, looking perfectly poised. Emma could see it, the way his eyes scanned the elves in attendance, the fire in his eyes that many would mistake for relief or joy. There would be retribution, but it would come so fast and swift his enemies would have no way to escape it. He was reciting some words of acceptance, looking very kingly indeed, but Emma’s attention was focused on Zelena.

Underneath the green hood there was a shock of red hair, and beside her, a tall elf which chiseled features spoke quietly into her ear. Emma guessed that to be Jefferson’s partner. Before Killian, he’d be exactly her type. His hair was reddish brown and curly. He had broad shoulders and wore a light brown tunic that highlighted it well. He must have felt her gaze, for as he turned to look at her questioningly, his curiosity blossomed into a smirk. Emma looked away quickly, embarrassed at being distracted, and fervently hoping Killian hadn’t noticed.

“That’s Graham,” Jefferson said suddenly, giving her a fright. He was speaking very softly, and while Killian’s attention was devoted to his brother, she knew he was listening.

“The partner?”

“The partner. I’m not sure what happened today. Truly. But perhaps, the His Ascended Highness was more crafty than we thought, more prepared than we anticipated. Perhaps we should never discount basic preparation compared to complicated plots.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh no. Definitely not. But with King William at the helm now, the Queen now Dowager, with significantly less hold, it will be easy to usher her away to Snoland, where she can be their problem. And Zelena will likely follow. And in the mean time, a way for justice to be served can be found.”

“And it will be,” Killian said, though his eyes were still on his brother. His hands however, were secure around her, and his heart in tandem with hers. It was time to go home.  

[master-sass-blast]

Price Well Worth Paying.

THIS IS IT, FOLKS!!! IT’S WEDDING TIME!!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!! I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!!!

Summary: Before he can marry you, Piotr must undergo a vykup nevesty to prove his worthiness. Will he be up to the task?

(The answer is yes.)

Rating: G for MAXIMUM FLUFF!!!

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Set after “Of House and Home.”

This fic was inspired by @nebulous-leo‘s own Piotr x Reader vykup nevesty fic, “Ransom”!!! Y’all should absolutely check it out, in addition to her blog @leo-writer where she posts all her OC related content (which is absolutely delightful and wonderful and is the best thing on earth) and her Ao3 account, where she posts all the major works for said OC content; she currently has several works for Kurt from the Ant-Man movies and her OC, Jenna, on there; I can’t recommend reading them enough!!!

(Also, many thanks to @leo-writer for proofing this fic to make sure it wasn’t too matchy-matchy to her own fic!)

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @nebulous-leo

Piotr doesn’t often find himself nervous.

Some might doubt it, but it’s true. As rigid as he seems –and, admittedly, is—about some things, he seldom gets nervous. Frustrated, maybe, or tense, perhaps, but rarely downright, outright nervous.

He supposes, though, that the sensation coursing through him right now isn’t nervousness, precisely. Giddiness would be a better way to describe the butterflies thrumming in his stomach, how he has to keep himself from smiling nonstop so his cheeks don’t start hurting, and the way delighted, slightly nervous giggles keep bubbling up in his throat.

He’s getting married. Today. He’s getting married to you today, after so many obstacles and setbacks and arguments and makeups and planning and scheduling—

It’s here. It’s time.

Save for one last thing, which Piotr had wanted and then his family had borderline insisted –as much as they insisted on things—on doing: a vykup nevesty.

A vykup nevesty, as Piotr’s father had described it to him when he was very young, was for the family’s entertainment at its core. The groom would provide a payment for the bride –money or jewelry were traditional—and then the family would bring out a different man or a woman dressed as the bride to try and trick the groom. Once the groom realized that the person in question wasn’t his beloved, he would ask for his bride again and provide a higher payment for his spouse-to-be before he was finally bequeathed his bride, thus allowing the ceremony to start. Over time, the process had expanded to include various riddles, dares, and other shenanigans in the ransom process, and generally amounted to a great deal of fun.

He knows you helped write questions and answers for a “trivia” portion of the vykup nevesty. He also knows that he’ll have to deal with Mikhail’s dramatics –which normally would be nothing short of headache inducing, but between his elation over the fact that it’s his wedding day and the generous wad of cash tucked in his pocket, Piotr’s feeling borderline unstoppable.

He gives himself one final glance over in the mirror –he’d spent the night at the house your two’s friends and family had chipped in on—to make sure that his suit and tie are in good order –Nikolai had ushered everyone out at his son’s request so he could have a moment to himself just to think and process—before heading downstairs and out the front door—

And nearly walks smack into Mikhail and Ellie.

“Good morning, baby brother!” Mikhail chirps in Russian, grinning broadly. “Are you ready for the challenge of a lifetime?”

“I grew up with you; I doubt this will be worse than that,” Piotr fires back, feeling a twinge of misgiving at the slight grimace that creases his older brother’s face. Switching to English, he says, “I take it you two are here for vykup nevesty.”

“Yep,” Ellie confirms, popping the ‘p.’ “There’s gonna be three stages to this. You ready?”

He rolls his shoulders, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “I am ready.”

“Excellent. Before we get started—” Mikhail produces an empty plastic coffee grounds container –which, upon closer inspection, has a label taped to it that says ‘motorcycle repair fund’—and wiggles it expectantly. “A little donation, if you please.”

Piotr refrains from rolling his eyes as he extracts his wallet from his inner jacket pocket, then drops about forty dollars in the container.

“Alright, first question,” Ellie says, casting a glance at her phone screen before looking back up at her mentor. “What is the most commonly recurring, non-serious argument in your relationship?”

Piotr blinks, borderline shocked. “What?”

“What do you guys play-argue about the most?”

“I understood that, just… she put that down as question?”

“She told you she was making these hard, right?”

“She did, she did,” Piotr says, grinning to himself as he rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “I just thought there might be progression of difficulty.”

“Eh, they’re all about this difficult.”

“Bozhe moi.” He quirks his mouth to the side as he thinks; you’re particularly cantankerous on your best of days –some might even say your best days, period—and while he’s learned to just go with some of it, there’s also so much the two of you playfully banter about…

“Tick, tick, tick, tick,” Mikhail says after about half a minute of silence, grinning like the cat that got the canary.

Piotr casts a dull glare at him. “Quiet. I am thinking.”

“Time is off the essence, baby brother! You would not want some dashing rogue to swoop in and sweep your bride away, no?”

Piotr ignores his brother’s dramatics –though he does roll his eyes—and gets down to thinking. Okay. Play fight means it is not serious enough to cause problems, but still something we are different on… “Food,” he says finally. “We argue about what foods should be eaten and not.”

“Correct,” Ellie says, scrolling further down on her phone. “Okay, next question—”

“Least favorite bad habit,” Mikhail says, reading over Ellie’s shoulder.

“Which bad habit of yours is Y/N’s least favorite,” Ellie clarifies.

Piotr snorts and shakes his head. “O, chudesno. Ah…” His voice trails off as his mind works, running through a mental list of various possible habits of his that probably drive you up a wall.

‘Being controlling’ hits him first, but something feels off about it; while, in all likelihood, it’s the most accurate, he doesn’t think you’d pull out something that had been a contributor to so many bad fights the two of you have had on such a special day –or wave that in front of Mikhail’s nose as possible teasing material, either.

‘Rules happy’ also fits that category, along with ‘too serious’…

Habit, Piotr, he tells himself when Mikhail starts mimicking a clock again. Not character flaw. Habit. Think smaller. “Workaholic. Or having to put everything away between tasks.”

“You have to pick one,” Ellie says while Mikhail starts ‘tick-tock-ing” louder.

Piotr mulls it over, then eliminates ‘workaholic’ since it fits closer to a character flaw –for him, at least—than it does a bad habit. “Having to put everything away between tasks.”

“Correct,” Ellie says. “Next question: mutual favorite nighttime activity.”

Mikhail lets out a raucous whistle and waggles his eyebrows at Piotr. “Damn, baby brother, are you into nasty shit I didn’t even know about? What, do you—”

“I do speak Russian; please stop,” Ellie says, completely monotone, while staring at her phone screen.

Mikhail cuts himself off with a grimace and a muttered “sorry.”

Piotr lets out a heavy sigh and rubs at his eyes; he suspects you slid that question in there just for that kind of reaction.

He’ll just have to pay you back for it later.

The thought makes him smile a little, but he quickly pushes it down and gets to thinking before Mikhail can start making clock noise again –or, worse, ask why he’s smiling. Mutual favorite nighttime activity…

Sex is an entirely feasible answer. Plausible, even. The two of you both enjoy sex, and he doesn’t doubt for a moment that you’d put that answer in there just to embarrass him a little…

Except it seems just a hair off. While you’d definitely take the opportunity to rib him a little, he knows you wouldn’t put Ellie in such an awkward position –or whoever else wound up reading the questions out.

“Snuggling,” he decides, which gets an annoyed groan from Mikhail. “Each night, we try to take time to just snuggle and talk about our days.”

“Correct.”

Mikhail rolls his eyes. “That is stupidly vanilla.”

“No one asked you,” Piotr mutters, letting some of his annoyance show through.

“Next question,” Ellie interjects before an argument can break out between the two brothers. “What is Y/N’s biggest pet peeve?”

“Scott Summers,” Piotr fires off automatically.

Ellie snorts and claps a hand over her mouth. “Okay, that’s technically wrong, but I’m counting it because she’ll like that you answered that.”

“I think I am missing something,” Mikhail says, glancing between Piotr and Ellie.

“He’s a douche and Y/N doesn’t like him,” Ellie supplies quickly. “Also I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on his girlfriend.”

“No!”

“Yeah. And she’s a telepath.”

Mikhail smirks. “So, he is idiot, too.”

“Basically.”

“Be nice, NTW,” Piotr admonishes his trainee, even though the corner of his mouth is turning up in a smile. “What did Y/N have for original answer?”

“Slow walkers,” Ellie says—

Which makes him snort because of course.

“Alright, last question: who is Y/N closest to in her family?”

A contemplative frown tugs at his lips as he flips through his mental rolodex of who you consider family.

Wade and Nate immediately spring to the top of the list. You connected with Wade first, but you view Nate as a father –and, granted, you’re close to Russell and Ellie and Yukio and Neena and countless other members of the Institute, but Wade and Nate are definitely closest to you. They know more of your darkest secrets, at least.

He mentally derails when he remembers your uncle and factors him in, and then it becomes a game of mental shuffles as he switches from Wade to Nate to your uncle and then back through again, over and over, until Ellie starts pointedly looking at the time display on her phone and Mikhail starts acting like he’s falling asleep on his feet. “Nate. She’s closest to Nate.”

“Wrong answer,” Ellie says. “You have to pay up for that one.”

Piotr frowns while he fishes a few bills out of his wallet and drops them in Mikhail’s plastic container. “What was right answer?”

“You. She said she’s closest to you.”

He blinks –and then smiles, because of course the two of you are family. You’ve been family to each other for a long time, and after today you’ll legally be family as husband and wife.

“Alright,” Ellie says. “That’s it for round one. Ready for round two?”

“Absolutely,” Piotr says, completely confident. He’s never been more ready for anything in his life.

***

 They take the path that connects your two’s new home to the rest of Xavier’s property and stroll across the back lawn to where everything’s been set up –well, Piotr and Ellie stroll. Mikhail insists on teleporting himself every few feet because “walking is for fools.”

Once the chairs and the guests and the wedding party and all the decorations come into view, Piotr’s pulse skyrockets and his splits into a massive grin. Seeing everything and everyone there, even though the rehearsal had been last night and he’d helped set everything up, makes it all more real.

And then he sees a woman in a white dress and veil standing adjacent to Charles at the altar, and it takes all his willpower not to sprint the remaining distance between him and the ceremony site.

Mikhail stops him before they reach the little tent where Charles and the wedding party and the woman in white are set up and waggles the “motorcycle repair fund” jar in his face once more. “I’m afraid there’s a toll to pay before you can enter, baby brother.”

Piotr shells out a few more twenty dollar bills –then mouths a silent “thank you” over Mikhail’s head when their mother prevents the eldest Rasputin from asking for more via making a stern, mildly disapproving noise in the back of her throat.

“Alright!” Mikhail says, gesturing grandly towards the altar. “Toll has been paid! Piotr, you may have your bride!”

He steps under the cover of the tent –and has to stop to remind himself that this is likely a trick, if the rules of the vykup nevesty are anything to go by.

Correction: it’s definitely a trick. First, the height and size of the woman are all wrong. Second, she’s clearly wearing a purple colored dress underneath the white dress –which, on closer inspection, isn’t a wedding dress but some white bedsheets sewn together. Third, the “veil” over her face is a deconstructed pillowcase with lace hot-glued to the edge. Fourth, the “bride” is laughing, as are several members of the wedding party and the crowd of guests.

“This is not Y/N,” Piotr says, turning back to face Mikhail and Ellie.

“What? How can you not recognize your own beloved!” Mikhail exclaims –overly dramatic, which further reinforces that the woman standing in front of him is not his bride. “Have you been drinking, Piotr? Are you drunk?”

“This is not Y/N,” Piotr repeats as a few more chuckles go up in the crowd. He quickly scans the guests and wedding party, and manages to deduce who’s under the veil based on who’s missing and the relative height and size of the white-clad woman. “Kitty, thank you very much for coming, but I would like to marry Y/N today.”

“Damn!” Kitty laughs and whips off her “veil,” tossing aside while everyone else chuckles and claps. “That was fast!”

Piotr shrugs. “Not hard to tell when you are missing from crowd.”

“Touché.” Kitty phases out from under her makeshift white dress, then smooths out the purple cocktail dress she’d worn underneath before offering Piotr a fist bump. “Congratulations, dude.”

He fist bumps her back, corner of his mouth turning up in a smile—

Then is immediately accosted by Wade as Kitty goes to sit down in the crowd.

“Alright, Google Chrome’s Russian Cousin, how’re you feeling?” Wade asks, microphone in hand –who thought that was good idea?—and clad in a dress that matches the bridesmaids but has been tailored for a man’s body and genuinely looks flattering on him. “Ready for the last part of your however you say it?”

“Very ready,” Piotr says enthusiastically. “I have been ready for long time.”

“Aw, that’s so adorable. Unfortunately, before we can start the final phase, I think your broski over there needs some more dough for his repair fund.”

Piotr shells out the last of the money he’d set aside for the vykup nevesty –it’s not like he’ll be needing it for later, at this point—and drops into Mikhail’s container, then turns back to Wade. “Alright, what is last phase?”

“Well, as the older brother in every way but biological to your future wifey,” Wade says with theatrical seriousness. “I do need to make sure that you’re of suitable marriage material before the ceremony starts. Can’t have my little sis shacking up with a slouch.”

Piotr rolls his eyes good naturedly. “You have known me for several years. And you have been around entire time Y/N and I were dating.”

“Hush, metal grasshopper, this is my moment,” Wade says as he pulls a piece of paper out of the bust portion of his dress. “So, just to make sure that you meet the mark, I’ve drummed up a few eensy-teensy questions to ask.”

Piotr grins and shakes his head; he’s not getting out of this, so there’s no point in being upset about anything. “Very well. Ask your questions.”

“Thank you. Question one: what makes you think you’re worthy to marry my sister?”

Piotr chokes, more out of shock than anything. “What kind of question is that?”

“The one I’m asking, Chrome Dome. Which means you have to answer it. Start talking, we’ve got a list to get through,” Wade says, angling his microphone at Piotr.

Piotr nudges Wade’s hand back so the microphone isn’t right in his face, then considers the question for a few second before answering. “Because she chose me. Marriage is many things, but at core it is choice to commit to living life with partner and work through whatever hardships and challenges arise as team. It is choice to keep loving and communicating. I could be exactly who I am, but if Y/N did not choose me, I would not be worthy. But she did choose me, which is what makes me worthy.”

“Ooh, going from the consent angle! Wade like-y!” Wade says a few guests nod, impressed.

Off to the side, Nikolai beams like the proud papa he is and Alex shoots her youngest son a thumbs up.

“Alright, you pass the first question. Second question: if three mini-lion robots broke into your house and formed into a super-lion robot, what would you do to protect your lady from any and all harm?”

“Anything I had to,” Piotr answers automatically.

Wade mimics a buzzer noise. “Lame answer. Cop out.”

“It is truth,” Piotr insists. “No one ever really knows what they would do in moment until they are there. I will not commit to idea I may not follow through on in moment because my instincts might wind up being different. What I do know, however, is that I will do whatever I have to in order to keep Y/N safe, and that will not change regardless of what moment faces me.”

Wade studies him for a moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll take that. Next question!”

“How many questions are there?” Piotr asks, trying to catch a glimpse of the paper.

“As many as I need,” Wade says angling the paper away from Piotr’s line of sight. “Okay, big question here: what do you love most about my sister?”

“Everything,” Piotr says earnestly, tone dreamy and lovestruck. “She… she is everything to me. She helps me step back and appreciate day to day. She makes me laugh and smile –and over things I never thought I would, which has been… interesting.” He chuckles along with everyone else. “She has helped me grow so much as person, and challenges me on how I think and act and do things… She is beautiful, and kind, and smart, and funny, and I am so lucky that I get to marry her.”

Several “awws” go up in the crowd, and more than a few people dab at their eyes with tissues or hankies.

Wade, however, lets out a dramatic sob and blows his nose noisily into a lace edged handkerchief. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry!”

Piotr merely smiles and shakes his head.

“Alright, big guy. Now that you’ve made everyone here cry, you ready to get married?”

“Yes,” Piotr says eagerly, excitement coiling in his stomach once more. “More than.” He feels someone tap on his shoulder, and he turns, expecting to see Mikhail holding out the “repair fund” container in a last ditch attempt to get more money—

Except you’re standing behind him, dressed in your wedding gown and holding onto Nathan’s arm and beaming up at him like he’s the most important thing in the world. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Tears of joy well up in his eyes, and he presses his hand against his mouth to try and contain himself. “You look so beautiful.”

“You look very handsome yourself.” Your eyes sparkle as you gaze up at him. “Ready to do this thing?”

“Very ready,” Piotr says with an excited giggle.

Nathan hugs you and presses a fatherly kiss to your forehead before handing you off. “Take good care of her.”

“Always,” Piotr promises as he makes to help you over to your side of the altar.

You have other ideas, though, going in for a hug first.

Piotr wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head –careful not to mess up your hair—while the guests and wedding party make noises of delight and appreciation and Aiden and his team snap pictures.

Once the hug ends, he helps you get over to your side of the altar, then Wade takes your bouquet for you and helps you straighten out the skirt of your dress—

And then everything’s genuinely a blur. Charles makes a speech about the relationship as he’s witnessed it and the healthy love the two of you model for the students –which has both of you tearing up—before talking about the value of commitment and communication, you two exchange your vows and the rings, and then Charles pronounces the two of you as husband and wife, and then Piotr’s kissing you and you’re kissing him and—

It’s everything, as it always has been.

[araitsume]

Patriarchs and Prophets, pp. 560-568: Chapter (54) Samson

This chapter is based on Judges 13 to 16.

Amid the widespread apostasy the faithful worshipers of God continued to plead with Him for the deliverance of Israel. Though there was apparently no response, though year after year the power of the oppressor continued to rest more heavily upon the land, God's providence was preparing help for them. Even in the early years of the Philistine oppression a child was born through whom God designed to humble the power of these mighty foes.

On the border of the hill country overlooking the Philistine plain was the little town of Zorah. Here dwelt the family of Manoah, of the tribe of Dan, one of the few households that amid the general defection had remained true to Jehovah. To the childless wife of Manoah “the Angel of Jehovah” appeared with the message that she should have a son, through whom God would begin to deliver Israel. In view of this the Angel gave her instruction concerning her own habits, and also for the treatment of her child: “Now therefore beware, I pray thee, and drink not wine nor strong drink, and eat not any unclean thing.” And the same prohibition was to be imposed, from the first, upon the child, with the addition that his hair should not be cut; for he was to be consecrated to God as a Nazarite from his birth.

The woman sought her husband, and, after describing the Angel, she repeated His message. Then, fearful that they should make some mistake in the important work committed to them, the husband prayed, “Let the Man of God which Thou didst send come again unto us, and teach us what we shall do unto the child that shall be born.”

When the Angel again appeared, Manoah's anxious inquiry was, “How shall we order the child, and how shall we do unto him?” The previous instruction was repeated—“Of all that I said unto the woman let her beware. She may not eat of anything that cometh of the vine, neither let her drink wine or strong drink, nor eat any unclean thing: all that I commanded her let her observe.”

God had an important work for the promised child of Manoah to do, and it was to secure for him the qualifications necessary for this work that the habits of both the mother and the child were to be carefully regulated. “Neither let her drink wine or strong drink,” was the Angel's instruction for the wife of Manoah, “nor eat any unclean thing. All that I commanded her let her observe.” The child will be affected for good or for evil by the habits of the mother. She must herself be controlled by principle and must practice temperance and self-denial, if she would seek the welfare of her child. Unwise advisers will urge upon the mother the necessity of gratifying every wish and impulse, but such teaching is false and mischievous. The mother is by the command of God Himself placed under the most solemn obligation to exercise self-control.

And fathers as well as mothers are involved in this responsibility. Both parents transmit their own characteristics, mental and physical, their dispositions and appetites, to their children. As the result of parental intemperance children often lack physical strength and mental and moral power. Liquor drinkers and tobacco users may, and do, transmit their insatiable craving, their inflamed blood and irritable nerves, to their children. The licentious often bequeath their unholy desires, and even loathsome diseases, as a legacy to their offspring. And as the children have less power to resist temptation than had the parents, the tendency is for each generation to fall lower and lower. To a great degree parents are responsible not only for the violent passions and perverted appetites of their children but for the infirmities of the thousands born deaf, blind, diseased, or idiotic.

The inquiry of every father and mother should be, “What shall we do unto the child that shall be born unto us?” The effect of prenatal influences has been by many lightly regarded; but the instruction sent from heaven to those Hebrew parents, and twice repeated in the most explicit and solemn manner, shows how this matter is looked upon by our Creator.

And it was not enough that the promised child should receive a good legacy from the parents. This must be followed by careful training and the formation of right habits. God directed that the future judge and deliverer of Israel should be trained to strict temperance from infancy. He was to be a Nazarite from his birth, thus being placed under a perpetual prohibition against the use of wine or strong drink. The lessons of temperance, self-denial, and self-control are to be taught to children even from babyhood.

The angel's prohibition included “every unclean thing.” The distinction between articles of food as clean and unclean was not a merely ceremonial and arbitrary regulation, but was based upon sanitary principles. To the observance of this distinction may be traced, in a great degree, the marvelous vitality which for thousands of years has distinguished the Jewish people. The principles of temperance must be carried further than the mere use of spirituous liquors. The use of stimulating and indigestible food is often equally injurious to health, and in many cases sows the seeds of drunkenness. True temperance teaches us to dispense entirely with everything hurtful and to use judiciously that which is healthful. There are few who realize as they should how much their habits of diet have to do with their health, their character, their usefulness in this world, and their eternal destiny. The appetite should ever be in subjection to the moral and intellectual powers. The body should be servant to the mind, and not the mind to the body.

The divine promise to Manoah was in due time fulfilled in the birth of a son, to whom the name of Samson was given. As the boy grew up it became evident that he possessed extraordinary physical strength. This was not, however, as Samson and his parents well knew, dependent upon his well-knit sinews, but upon his condition as a Nazarite, of which his unshorn hair was a symbol. Had Samson obeyed the divine commands as faithfully as his parents had done, his would have been a nobler and happier destiny. But association with idolaters corrupted him. The town of Zorah being near the country of the Philistines, Samson came to mingle with them on friendly terms. Thus in his youth intimacies sprang up, the influence of which darkened his whole life. A young woman dwelling in the Philistine town of Timnath engaged Samson's affections, and he determined to make her his wife. To his God-fearing parents, who endeavored to dissuade him from his purpose, his only answer was, “She pleaseth me well.” The parents at last yielded to his wishes, and the marriage took place.

Just as he was entering upon manhood, the time when he must execute his divine mission—the time above all others when he should have been true to God—Samson connected himself with the enemies of Israel. He did not ask whether he could better glorify God when united with the object of his choice, or whether he was placing himself in a position where he could not fulfill the purpose to be accomplished by his life. To all who seek first to honor Him, God has promised wisdom; but there is no promise to those who are bent upon self-pleasing.

How many are pursuing the same course as did Samson! How often marriages are formed between the godly and the ungodly, because inclination governs in the selection of husband or wife! The parties do not ask counsel of God, nor have His glory in view. Christianity ought to have a controlling influence upon the marriage relation, but it is too often the case that the motives which lead to this union are not in keeping with Christian principles. Satan is constantly seeking to strengthen his power over the people of God by inducing them to enter into alliance with his subjects; and in order to accomplish this he endeavors to arouse unsanctified passions in the heart. But the Lord has in His word plainly instructed His people not to unite themselves with those who have not His love abiding in them. “What concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel? and what agreement hath the temple of God with idols?” 2 Corinthians 6:15, 16.

At his marriage feast Samson was brought into familiar association with those who hated the God of Israel. Whoever voluntarily enters into such relations will feel it necessary to conform, to some degree, to the habits and customs of his companions. The time thus spent is worse than wasted. Thoughts are entertained and words are spoken that tend to break down the strongholds of principle and to weaken the citadel of the soul.

The wife, to obtain whom Samson had transgressed the command of God, proved treacherous to her husband before the close of the marriage feast. Incensed at her perfidy, Samson forsook her for the time, and went alone to his home at Zorah. When, afterward relenting, he returned for his bride, he found her the wife of another. His revenge, in the wasting of all the fields and vineyards of the Philistines, provoked them to murder her, although their threats had driven her to the deceit with which the trouble began. Samson had already given evidence of his marvelous strength by slaying, singlehanded, a young lion, and by killing thirty of the men of Askelon. Now, moved to anger by the barbarous murder of his wife, he attacked the Philistines and smote them “with a great slaughter.” Then, wishing a safe retreat from his enemies, he withdrew to “the rock Etam,” in the tribe of Judah.

To this place he was pursued by a strong force, and the inhabitants of Judah, in great alarm, basely agreed to deliver him to his enemies. Accordingly three thousand men of Judah went up to him. But even at such odds they would not have dared approach him had they not felt assured that he would not harm his own countrymen. Samson consented to be bound and delivered to the Philistines, but first exacted from the men of Judah a promise not to attack him themselves, and thus compel him to destroy them. He permitted them to bind him with two new ropes, and he was led into the camp of his enemies amid demonstrations of great joy. But while their shouts were waking the echoes of the hills, “the Spirit of Jehovah came mightily upon him.” He burst asunder the strong new cords as if they had been flax burned in the fire. Then seizing the first weapon at hand, which, though only the jawbone of an ass, was rendered more effective than sword or spear, he smote the Philistines until they fled in terror, leaving a thousand men dead upon the field.

Had the Israelites been ready to unite with Samson and follow up the victory, they might at this time have freed themselves from the power of their oppressors. But they had become dispirited and cowardly. They had neglected the work which God commanded them to perform, in dispossessing the heathen, and had united with them in their degrading practices, tolerating their cruelty, and, so long as it was not directed against themselves, even countenancing their injustice. When themselves brought under the power of the oppressor, they tamely submitted to the degradation which they might have escaped, had they only obeyed God. Even when the Lord raised up a deliverer for them, they would, not infrequently, desert him and unite with their enemies.

After his victory the Israelites made Samson judge, and he ruled Israel for twenty years. But one wrong step prepares the way for another. Samson had transgressed the command of God by taking a wife from the Philistines, and again he ventured among them—now his deadly enemies—in the indulgence of unlawful passion. Trusting to his great strength, which had inspired the Philistines with such terror, he went boldly to Gaza, to visit a harlot of that place. The inhabitants of the city learned of his presence, and they were eager for revenge. Their enemy was shut safely within the walls of the most strongly fortified of all their cities; they felt sure of their prey, and only waited till the morning to complete their triumph. At midnight Samson was aroused. The accusing voice of conscience filled him with remorse, as he remembered that he had broken his vow as a Nazarite. But notwithstanding his sin, God's mercy had not forsaken him. His prodigious strength again served to deliver him. Going to the city gate, he wrenched it from its place and carried it, with its posts and bars, to the top of a hill on the way to Hebron.

But even this narrow escape did not stay his evil course. He did not again venture among the Philistines, but he continued to seek those sensuous pleasures that were luring him to ruin. “He loved a woman in the valley of Sorek,” not far from his own birthplace. Her name was Delilah, “the consumer.” The vale of Sorek was celebrated for its vineyards; these also had a temptation for the wavering Nazarite, who had already indulged in the use of wine, thus breaking another tie that bound him to purity and to God. The Philistines kept a vigilant watch over the movements of their enemy, and when he degraded himself by this new attachment, they determined, through Delilah, to accomplish his ruin.

A deputation consisting of one leading man from each of the Philistine provinces was sent to the vale of Sorek. They dared not attempt to seize him while in possession of his great strength, but it was their purpose to learn, if possible, the secret of his power. They therefore bribed Delilah to discover and reveal it.

As the betrayer plied Samson with her questions, he deceived her by declaring that the weakness of other men would come upon him if certain processes were tried. When she put the matter to the test, the cheat was discovered. Then she accused him of falsehood, saying, “How canst thou say, I love thee, when thine heart is not with me? Thou hast mocked me these three times, and hast not told me wherein thy great strength lieth.” Three times Samson had the clearest evidence that the Philistines had leagued with his charmer to destroy him; but when her purpose failed, she treated the matter as a jest, and he blindly banished fear.

Day by day Delilah urged him, until “his soul was vexed unto death;” yet a subtle power kept him by her side. Overcome at last, Samson made known the secret: “There hath not come a razor upon mine head; for I have been a Nazarite unto God from my mother's womb: if I be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and I shall become weak, and be like any other man.” A messenger was immediately dispatched to the lords of the Philistines, urging them to come to her without delay. While the warrior slept, the heavy masses of his hair were severed from his head. Then, as she had done three times before, she called, “The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!” Suddenly awaking, he thought to exert his strength as before and destroy them; but his powerless arms refused to do his bidding, and he knew that “Jehovah was departed from him.” When he had been shaven, Delilah began to annoy him and cause him pain, thus making a trial of his strength; for the Philistines dared not approach him till fully convinced that his power was gone. Then they seized him and, having put out both his eyes, they took him to Gaza. Here he was bound with fetters in their prison house and confined to hard labor.

What a change to him who had been the judge and champion of Israel!—now weak, blind, imprisoned, degraded to the most menial service! Little by little he had violated the conditions of his sacred calling. God had borne long with him; but when he had so yielded himself to the power of sin as to betray his secret, the Lord departed from him. There was no virtue in his long hair merely, but it was a token of his loyalty to God; and when the symbol was sacrificed in the indulgence of passion, the blessings of which it was a token were also forfeited.

In suffering and humiliation, a sport for the Philistines, Samson learned more of his own weakness than he had ever known before; and his afflictions led him to repentance. As his hair grew, his power gradually returned; but his enemies, regarding him as a fettered and helpless prisoner, felt no apprehensions.

The Philistines ascribed their victory to their gods; and, exulting, they defied the God of Israel. A feast was appointed in honor of Dagon, the fish god, “the protector of the sea.” From town and country throughout the Philistine plain the people and their lords assembled. Throngs of worshipers filled the vast temple and crowded the galleries about the roof. It was a scene of festivity and rejoicing. There was the pomp of the sacrificial service, followed by music and feasting. Then, as the crowning trophy of Dagon's power, Samson was brought in. Shouts of exultation greeted his appearance. People and rulers mocked his misery and adored the god who had overthrown “the destroyer of their country.” After a time, as if weary, Samson asked permission to rest against the two central pillars which supported the temple roof. Then he silently uttered the prayer, “O Lord God, remember me, I pray Thee, and strengthen me, I pray Thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines.” With these words he encircled the pillars with his mighty arms; and crying, “Let me die with the Philistines!” he bowed himself, and the roof fell, destroying at one crash all that vast multitude. “So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.”

The idol and its worshipers, priest and peasant, warrior and noble, were buried together beneath the ruins of Dagon's temple. And among them was the giant form of him whom God had chosen to be the deliverer of His people. Tidings of the terrible overthrow were carried to the land of Israel, and Samson's kinsmen came down from their hills, and, unopposed, rescued the body of the fallen hero. And they “brought him up, and buried him between Zorah and Eshtaol, in the burying place of Manoah his father.”

God's promise that through Samson He would “begin to deliver Israel out of the hand of the Philistines” was fulfilled; but how dark and terrible the record of that life which might have been a praise to God and a glory to the nation! Had Samson been true to his divine calling, the purpose of God could have been accomplished in his honor and exaltation. But he yielded to temptation and proved untrue to his trust, and his mission was fulfilled in defeat, bondage, and death.

Physically, Samson was the strongest man upon the earth; but in self-control, integrity, and firmness, he was one of the weakest of men. Many mistake strong passions for a strong character, but the truth is that he who is mastered by his passions is a weak man. The real greatness of the man is measured by the power of the feelings that he controls, not by those that control him.

God's providential care had been over Samson, that he might be prepared to accomplish the work which he was called to do. At the very outset of life he was surrounded with favorable conditions for physical strength, intellectual vigor, and moral purity. But under the influence of wicked associates he let go that hold upon God which is man's only safeguard, and he was swept away by the tide of evil. Those who in the way of duty are brought into trial may be sure that God will preserve them; but if men willfully place themselves under the power of temptation, they will fall, sooner or later.

The very ones whom God purposes to use as His instruments for a special work, Satan employs his utmost power to lead astray. He attacks us at our weak points, working through defects in the character to gain control of the whole man; and he knows that if these defects are cherished, he will succeed. But none need be overcome. Man is not left alone to conquer the power of evil by his own feeble efforts. Help is at hand and will be given to every soul who really desires it. Angels of God, that ascend and descend the ladder which Jacob saw in vision, will help every soul who will, to climb even to the highest heaven.