#you cannot tell me he would not have wept a single tear and held a gun at palps himself

[afabulousjello]

I know it in my heart of hearts, soul of souls, that if Tarkin ever found out that his decrepit Emperor was a crazy magic ligthning wielding Sith, he would have been so disappointed

[purplelupins]

Without You

Chapter IV

Summery: Since she was but a child, our dear, sweet girl found herself captivated by a man who held the weight of men's souls on his shoulders. Years later, as a young woman, she meets him again, and her heart reawakens. Can she allow herself to feel and love as she would like? Or will she be cast away, and reprimanded? All she knows is that she cannot let the world turn without him.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem!reader

Warnings: ANGST. TW: Mentions of Su!cide

Note: On my master list, I have a cast link with all the people I imagine to play each original character!

IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN BEING TAGGED IN THIS STORY: Let me a comment or message telling me

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Monday had come and gone quicker than she would have imagined. The day had been but a blur of running barefoot through the halls to avoid the rath of her family, and stealing into her fathers study to take two Pounds and three Shillings from his desk. He may have been a successful businessman, but he was not the most observant. Occasionally he would bring up what he thought was a shortness of currency, but her mother would always tell him that he must have miscounted, and it was left at that; y/n single-handedly had her father believe that he did not know how to count, and she would be lying if she said she did not find it entertaining.

In the afternoon, she had listened to her mother rant to her father about what Lord Turpin had said to her. All y/n heard from her father was a few grunts and hums, letting her know that he was in fact not paying attention at all. Y/n was sure that this was not the first time her mother had told him, and thus, he no longer cared to listen.

The pit in her stomach had been far too great to desire food; her stomach churned and twisted unforgivably as she thought of her chances to see the great Judge Turpin again. She wept, staring out her window and running her finger along the pages of Beauty and the Beast that she could not concentrate on. Her tears blurred her vision, and blotted small water marks across the words.

She put it away and let herself think.

Y/n now found herself sat atop her bed, gazing intently at the candle she had lit there; she absentmindedly ran her fingers over her knuckles where his lips had been. The young woman tried to recall the feeling of his kiss on her hand, how he smelled and how warm his touch was.

She sighed.

How foolish she was for dreaming of a man she could never have.

She was too young.

She was too far away.

She was a fun distraction for him while he was there, but nothing more.

But a girl could dream…

Y/n wondered if he was asleep, or if he too evaded rest; did he have work to catch up on? It felt as if the room slowly spun around her, hours ticking by as the darkness outside her window faded into a low light, marking the beginning of Tuesday morning. The candle she burned slowly melted away until it too was as exhausted as the young woman watching it.

She tore her eyes from the dying light, and walked to the window, looking out at the garden and the morning dew that covered it. There was a certain softness to dawn that she loved, an innocence. It was a fresh start that held no pain from the day’s events, and it gave a naive hope. A hope she knew she should not have.

Just as she had grown used to over the past decade of her life, her heart began to go numb; weary with the weight of her unhappiness. Y/n found her walking cloak and fastened it around her shoulders; not caring that she still wore her nightgown. Her feet barely made a sound as she crept through the silent halls, down the stairs and out the front door. As soon as she stepped outside, and set foot on the cold stones there, she felt tears pool in her eyes. With each step she took, her heart grew heavier, and heavier until it felt as if it out fall out of her body. She did not care that the stones dug painfully into the soles of her feet; she did not care that as she walked onto the grass, her gown grew muddy; she did not care that the cold air chilled her to the bone.

She did not care.

As the morning rays of light poured over her, y/n became acutely aware that she no longer had control over her own heart. It had been torn and battered by her own family, and it now lay in the grasp of a man out of her reach. She let those tears fall over her rosy cheeks, and she let her toes sink into the dirt. After so long of suppressing what she felt deep in her soul, her body could no longer take it, and neither could her mind.

She cried.

She did not care if she was heard.

She screamed.

She screamed until her throat hurt.

She clutched her sides as they ached.

Let the world hear me.

Let my family wake.

Let them know my pain.

If anyone heard her, they likely were prepared to send word for a doctor; the cry that tore from her throat did not match her sweet appearance, and resembled a cry of great, excruciating pain. The young woman heaved deep breaths, her heart assaulting her ribs, and turned back to the manor that loomed over her. Grostany Manor. As a child, she had loved how fantastical and grand her home was-the towering structure of stone, the vines that grew there, the magnificent arched windows and balconies. The gardens, and grounds. The stables and the trees. It had been like a fairytale. The older she got, however, the crueler her family treated her, and slowly, her home became an institution watching over her; like death looking over a sick man.

Y/n steeled her nerves and began to trudge back up to the front door, again careless of the stones that would surely leave bruises on her feet. She pushed on the door, and strode to the kitchens, greeting the cook, Martha, who jumped at the sight of her.

“Miss y/n! You done gave me a right scare!” The woman pressed her hand against her chest. She was a stout woman in her sixties, with red hair and a kind face.

“Good morning, Martha…I apologize. Mind if I collect some food?” She said softly.

“Go on then.” Martha sighed and nodded to the start of breakfast that sat on numerous plates, and handed y/n a large tray, “Something you did, or something they did?” She asked, knowing that the young woman only did such things when she was evading her family. The entire staff knew her routine well, so they often left food and drink for her in her usually frequented spots.

“Neither, really.” She mused, filling her tray.

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed.” Y/n looked at the woman, arching a brow that matched hers. “Someone defended my honour, and now I must pay.” She said sarcastically.

“Take an extra slice of pie, miss.” Martha whispered and scooped up a n other piece for her, placing it on the plate. The older woman had seen the inches of mud and water that soaked her sleeping gown and robe, and she saw how red her hands were; shaking ever so slightly from cold. The cook had seen her in states similar for years, and knew someone had to care for her.

Y/n knew the staff were too kind to her; they had seen her at her worst. Between Martha and their butler, Sebastian, she had her protectors who would console her and sooth her no matter what. If she was honest, they were the reason she had not run away from her life, or taken it away completely.

Y/n cracked a smile, and placed a hand on Martha’s shoulder. “You spoil me.”

“Someone ‘as to, miss. Oh! An’ Mr. Sebastian has been worried sick ‘bout you. Always pestering me.”

Y/n smiled softly, letting her heart ache.

“Thank you. Martha…tell him I am alright and that he may feel free to accidentally drop my father’s sherry.” She received a snort from the woman, “I’ll leave you to it…don’t work too hard.”

“Might just slip a little too much salt in the eggs this mornin’.” The older woman winked, and ushered y/n out. She made quick work of using the staff stairs, and walking to the library, opening and closing it without a sound, and locking it behind her.

She placed the tray down, and sat, buttering her pastry, and sipping her coffee thoughtfully.

She read poetry and sonnets that made her think of him. She read fairytales that reminded her of her childhood.

She slept on the window seat in the afternoon.

In the evening, her appetite was nowhere to be found, and so she collapsed onto her bed early.

That day, she let herself feel pain.

On Wednesday, y/n slept late into the afternoon. She rose only when a knock came from her door, and upon opening it, there sat a tray full with lunch -still warm. A thankful smile graced her melancholy face as she looked out into the hall to see who had brought it.

She ate in bed, peacefully watching a downpour of summer rain patted against the window. She began to understand those feelings of anguish depicted in romance novels, and the beautiful sorrow of love poems.

As she sat there, she became very aware of herself. Her heart felt as if it began to feel it’s own beating. She became introspective, and aware of her body. A It was calm, and painful. It was numb and cold. But nothing else felt right.

Throughout the day, there were several knocks on her locked door, and harsh words from each family member, but y/n did not care.

Her sister taunted her.

Her mother made her feel small.

And her father reprimanded her.

Y/n, however, did not lend them an ear. She heard them try to unlock the door, not knowing that she had a secret bolt for such occasions inside. She knew that she was untouchable in her small sanctuary.

The pit of despair she had felt the morning before wained into a calm need for rest. Y/n did not visit the library, nor did she visit the garden.

Instead, she found herself remaining in her room.

She bathed, and took time to shave her skin.

She drew the face she missed.

She laid on her bed and let her imagination run wild while she could not.

As the light left the clouded sky, y/n slipped from her room in her robe and bare feet. She skirted around corners and listened intently for movement. Her knowledge of the manor always paid off during times like these, and they happened more often than not.

The staff’s staircase door was ajar enough for her to open it without a sound. Her feet moved swiftly down the steps that creaked under each footfall, until she stood at the bottom which fed into the kitchen and the staff’s private room where they sat for tea.

Martha was busy with her back to the young girl, but James who was sat watching the older woman work, saw y/n out of the corner of his eye. She held a finger to her lips and he nodded, keeping quiet. Then, just as she was about to stroll through the door, their butler, Sebastian, crept up behind her and startled her.

“And here I thought you had bloody hung yourself, miss y/n. I haven’t seen you in days, have you Martha?” The man chided her, coming from the tea room, into the kitchen. Y/n liked Sebastian very much; he was a tough, worn man in his fifties with bright blue eyes. Regardless of his age, he was very handsome and his voice always served to lull y/n into comfort. Having fought in the ‘War of the Spanish Succession’ nearly forty years ago, Sebastian operated with a militant precision and a direct nature.

He did well to keep her and her sister in line when needed, though he had a great dislike for Kathrine. Y/n had always held a special spot in his heart; she was a fiery soul with too much kindness. As a man who had know a great deal of hardships, she was a light he loved to care for. When he had caught her teaching herself to shoot so many years ago out in the woods, he had not so subtly given her several pointers, always taking note of how her little frame shook gently under his guidance.

The man often answered macabre questions of y/n’s from his time as a soldier, as well; Sebastian aided in her want to see the word and know the good with the bad. Regardless of his rough exterior, the man had comforted a tearful y/n on more than one occasion in her youth, and carried her to her room many more. The kindness and care he showed her was unmatched, and Y/n admitted to herself that he had been the first man that made her heart jump, and still did when they crossed paths. Now, however, she barely had a heart of her own left; it now sat in London.

The cook turned to the two of them with wide eyes, “Miss y/n!” She whispered, “What are you doing down ‘ere?” Wiping her hands on her apron.

Y/n sighed and gave the gentleman a disapproving look, who in turn gave her a wink. “Thank you, Sebastian, for the fright. Martha I only wished to steal a bit of dinner. Nothing so vast that they will notice-“

“Let ‘em notice. Take a leg of the turkey, and a good scoop of the potato’s. I ‘ll tell ‘em it walked off if they ask.” Martha scoffed, turning back around to the soup she boiled.

The young woman grinned, and nodded. She would not take a leg, but she did take three slices of the carved meat, and several scoops of vegetables, complete with a bread roll and gravy.

“I will bring down the tray left for me this afternoon, thank you again.” Y/n smiled.

“Maryanne managed that one. Sneaky lady she is.” James piped up.

“Well please give her my thanks when you see her next.” She grinned, a touch of melancholy in her.

“Of course, miss y/n. See to it that you finish that plate. Can’t have you turning into skin and bones. “

“Goodnight, Martha, Sebastian, James.”

“Goodnight, miss.” They all said softly, not wanting to alert the family.

As she walked up to the stairs, she felt a hand on her arm. Y/n turned and looked up at those worn, blue eyes.

“Let me, miss.” Came the calm voice of her life long protector and friend.

“I-I can manage Sebastian, thank you.” She said softly, but he knew better.

“I was not asking, darlin’. Don’t be stubborn.” The butler chided her gently. Y/n closed her eyes, and handed him the tray, which he took easily.

“Trouble?” He asked as they walked up the stairs.

Y/n sighed, hating how easily he could read her. “Do you recall the man who stayed with us a few days ago?”

“Yes, Lord…Turpin? Imposing fellow, if I may say so.” He said beside her as they walked to her room.

Y/n let out a soft laugh, “Yes…yes he is.”

Sebastian glanced over at her, seeing that look of far-off thought. “Handsome man, too.” He added, seeing if he could get anything out of her. She was a closed off girl, but with the right thing said, she would open up like a flower to him.

Before she spoke, he received all he needed to know. Y/n took a deep breath and her brows pinched together ever so slightly. The man knew that look. It was a look she made when she did not want to admit something to herself.

“Yes…” she whispered.

“What of him?” Sebastian asked, back straight as ever.

“He…he was very kind to me.”

They made it to her door, and y/n made to take the tray, but she was met with a stern look from the butler. She gave him a small smile, and unlocked the door quietly, letting him in behind her before closing it. Of course, this was not usual practice with a young lady and her man-servant, but y/n was not an ordinary young lady, and she did not have a regular relationship with the man.

Sebastian placed the tray on her small table, and he stood there for a moment, watching the young woman, taking in how she was so entirely out of her body as she stood there just few feet from him.

Y/b took a breath.

“Sebastian…I…have you ever been in love before?” She asked, voice breaking.

There it is.

He let out a breath through his nose before walking to her and guiding her to the bed. He sat with her next to him, “I have. Twice.” He said in that low, rough voice of his. She stared at her hands. “Once, when I was seventeen…her name was Maria.” His eyes were thoughtful as he remembered.

Y/n tore her eyes from her hands to look at him. He took a breath and looked over at her bright eyes, feeling his chest hurt at the sight of her pain.

“And the second?” She asked just below a whisper.

The man smiled ever so slightly, and placed a hand over hers, “When I saw that daft little gremlin slide down the banister at four years old on my first day in this manor, miss y/n.”

She breathed out a laugh, remembering the day, “I was a trouble maker, wasn’t I?”

At that, he chuckled, “Was?”

Y/n scoffed and shouldered him, “Manners, Sebastian.”

They sat there for a moment, grinning softly at one another.

“You have always been my protector,” she murmured, leaning against his strong shoulder. She knew he must have been unbelievably good looking as a younger man; he still was, wrinkles and all. “And I have loved you for every moment you were there for me…but…” she trailed off, heaving a sigh. Sebastian pulled her away from him, looking into her eyes.

“Tell me, darlin’. Something is not right with you. Tell me.” He said gently.

Y/n thought for a moment, not wanting to say her thoughts aloud. If she heard them, and someone else heard them, then they were real. But alone in her mind, she could pretend that she was imagining things.

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek, and looked into his blue eyes, knowing whatever she said would be met with listening ears. “…But I fear that I do not hold my heart anymore, Sebastian.” A small tear fell down her cheek as the words left her mouth.

The man watched the tear fall, knowing exactly what she meant. He sighed, and pulled her close. “That bad, eh?”

She nodded, letting another tear fall down onto his leg.

“If he hurts you, he will have me to answer to, and I know seventy-five ways to kill a man.” He rasped into her ear as he cradled her. She laughed at that.

“I know…I do not believe he will hurt me. It is myself who has gone and hurt my own heart.”

Sebastian nodded, his eyes fierce and mouth firm.

“Just say the word, miss…” He whispered.

“Thank you.” She smiled, relaxing, “If you could do something about the Baron, now that would be useful.”

The butler knew all about her dislike for that man, not that any of the staff liked him to begin with. The man laughed and leaned in a little closer, “When he was here for the hall I may have accidentally poured salt into his brandy.”

Y/n smiled, “May have?”

“Some might say so, yes.” He grinned, “Now then. Come, you need to eat something.” The older man stood and took her hands, guiding her to sit at her table, “I’m not going to bloody feed you, but make sure you finish everything. I will return later to take it away.”

“You’re a good man, Sebastian. Under all…this.” She gestured to his straight back and militant stance.

“Yes, well…even the devil has a heart, miss.” He said, then gave her a shirt bow, “Goodnight, miss y/n.”

She grinned up at him and nodded, “Good night, Sebastian. Thank you.”

Y/n wanted him leave, and looked back at her plate. Her tongue had had no desire for food, but as she looked. Her stomach growled. The plate was finished before she could taste much, but she felt renewed.Y/n had wept greatly before, but she never knew how draining a broken heart could be.

She knew that the next morning would be a difficult one. She would not be able to evade her family while leaving for London, and so she slept early. She wrapped herself under her blankets tightly and spelt deeply.

That day, she let herself rest.

Her dreams were calm; she was barefoot in the garden, laughing as she was chased by someone. She ducked under trees and hid with rabbits. Then, whoever she had been evading caught her from behind, and she fell upon their chest. She stared down into steely hazel eyes, and her hands rested upon broad shoulders. His right hand wove into her hair and pulled her lips down to his, kissing her fervently, while his left pulled her hip against his-

Then, it was over.

As the sun rose early on Thursday morning, y/n stretched, and stared at the four walls around her. She looked at the books and paintings, and the woodwork. And strangely enough, she felt nothing; y/n half expected herself to find a little joy in the room she had had for over two decades, but the thing about her room was that she had no choice in how it was decorated. The manor itself was well over one hundred years old, and could only be changed so much. Everything felt dusty and impersonal. Even the name was old.

Y/n knew that she was growing tired of her home there, and she could barely find it in herself to call it a home. Slipping out of bed, the young woman walked to her washroom, and splashed cold water on her cheeks, and brushed her hair. She walked to her dresses and found a simple cotton day dress in a light blue; it had quarter length sleeves, and a scooped neckline that would be ideal for travelling in the summer. In addition to it, she took a pale grey one with longer sleeves that reached her wrists, and had a high neck, with delicate lace gracing it; along with that, she found an ecru sundress with short sleeves and a boat-neck. She knew that with London, it was wasier to layer shawls for warmth, rather than wearing heavier dresses, so she kept things simple. Just as she was satisfied with the three dresses, she reached for one more; a deep, red velvet dress just in case her Aunt and Uncle took her anywhere special.

She folded them neatly in a small trunk, and placed a knit shawl, and an extra pair of shoes for the red dress. Somehow her leather, heeled walking boots did not match with the feminine beauty of just a gown. She placed a few books inside as well, just in case.

Satisfied with her belongings, she dressed herself, saving her corset for the trunk, and let her hair fall around her shoulders in loose waves. Y/n fastened her cloak around her shoulders, and locked her trunk; she made quick work of leaving her room, and descending the stairs to the front door to fetch James to help with her trunk, whom she found just outside walking to the stables.

“James? Good morning. I need you to take me to London today. My trunk is upstairs, if you please.” She called softly to him.

Startled by her, the young man did not respond at first, but snapped to attention quickly and nodded.

“Of course, Miss y/n.” With that, he hastily ran into the manner, y/n following slowly behind him. Upon walking through the foyer, she was met with the cold stare of her mother on her way to the drawing room. Y/n did not cower, or lower her gaze. She stood strong, and walked to the stairs.

“Where do you think you are going to, young lady?” Her mother called sharply.

“London.” Y/n responded simply.

“You most certainly are not-“

“James will return with the carriage by nightfall. You will not be inconvenienced, I assure you.” Y/n gave her a tight smile as the woman walked to her.

“Do you think you can simply walk away from speaking to your mother, you insolent child? I do not know what you fed into the mind of Lord Turpin, but you have poisoned his mind. You must write to him and tell him of your wrongdoings immediately. I will not have you tarnish the name of this family-“

“I will do nothing of the sort, mother. I have done nothing to harm this family, much less than you.”

Her mother sputtered for a moment, trying to find a rebutte, but y/n did not wait. She had had enough of letting her family walk over her, and with her venture to London, she was prepared to escape them permanently with the money she had saved. A pang of sadness clutched at her heart at the thought that she was collecting money as a child, when she should have been collecting memories.

The young woman turned, and ascended the stairs, hearing her mother call out to her and scream for her father; the woman even started to walk after y/n as she walked to her room. She heard footsteps as she rounded the corner, and walked past her sister who watched her with wide eyes.

“Y/n? What-“

Again, she did not wait. “I am going to London. Write to Aunt Stella if you wish for me to bring anything.”

She passed James with her trunk, who did not make eye contact with Kathryn. The calls from her mother quickly followed her to her room, which she entered to take her travelling satchel and an extra book for the journey. Y/n turned back to the door, items in hand and was met with a firm slap across her face.

She should have cried out.

She should have wept.

But she did not.

The young woman simply turned her eyes back to her mother who was panting with rage. However, as her harsh action set in and she saw the red mark, the older woman’s eyes softened ever so slightly. While her family was cruel, they had barely laid a finger on her, until that moment.

“Y/n-“

“Goodbye, mother. Do write to Aunt Stella if you should need anything.” Y/n did not spare her a second glance, and walked past her, out the door, where her sister still stood, confused.

“Y/n! Y/n, please! Y/n-“

The young woman picked up her skirts and ran down the stairs, crossed the foyer, and walked out the front door. The carriage was waiting, and packed with James watching her.

“Thank you James. Aunt Stella’s house if you please.” She said calmly as she climbed in. She knew he saw the mark, but as a good man, he did not comment. She sat herself, and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders tightly in the cold of the morning; then, they began to pull away down the road, leaving her mother crying for her. Kathryn trying to comfort her, and her father just coming out the door, newspaper in hand.

She barely cared what they thought of her. For years, they had disrespected and disregarded her; there was nothing else she could do to that would harm her image in their eyes. She was already a failure. She was certain that even if she returned home with five hundred men asking for her hand, and a career, they would not care.

All she knew was that as she swayed gently in the carriage and the warmth from her wool cloak enveloped her, she felt safer than ever. Y/n grasped her book and opened it to its first chapter. This particular book was not one she had read, but it intrigued her greatly; The Divine Comedy. A book depicting a man’s decent into hell.

“MIDWAY upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say

What was this forest savage, rough, and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;

But of the good to treat, which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered, So full was I of slumber at the moment In which I had abandoned the true way.

But after I had reached a mountain’s foot,

At that point where the valley terminated, Which had with consternation pierced my heart,

Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders…”

Her eyes flicked across the page, letting the macabre nature of the tale consume her. It was not a novel of comedy at all; the story was that of a man, Dante, who finds himself lost in the forest and realizes that he has died. From there, the novel depicts his descent through the nine circles of Hell, until he meets Satan himself, and his subsequent escape into Purgatory; Dante’s journey through the seven spheres of heaven follow until he does indeed arrive in Paradise.

Having been written in 1472, it’s language was a massive departure from what she was used to, but it worked to keep her awake and fascinated; exactly as she had wished.

The novel took her the length of the carriage ride to finish -roughly five and a half hours. By the time buildings began to rise up around her, and the tranquility of the country was filled with shouts and noises of the city, she placed the large book down next to her and looked out. Y/n let a smile grace her face, forgetting the soft bruise that formed on her cheek and her aching backside.

London.

They crossed the expansive London Bridge, and moved into the centre of the city. Rows and rows of buildings passed her window, as did horses and people and markets. The air was far heavier, but she would not have it any other way.

Before she knew it, the carriage was coming to a stop, and James was opening her door to a very familiar sight. Y/n all but leapt from the carriage, and strode up the steps to the front door, knocking as politely as she could. After a few moments, the door swung open and she was captured in a pair of warm arms that smelled of lavender.

“Aunt Stella…” The young woman murmured into the fair hair of her aunt.

“Hello lovely.” Stella whispered, holding y/n close. She pulled away after a moment to look at her, and stilled when she saw the mark on the girl’s cheek. Stella looked at her, confused, worried and horrified. Without even having to ask, y/n answered.

“Your sister says hello.” She said with a tight, bitter smile.

“I swear that woman does not know the gift she was given when you were born.“ Stella cupped her cheeks, then began to guide her inside, “James my dear! Thank you, you can just leave the trunk here in the doorway. Tea? Lunch? Come in for some lunch, please.”

James smiled and shook his head, “Ma’am, you’re too kind. I don’t mind just waitin’ until I get back-“

“Nonsense. At least take something for the road. Yes?” She pressed. The young man nodded, defeated, “Good. Inside, both of you.”

They all filed inside the cozy home, and walked through to the kitchen. A vast spread of sandwiches and pastries, complete with tea sat upon the round table. Y/n smiled and unclipped her cloak, letting it fall into her hands as her Aunt made quick work of wrapping three sandwiches and two pastries for James. He protested, but she had none of it.

Y/n turned to him, and took his hand, “Take care, James. I will return in a week’s time. Thank you.”

He nodded, and nodded solemnly, “I will take care if you will, Miss y/n. ‘S not right how they treat you.”

“You are right. But I believe in what you put out into the world, will return to you. Even if it is not in this life. I will be just fine.” Y/n nodded and smiled as she spoke.

It was enough for him, and so he gave both women a nod, and left, thanking Stella once again for the food. The house was quiet, save for the noise of the city outside. It was late into the afternoon, the clock reading 2pm.

“Aunt-“

“Come now, y/n. Just Stella.”

“Stella…I wish to see as much of the city as possible…I desperately need a change.” She spoke softly, looking at her hands.

“Stay as long as you need, my dear. Thomas and I are more than happy to have you.” There was. Touch of melancholy in her lovely face, reminding y/n of their late daughter.

It was exactly what she needed: familiar faces, kindness and distraction.

“Thank you.”

Y/n sat and spoke with her aunt for hours, barely registering the loss of light as the sun set. Stella began to prepare a simple vegetable soup for dinner, and the smell warmed y/n’s heart. It was not until the front door opened, and the call of Uncle Thomas rang out, “My love? I’m home!”

“Thomas! Thomas come to the kitchen.” Stella called back.

There was a pause, then his footsteps approached where they sat, and as soon as his head poked through the door, y/n stood and threw her arms around him, “Uncle Thomas!”

“Hello Dolly! Let me look at you.” He held her tight, smiling brightly, then pulled her away. Just as Stella’s had, his smile dropped at her face; Thomas turned her cheek to look at it better, and glanced at Stella who said sadly, “Eleanor.”

He nodded, and looked back at y/n who gave him her best grin. It eased his anger, but did not rid the action.

“Stay as long as you need, dolly.”

“I will. Thank you.” She nodded.

“Sit. Dinner is ready, and you ought to have a good nights rest. Tomorrow we take on the city.” Stella patted the chairs and spoke with as much gumption as she could. Y/n let out a soft laugh, and nodded before walking to the cupboards and taking out three bowls and three spoons. It was terribly refreshing to help in the house- she always felt so useless at the manor.

As they ate, y/n divulged to them about her latest read of The Divine Comedy- most of which she was sure they did not understand. However, they nodded along and asked questions, which was all she wanted; someone to care about what she cared about.

That night as she sat on the bed they gave her, she brushed her hair and tied her night gown. She felt her heart begin to repair itself; it was not whole. It was bruised and battered, but one day at a time, she was certain it would heal.

She had found her mind to be calm as she laid her head down upon her pillow. Where her usual thoughts of a certain man of the law would swirl and torture her, there was nothing but pink clouds of comfort. The entire day, she had not thought of him.

Not once.

Her dreams were null, but after so long of having her dreams plagued by a voice that resembled thunder and a smooth touch, she welcomed the rest.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

TAG LIST:

@imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky

@kylosbitch

@dogmatic255

@funandfancyfree

[clockwork-angels]

TLH Will/Jem Moments That Break My Heart (part 1/?)

Part 1: Chain of Gold

#1

James’s father, Will, had often told him about the patrols he used to do with his parabatai, Jem Carstairs—now James’s uncle Jem—back when they had battled demons nearly every night.

》 i dunno why but for some reason this brings me to tears

#2

I think this next one is the part everyone cried at. But I gotta say i literally had to close the book when i read it and then i wept for literally 10 minutes:

The night after they learned of Linette’s and Edmund’s deaths, Will had been sitting on the floor in the drawing room, Tessa in the overstuffed armchair behind him, and Lucie and James had been stretched upon the fireplace rug. Will’s back had been against Tessa’s legs as he stared unseeing into the fire. They had all heard the front doors open; Will had looked up when Jem came in, and Jem, in his Silent Brother robes, went over to Will and sat down beside him. He drew Will’s head against his shoulder, and Will held the front of Jem’s robes in his fists and he cried. Tessa bowed her head over both of them, and the three were united in adult grief, a sphere James could not yet touch.

#3

this one is just purely hilarious, but also imagine Will teasing Jem about 'how proud he is that his parabatai has finally found a sense of humour':

On one memorable occasion, Jem borrowed Matthew’s dog, Oscar Wilde, riled him up, and released him on an unsuspecting James during breakfast.

James thought some of Jem’s training ideas were deliberate pranks—Silent Brothers had the best poker faces he could imagine, after all. His father assured him that it wasn’t in Jem’s nature, and that however odd the training, he was sure it was intended sincerely.

#4

i love crying about both Jem/Will and James/Matthew after reading a single paragraph

Jem’s violin had pride of place—a Stradivarius carved of mellow wood, it rested in an open case atop a high table. James had seen his father come into this room just to touch the violin sometimes, a faraway look in his eyes. He wondered if he would do the same with Matthew’s belongings if one day, he lost his parabatai.

#5

laughing through the tears

The door opened, and Will stuck his head into the music room. He looked weary, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, his shirt stained with tinctures and salve. Still, he smiled when he saw James and Jem. “Is everything all right?”

“Uncle Jem was worried about me,” said James. “But I am quite well.”

Will came up to his son and pulled him into a quick, rough hug. He said, “I am glad to hear it, Jamie bach. Gideon and Sophie have arrived, and to see them with Barbara—” He kissed the top of James’s head. “It does not bear thinking of.”

I should return to the infirmary, said Jem. There is much still for me to do.

Will nodded, releasing James. “I know Gideon and Sophie would feel better if you were the one tending Barbara. Not to insult Brother Shadrach, who I’m sure is an excellent and well-respected member of the Brotherhood.”

Jem shook his head, which was as close as he got to smiling, and the three of them left the music room.

#6

“The only equivalent in real life is memory,” Tessa said, looking up as Will Herondale came into the room, followed by Cousin Jem. “But memories can be bitter as well as sweet.”

#7

“Is it selfishly awful to worry that all this business will delay our becoming parabatai? I feel I will be a better Shadowhunter when it is done. Were you not one, after you became parabatai with Uncle Jem?”

“A better Shadowhunter and a better man,” said Will. “All the best of me, I learned from Jem and your mother. All I want for you and Cordelia is to have what I had, a friendship that shall shape all your days. And never to be parted.”

#8 Will being Will AKA Will seeking solace in Jem

Will had been angry at the world, and then gone to see Jem.

#9

Will wanting to immediately share the exciting news with Jem is something that can be so personal

A broad smile spread across Will’s face.

“Then we have no choice but to give our blessing too. Cordelia Carstairs,” he said, “the Carstairs and the Herondales will be bonded even more closely now. If James could have chosen his wife from all the women in all the worlds that are or ever were, I would wish for no other.”

Tessa laughed. “Will! You cannot compliment our new daughter only on the chance of her last name!”

Will was grinning like a boy. “Wait until I tell Jem—”

#10

Was it strange for Will, she wondered, to be aging and have Jem remain in appearance still a boy? Or when you loved someone, did you not notice these things, just as her parents saw no difference between themselves?

#11

any reminder that Jem and Will were parabatai brings me to tears

“But I did it for Cordelia!” she exclaimed, as her parents drew back, her mother seating herself on the bed beside Lucie, where she could hold her hand. “You would have done it for Jem, Papa, when you were parabatai.”

Will leaned back against a post of the bed. “You aren’t parabatai with Cordelia yet.”

#12

It was his father, but Will was not alone: Uncle Jem was with him, a noiseless presence in his drifting parchment robes. His hood was down, as it often was when he was inside the Institute. Will had told James many years ago that when Jem had first become a Silent Brother, he had not liked people to see his scars. It was strange to think of Uncle Jem having such feelings.

“Someone’s here to see you,” Will said, moving aside to let Jem pass into the room. He glanced from his son to his old parabatai.

#13

If you saw humanity as I can see it, Uncle Jem said. There is very little brightness and warmth in the world for me. There are only four flames, in the whole world, that burn fiercely enough for me to feel something like the person I was. Your mother, your father, Lucie, and you.

#14

“Will.” Tessa sank down beside him on the bed. “There is no war.”

She knew why he worried. For them, there had been war, and loss. Tessa’s brother, Nate. Thomas Tanner. Agatha Grant. Jessamine Lovelace, their friend, who now guarded the London Institute in ghostly form. And Jem, who they had both lost and kept.

(stay tuned for part 2 with Chain of Iron snippets and snippets from the Tessa/Will wedding short story)

[teddy06writes]

Greek Myth AU: Eros and Psyche Part Two

Eret x afab!reader

trigger warnings: general death/death mentions, Aphrodite being a bit of a bitch, reader is pregnant for the sake of the original myth, but its not mentioned that much

premise: again, this explains the original myth, this part is the second half/the challenge thingys.

Part one

list of Greek Gods/characters for this work

Eros- Eret

Aphrodite- Puffy

Zephyrus- Philza

Zeus- Dream

Pan- Tubbo

Demeter- Ranboo

Hera- George

Hades- Wilbur (only mentioned)

Persephone- Niki

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

"No love can exist without trust."

The words echoed through (y/n)s head as they wandered through the still dark field. It seemed no use to them to even try to go back to the villa.

Slowly, they came to a stop next to the brook, laying down amongst the bank, one hand on their stomach as they watched the water pass, wondering what they would do.

How could they go on if Eret had left?

"Are you alright?"

(y/n) jumped at the sudden noise, sitting up and turning to see a saytr- no not just any Satyr, they found themself face to face with Tubbo, god of the wild.

"Uhhh...."

He let his head half fall sideways to look at them closer, "You don't look alright. Have you been crying?"

They sniffed, nodding, "I suppose so, yes. I've just had... a rough day."

He nodded, "Does this have anything to do with what I heard Eret shouting earlier, cause that sounded pretty bad."

"It- was actually."

Tubbo winced, "Yikes. You know, though from what I heard, from what I can see now, you really do look like someone who is very much in love. Don't leave yourself to rot here, you must continue on, and win his affections back."

"But how can I? I've lost all of his trust." They sighed.

"You must try, you must." Tubbo insisted, he offered them a hand and helped them to stand, "There is a way, and you will be able to find it. That I am sure of."

So, (y/n) traveled on, through the lands until they at last reached their home nation. Soon, they sought out their sisters, telling them that their deception had caused them to be cast out, not by a beast, but by the god Eret, himself.

When their sisters claimed excuses, and hurried off (perhaps to try and be taken by the god), (y/n) could only sigh and move on.

As they continued the travel, searching for any signs of their husband, he was stuck in Puffy's castle, the splash of oil having done much more damage than she'd originally thought.

All too soon, Puffy had found out where Eret was, and what had happened. Furiously, she rushed into their chambers, utterly pissed that she had gone so far against her instructions as to fall in love with (y/n).

The goddess was in such a rage, that she hardly noticed the state he was in, instead yelling on about how 'that wretched mortal would need to be punished'.

"No!" Eret cried through gritted teeth, "They may have betrayed me, but this is not their fault!"

"She shall be punished!"

It was only the announcement that Ranboo and George had arrived that pulled Puffy out of her yelling.

"Puffy, what's happened?" George asked once she had returned to the main room.

"Do remember that mortal? The one everyone was infatuated with?" Puffy asked, annoyed.

Ranboo nodded, "I thought you had sent Eret to get rid of them."

"The foolish boy went against me, brought her to some place, kept her safe, and now he's been burned because of it." She sighed, "The mortal will have to be dealt with. No simply plots of a forced love. I shall send them straight down to Wilbur's domain."

George bit his lip, "Well, are you sure that he didn't hide them away for good reason?"

"He fell in love with them." Puffy scoffed.

"Oh come on Puffy, don't punish them just because she fell in love. Doesn't he deserve ore than that? They must have fallen in love for a reason? You are the goddess of love, surely you should understand." Ranboo attempted to defend Eret, only to be cut off.

"I do not care what I should or should not understand! I want this mortal punished, and punished they shall be!" Puffy roared.

Meanwhile, (y/n) still wandered the land, looking for their lover, even as their health seemed to decline.

It had been a rather nice day when they stumbled upon the abandoned temple, covered in debris, and tools left behind. Some how, despite everything, it only made sense to clean the temple. To restore, to the best of their ability, to its former glory, or at least till it didn't look a mess.

It was slow work, but soon they had cleared the weeds, moved the old offerings back to their place, and found a place for the abandoned tools.

"You, poor (y/n)!"

They looked up to find Ranboo, towering over them, "M'lord?"

"I have come with a warning. Since your betrayal of Eret, Puffy has been after you, and you have been in great danger. Still despite this, you've come to clear the temple that my followers have abandoned. Why is this?"

"No place should be abandoned as I have been." (y/n) answered softly.

He frowned, sighing, "Well, I value my alliances with Puffy to much to harbor you. But, I will not turn you in, nor alert her in anyway you were every here. Consider yourself blessed."

As he disappeared, (y/n) couldn't help but breath a sigh of relief. They hadn't been met with Puffy's wrath yet. But that did not stop their sorrow.

Wandering farther and farther away from both the valley, and their home, (y/n) came across another temple, taking a rest from the road to step inside.

At the alter, they prayed, "George, queen of Olympus, I beg of you to help me. I am but a mortal, plagued by sorrow, driven out of every place Aphrodite seeks me. I do not wish for my child to be born to this life. Oh, dear George I beg for your help!"

George, hearing these prayers, quietly appeared to them, "Poor dear. I cannot help you, no matter how much I wish too. Puffy's anger stretches far, and even I cannot shield you from it."

When he had disappeared, (y/n) was forced back out the wandering, wondering, if maybe they revealed themself to the goddess, they might receive some mercy.

After a long pondering they set out, and after journey, the found themself at the palace of Puffy. Upon turning themself into the servants, (y/n) found themself dragged before Puffy, who demanded to know what they were doing.

"So you have finally decided to pay me a visit? Or is this just a trick to see your husband, who sufferers from a wound given by your hand!"

It had been a long afternoon for (y/n), until at last the servants, and even Puffy herself, let off, and gave time for the bruises to fully form, as Puffy taunted them, "Such a plain and boring mortal, how could he have fallen for you? And even given you a child? What a pathetic thing it will be."

It didn't take much longer after that for Puffy to decide, "A challenge then, you look to be a maid, lets see how well of one you are. Then you might gain enough favor to see your husband." She called for bags of wheat, barley, beans, lentils and chickpeas to be spread and mixed on the floor, "Have all of this sorted, before the night, and you may win some favor."

And as she disappeared, (y/n) wept, it would be impossible for them to sort the pile, let alone by the time she returned. It had seemed so hopeless, until, droves of Ants, driven by pity made there way into the room.

"Fear not, we shall help you with this task."

Soon the grain was sorted, and the ants disappeared as Puffy returned, looking around incredulously, "This work mustn't be yours! Surely it isn't! You foul thing! This work is far from over!"

The next day, a new challenge was assigned.

"There is a field, a few miles from here, where golden sheep graze all day. Travel there and bring me back a tuft of wool from one by the time the sun sets, or give up on all hope of seeing your husband again." Puffy commanded.

Obediently, (y/n) set out, and as they crossed the river, a soft nymph whispered the secrets to gathering the wool from the dangeours animals.

Carefully, (y/n) waited until noon had passed, until the sheep had settled to one ide of the field, and crept out, gathering the soft tufts from the briars of the bushes.

Yet again, Puffy was surprised by their ability to comply and finish these challenges.

"Surely your husband had some hand in helping you finish this. Quickly mortal, while there is still light, take this, and fetch me the water from the upper most point of that mountain stream."

(y/n) took the pitcher, and slowly began to hike toward the mountain, dreading the dangerous climb ahead. The mountains slowly grew nearer, until (y/n) was forced to fully climb up and over rocks, and the potential fall could prove fatal.

They had paused for a rest, breathing heavy and staring up at the setting sun, there was no way they could make the trip to the top of the mountain and back before night fell.

Yet again, it all seemed helpless, until a kind eagle, indebted to Eret, swooped down, "Give me your jug child, and allow me to help."

When they returned to Puffy's castle, again they were met with surprise. No one had expected their return.

"You have done what I asked, and that makes me suspect you to be a witch. It will take a greater test to determine if you should see your husband again."

(y/n), barley held in a sigh, bowing their head.

"You will journey to the underworld, and meet Niki. She makes a beauty cream, I need you to get some for me. I've exhausted my supply."

(Y/n) began to shake, tears beginning to spill from their eyes, surely this task was impossible. No one could journey to the Underworld and make it back alive.

"Better get going." She scoffed, "And remember, not a single drop

They had no choice but to go.

It was a slow, painful journey, and it took much help, much advice to reach the underworld.

They called upon Niki, who greeted them kindly, and listened to their plight.

"I just wish to see my husband again, so I can explain myself, so I can apologize." (y/n) finished with a sigh.

Niki frowned, "That I cannot help with. But I can supply you with the beauty cream, to bring back to Puffy."

A box was filled and closed out of their view, before Niki presented it to them, with a warning, "The contents of this box, are not meant for mere mortals. It is highly dangerous for you to even look at it. You mustn't open this box, not for anything."

"I understand." They said, taking the box.

The journey back to the overworld seemed to pass quickly, but soon (y/n)s thoughts began to betray her.

Why would they carry this beauty cream if they were not able to take a drop for themself?

How were they suppose to confront their husband if they looked as ragged and hungry as they did now?

Slowly, the temptation took over, surely they would need this beauty cream more than the goddess of beauty.

As soon as the box was opened, they fell to the ground, nearly dead.

While they slept off their injuries, a great fight took place between the gods.

When they had at last awoken, they were greeted with the sight of their lovers face.

"Eret!" They gasped, "I'm sorry! I truly am! I don't know what I was thinking! Please forgive me! I love you!"

She smiled softly, "There is much we have to talk about my sweet."

It had been decided, that (y/n) would join the gods on Olympus, and remarry the god Eret.

Puffy would hurt them no more, and Eret, having heard what lengths they had gone too to get back to them, he couldn't keep them away.

[aizawaslovebot]

NOW PLAYING: the ex factor by iwaizumi hajime

—reader pronouns: he/him

—warnings: curse words ; had to be cut into two parts bec i want it that way ><

—summary: desperate times mean desperate measures, and y/n l/n is definitely the embodiment of desperate. eager to make his ex jealous for reasons undisclosed (read as: he's just petty), he asks his long-time best friend, iwaizumi hajime, to pretend as his boyfriend.

—note: the second part will be out in 3 days! VERY SORRY FOR THE VERY LONG WAIT UHU

TAGLIST: OPEN ; send an ask to be added even if you've already sent an ask back then!! because all that i could recall is @ohmygodronnie2020 and @beyond-the-mxxn

<- the sweetheart playlist | part i | part ii ->

Iwaizumi Hajime should’ve trusted his gut when it went crazy at the sight of you, Y/N L/N, whose eyes held a very mischievous glint that Iwa hated. He also should’ve turned you down immediately the moment you opened your mouth. Iwa definitely should’ve reprimanded you for roping him into this stupid plan.

Sadly, all he’s doing is crying over spilt milk.

He could remember it like it was yesterday. Years of dealing with Shittykawa meant that he knew when bullshit was about to happen. He thought going to California meant finally meeting someone who isn't an idiot on the daily. You were his contradiction. You were his idiot— basically like Shittykawa’s younger, much more mischievous brother.

Honestly, did Iwaizumi only attract idiots?

On the days you aren’t going on and on and on about why the government should be overthrown or why the both of you should buy a frog table for your shared dorm, he found you to be a nice guy. The people Iwa has met always had a hidden layer to them and you were one of them. Shittykawa was one too. Though Iwa wishes he didn’t introduce the both of you to each other— you become an unstoppable ball of everything annoying when you talk to each other.

But I digress. Iwa isn’t here to cry over why he only had chaos for best friends. Iwa is here because you, Y/N L/N, while you happened to be Iwa’s contradiction for all things he considered his norm, had asked him a very big favor.

“No,” Iwaizumi grunts, regretting even entertaining the male’s request. He could see your (h/c) hair bob as you groan out of frustration. Unbeknownst to the male, you were mulling over using what has to be Iwa’s biggest weakness: your very adorable puppy eyes.

“Iwa-chaaaan,” You sniff, putting on doe-eyes for Iwa to see, “I really want to make him jealous.”

Iwa sighs, subtly turning away so he didn’t have to see the tear-stained cheeks and the glossy eyes. The poor male was about to speak, pointing out that you had been influenced by Oikawa with the damn nickname, but he was cut off.

“He hurt me a lot, y’know?” You started to well up, for real this time, “I just wanted revenge…”

Iwa sighs again but he noticeably softens, opening his arms to let you cry while he hugs you. As you wept, you accepted his gesture and immediately let yourself be engulfed in your best friend’s arms. “You’ve yet to tell me why you two broke up, dumbass,” Iwa chided, though it was lighthearted.

“Zumi, is this your backhanded way of saying yes?” You asked, but your voice was muffled by his chest.

Iwa sighs for the nth time that day as he finally resigns to his fate, “Yes.”

That encounter was a week ago. You gave Iwaizumi enough time to prepare and regret his life choices. Honestly, he should’ve predicted that his idiot timed things perfectly so that your stupid plan would take place on the university-wide party the following week. Iwa could proudly say that most of his predictions were accurate and on point. Then again, his predictions were futile anyway— the best example could be his judgement on your then-boyfriend, Akuma Azamuku.

The brunette could clearly remember how he was able to discern more than enough red flags from just meeting the god forsaken guy. It was annoying how blind you could be when you’re heads over heels in love with the wrong people. Were you not really able to see how toxic this… Akuma guy is? Terrible name too, might he add. Iwaizumi would rather you date him than this devil spawn.

But he didn’t move a muscle. Iwaizumi didn’t move a muscle especially after that thought emerged from his head. What in Godzilla’s name was he thinking anyway?

Even if he could celebrate his on-point prediction on how much of an ass the spawn of Satan was, he couldn’t exactly bring himself to mock you with an angry ‘’I told you so!” Not when it meant that your damn ex-boyfriend cheated on you, covering it up by saying that he wasn’t actually gay. Not when it meant that you had been used. Not when it meant that you, his idiot, were hurt. His idiot was hurt.

“You’re being a martyr again, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa tutted through the phone, tactlessly commenting once the brunette finished relaying what was going on.

The male snorted, “What are you on, this time, Shittykawa?”

“Don’t turn this on me, you idiot.”

How the hell was Iwaizumi the idiot? No. He’s lived with idiots his entire life but he wasn’t one. If anything, both of his friends were the idiots. Not him.

“Selflessly complying with dear (N/N)’s outrageous request, regardless of how much it hurts you. Tsk, Iwaizumi Hajime. You’re one big idiot,” Oikawa sighed.

Iwaizumi scoffs at his friend’s claim, “Why the hell will helping him out hurt me? Shittykawa, did you leave your single brain cell in Miyagi?” The brunette growls, annoyed at the way Oikawa avoided giving him the straight answer.

“Iwa-chan,” Iwaizumi’s breath hitches as he hears the next words, “you’re in love with (N/N), aren’t you?”

Iwaizumi Hajime was, in fact, an idiot.

He was an idiot for realizing it much later than wanted; for allowing Shittykawa, of all people, to know this one fact before him; and for opening an avenue for bigger wounds because all he wanted was to help his best friend. He probably had to be the biggest idiot among the three— and that’s saying a lot… like more than a lot.

The soon-to-be trainer could hear his pro best friend sigh in response to his stunned silence. Iwa concludes that it was weird to be on the receiving end of a tired sigh but he doesn’t utter a word. Not even after Oikawa begins to speak again. “I can’t even bring myself to tease you tonight… or today… or whatever time it is there, Iwa-chan. What will you do now?”

Iwaizumi wasn’t the type to let himself get involved in petty things like this nor does he let himself go against judgement. That is, if you weren't in the question. The brunette was very sure that you were his contradiction— unknowingly forcing him to go against all the boundaries Iwa had set and done. You, also a trainer in the making, could easily be the death of Iwaizumi Hajime. But if it’s you, then he’d gladly embrace this death.

“I’m going.”

Those two words were a lot harder to say than the tired male liked to admit. So as he ends the dreadful phone call with Oikawa, he secretly hopes that next week will never come.

Even if Iwaizumi tried his hardest to deny, next week actually came. Not that it was a surprise. No one could stop the turning of time, the rotation of the Earth, nor the ticking of the clock. How the hell would he even stop next week from coming? Heck, Iwaizumi couldn’t even stop you from this stupid revenge quest that you had set.

Pretend to be his boyfriend, you said. It would be easy to do anyway, you said. We’ll be in and out in a jiffy, you said.

To hell with all the lies that you had promised. It was beyond Iwaizumi’s skills and strength to pretend to be someone you romantically loved when he actually wanted it to be true. The Aoba Johsai Iwaizumi would’ve dipped; Iwaizumi from last year would’ve never pushed through. But here he is, standing in front of the mirror in your shared dorm, preparing to do what he deemed an impossible feat.

You will always be Iwaizumi Hajime’s contradiction. And at this point, he isn’t sure whether it was a good or a bad thing. All Iwa knows is that this will soon end and like the way next week came, tomorrow will soon be today.

So all Iwaizumi could do is psych himself up to do impossible— the same way he had convinced himself he was an ace in volleyball or the same way he gave himself assurance with his college application— and push through with the plan.

I can do this. I’m Iwaizumi Hajime, former volleyball ace and soon, an athletic trainer. I’ve dealt with Shittykawa all my life. I was able to get into a college in California by myself. This should be easy. I can do this.

“Should I wear this, ‘zumi?” You call out from the bathroom, holding two slightly different tops for Iwa to see. The way the brunette spluttered at the sight of a half-naked you was embarrassing to say the least, but Iwaizumi was thankful that you had been too engrossed to even notice the reddening of his ears. ‘God damn it, Hajime. Half-naked Y/N isn’t new,’ he chastised himself mentally as he coughs. “Use the darker one,” was Iwaizumi’s curt reply.

I can do this.

You should not have lit up at his answer like that. The sight gave Iwaizumi more joy than he liked to admit. Nothing could ever top what you said next though.

I c-can do this...

“Oh! This one matches yours too! We look good together, huh?”

I cannot do this.

“Idiot,” Iwaizumi sighs to mask his flustered state, “just shut up and wear it already.” You only laugh in response, already used to Iwaizumi’s brash way of dealing with things. “Alright, puddin’. Just wait. You can’t rush art,” You reply sarcastically, using the other nickname that Iwa had begun to dread.

Iwa resorts to the comfort of his phone— or rather, he uses the phone to conceal the undying pink on his cheeks so you wouldn’t see. Maybe if he spared a minute before he did so, he would’ve seen that you were equally flustered; seemingly embarrassed to have said what you had in their conversation. But it is what it is, and Iwaizumi has to continue his emotional constipation without ever knowing that had ever happened.

You take Iwa’s hand in yours before you lead Iwa out of your dorm and to wherever the god forsaken party was. “What’s with the skinship?” Iwa asks, though the way he adjusts the grip so it would be comfortable didn’t go unnoticed. Maybe he had started to like the prospect of this whole fake dating fiasco because it let him taste of what could’ve been instead of just wondering how it felt.

“Nothing you’re not used to, puddin’. And uh… uh… this way we could look like an actual couple,” You stammer and avoid eye contact, your hand still in Iwa’s warmth though.

If Iwaizumi hadn’t been too distracted, too haunted by the reminder that this was just pretend, then he would’ve noticed that you had seemed unsure, seemed too engrossed in the feeling of your hands together that you weren’t able to make a great excuse. He once again resigns to what has been destined. “The Y/N L/N I know doesn’t do things half-assed,” Iwa claims as he drops their hands, “By that logic this should be okay right? So people would really think we’re together.”

‘It isn’t okay,’ You croak internally. Iwa decided to go against all things normal by doing this… this very compromising position that ensured the two of you looked like nothing else but a couple. Iwa decided, despite not knowing how much damage it would bring to your poor heart, to wrap an arm around your waist.

Unknown to the soon-to-be trainer, you were just as, if not more, smitten with him as Iwa was with you. You almost revealed the reason behind your bad break-up and even let Iwa see that he had this much of an effect on you. So this, to see Iwa be so into the role of his pretend boyfriend, both flustered and somehow hurt you.

You didn’t know why it hurt though.

“You okay there, dumbass? ” Iwa asks, getting too close to your face and being far too concerned than your heart could’ve handled.

Everything about this was confusing. Both of your minds were having their own storms as the both of you stumbled upon this new, confusing field in between friendship and romance. Closeness with Iwa wasn’t new to you at all. Him lightly calling you dumb wasn’t new at all. So why, in God’s name, did your ribcage feel like breaking apart from the very loud beating of your heart?

If Iwa had to ask himself the same question he asked you, he would’ve gotten a big ‘NO’ from himself. Initiating skinship to this extent made Iwa’s brain malfunction. Not only that, but the feeling of your waist was very much heavenly and mind-boggling. To put a cherry on top of the sundae called “Iwaizumi Hajime’s gay panicking,” the speechless and cute expression you had was too much for his heart.

Turns out that you would answer the same as Iwa, not that the brunette knew though.

This plan of yours started on the right course. Your dick of an ex did cheat on you and you wanted to make him regret ever even thinking of using you as a scapegoat from his problems. It was common sense to ask for the aid of your best friend, right? He, of all people, would know you and understand you best. So when did your fake dating extravaganza take its turn? At what point did this plan converge into something different?

In other words, did you still want to make your ex jealous? Or did you want to see how it would feel to date your best friend?

Time did not let you answer the many questions that formed in your pretty head. Before either of you knew it, you’ve arrived at the party.

You turn to look at Iwa, who was somehow already gazing at you with that intense fire in his eyes, and nod.

It’s showtime.

—reblogging helps a lot !! thank you for reading !!

[midautumnnightdream]

Family

For Cosette Appreciation Week

*

Cosette doesn’t remember much of the day her father died.

She has no idea how long she spent kneeling on the bare floor, her cheek pressed against the rough fabric, her hands clasping a larger one, that only recently had been stroking her head. She vaguely recalls Marius speaking to the portress. The doctor had been called back, though for what purpose, she couldn’t say. When Marius helped her to her feet, she could hardly stand without support.

Upon re-entering No. 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, she had gone straight to her chambers, leaving Marius to explain matters to his aunt and grandfather. He had followed her soon, in a state of great agitation: Cosette had watched him marching back and forth, filling the air with rambling, disjointed explanations that she barely listened to, and understood even less. The flood of broken self-recriminations surrounded her like an ocean, and she knew that she should care, but her papa was gone, and she felt cold and helpless and so very alone.

At some point, Marius had turned to her, and whatever he had seen in her face had stopped him short. There was something indescribable in his expression, an odd mix of realisation and dismay. He had reached out his hand, as if to touch her, and glanced at the door, as if to flee. In the end he had done neither, instead perching on the edge of the bed, several feet away from her. They sat together in silence for a long time.

Grandfather Gillenormand had been full of effusive sympathy and condolences. He had offered to take care of the funeral arrangements, but Marius had corralled him with great care, and had cited the wishes of the deceased, that a minimal fuss should be made. In the end, the funeral party had consisted only of the four members of the household, joined by Toussaint, whom Marius had invited on Cosette's behalf. It had also been Marius, who encouraged the rest of their party to say their farewells after the church service, leaving the young couple in their privacy at the graveside; and it was Marius, who had penned the odd little verse on the otherwise unmarked gravestone. Cosette had stood silent and numb, all the words she wished she could say threatened to choke her. Only tears flowed.

The morning after the funeral, Marius had finally explained it all; slow and hesitant in a way that carried nothing of his earlier agitation. In brief words he had explained the nature of her papa’s best kept secret, the confession he had made and the facts he had left out. Without sparing a single detail, he had described Jean Valjean's actions in saving his life, and his own actions in driving him away. At times, the familiar tone of self-recrimination would seep into his voice again, but then he would break off mid-sentence, seeming more ashamed of that bitter flood of guilt than the actions themselves. Cosette couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved: she was quite sure she didn’t have it in her to reassure him.

She should be angry, she knew. At Marius, certainly, probably even at papa. Marius certainly seemed to expect it from her, but she didn’t have it in her to conform to his expectations either. Perhaps she was angry, but her heart was heavy with exhaustion and grief, and she desperately didn’t want to be alone. When Marius placed a tentative hand on her wrist, she turned, wrapped her arms around him and wept.

Marius walks on eggshells around her after that day. Where before he would declaim expansively on any and all topics with an air of authority, he now seems to hesitate on every word, his eyes searching hers for approval. He’s attentive to her every mood, fidgeting around her like a great dark guardian, and yet disappearing instantly when she gives the slightest indication of wanting to be alone. She has no idea where he goes when he leaves her. He seems lost. It is both a relief and a concern.

Right at this moment, he’s doing a poor job of pretending to read a newspaper, his gaze flickering over to Cosette in her window seat and to the long forgotten needlework in her lap. Cosette can feel the weight of his eyes on her, distracting her from her reverie.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks eventually, his voice painfully hesitant. Cosette sighs and tears her gaze away from the window.

“My mother,” she answers honestly.

“Oh?” Cautious, encouraging.

“Papa used to talk to me about her when I was little. Then he stopped. I suppose he thought once I was older, I might start asking questions he couldn’t answer.”

“Do you remember her at all?” Marius asks.

Cosette shakes her head. “I don’t remember much of my childhood. I think I remember being held and I know it must have been my mother, who sang to me and rocked me to sleep. After...” She hesitates. “I was fostered, I think, or maybe just left behind. I was terribly unhappy there. Then  papa came and took me away.” It was so strange and dark and confusing, that part of her life, filled with bizarre recollections, many of which must have surely been just nightmares of her childish mind. She had never liked thinking about it and papa hadn’t liked talking about it. Now, she supposes she will never know.

“I don’t remember my mother either,” Marius says suddenly. “At least not well. I remember what she looked like, but that might be just her picture on grandfather’s mantelpiece.” He’s lost in thought for several moments, before continuing. “I remember her illness, and being taken to her bedchamber to say goodbye. We were staying with grandfather then; my father was away in the war. Afterwards, grandfather wouldn’t let him see me, and told me he had abandoned me. And then he died. My father died alone, because my grandfather lied to me and kept me away. I hated him for this. I walked out of his house, left him behind and hated him for many years. And now I’ve done the same –” His jaw snaps shut. “But this isn’t about me.”

Cosette would like nothing more than to close the subject, to turn away and let their wounds heal in peace, until such time would come when she is ready to soothe them away. She had done the same with her papa, countless times – and look how that had turned out. Every instinct tells her they are on the cusp of something that may yet define the rest of their life together. She suppresses her fear.

“Marius. What are you saying?”

The look in Marius’ eyes is full of anguish and uncertainty. “This isn’t about me,” he repeats, his voice holding a cadence of a mantra. “Your grief for your father, the relationship the two of you shared, the memories you still hold dear – none of this has anything to do with me at all, does it? My guilt and my fervent regret for how things turned out are superfluous to the issue at hand.” He hesitates, as if trying to explain some great revelation he doesn’t quite have the words for. “Your grief matters more than my experience of it. I’ve been in your place, but now I’m not. What matters is how you feel.”

Cosette doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. She’s never heard Marius speak like that, isn’t quite sure she understands all that he’s trying to communicate.

He does that sometimes, thinking and brooding about an issue for so long that when he resurfaces, he’s bringing with him conclusions that are so profoundly simple as to be self-evident at the first glance, despite the layers of meaning visible only to him. Yet his usual ruminations tend towards the greater social questions and his own views on them. This? This feels different.

Something of her thoughts must have reflected on her face, for Marius expression grows rueful. “I suppose what I am trying to say is that I've never been very good at listening, at paying attention. I see what I expect to see, hear what I expect to hear and discard the rest. But bemoaning my foibles doesn’t help – the important thing is to do better. I will do better, for you.”

Cosette takes a deep breath. “Do you promise not to lie to me any more?”

“I promise!” Marius answers instantly, then hesitates. “I gave him my word to keep his secret before I even knew what it was.”

“You also promised he could visit,” Cosette replies quietly. “Why keep one promise and not the other?”

Marius has no reply to that.

“I swear I will not lie to you again,” is all he says.

“And you will not keep from me anything that has to do with me?”

“I swear,” Marius says. After a moment he adds. “I know it is a paltry excuse, but hurting you was the last thing that either of us wished to do. We were trying to protect you from suffering, and in doing that, we made the wrong choices. I made the wrong choices, because I failed to keep your feelings in mind, and that is something I can never make up for.”

For a long moment, the young couple sits in silence.

“Perhaps,” Cosette says eventually. “There was no good choice you could have made, because the choice wasn’t yours to make in the first place.”

“I’m your husband,” Marius says, grieved. “If I cannot do right by you, what’s the use of me?”

“Marius,” says Cosette. “Do we not, in this house, live in a republic?”

Marius huffs out a laugh. “I believe Monsieur Louis-Philippe would have something to say about that.”

“Do we not agree that it is no good, one person making all the decisions?” Cosette continues, unperturbed. “Your grandfather has made some terrible choices, both for you and for your aunt. My papa chose badly, in leaving me. I do not wish for any children of ours to live like we did, alone in their grief and helpless in their ignorance.”

“Never,” Marius assures vehemently. Cosette doesn’t meet his gaze, but she can see his expression growing horrified. “You do not believe me.”

“Marius,” Cosette answers, equal parts fond and exasperated, and perhaps just a bit resentful. “I think I need you to know, that before anything else, you are my family. The only family I have left. Do you know what that means to me, an orphan several times over, registered in my marriage documents under the surname given to me through kindness of strangers? I love you.”

“You say that you love me and I believe you,” Marius replies quietly. “But you won’t say that you trust me.”

“Marius,” Cosette says. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” Marius replies instantly, the grows quiet under the weight of the promise.

Cosette takes his hand in hers. “Then, as long as you keep trusting me, I endeavour to trust you. How does that sound?”

Marius remains quiet and pensive for a long minute. Then, for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

“That, I believe, is what my friend Bahorel would have called a treaty.”

[razorblade180]

Shackles 12: Protect your own

[part 11]

One thing leads to another. Pain brings grief, joy brings progress, day brings night; Jacquelyn knew simple truths like these, but she had really wished she could get her joy before night came. That didn’t seem to be the case. The tired woman sat on the Belladonna balcony. Her eyes scanned the stars that have kept her company for many years, bringing a sense of ease while her hands clasped a mug of warm tea. Blake’s mother, Kali, walked up from inside the house and poured more.

“Thank you.” Jacquelyn uttered softly. All day Kali hadn’t spoken a word to her. The older woman gave no expression, but her eyes said enough. They were upset, and mulling things over. “I’m-”

“If you’re going to apologize then don’t. There’s nothing you could say on his behalf.”

“Of..of course. I would never. I was going to apologize for myself. I’m…I involved your daughter in this. That one is on me.”

Kali looked over Jacquelyn. It just didn’t make sense to her. The girl before her sat solemnly waiting for a man who’s wracked sorrow to countless lives.

“If I wasn’t for Sun and Ilia, I would’ve denied you being here. I don’t want him near my home. He’s caused enough harm.”

“I understand. Still, I’m grateful. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

Tears of frustration welled up in Kali’s eyes the more Jacquelyn spoke to her. “Did you have a mother growing up?”

“…For a while. I lost her young.”

“I don’t know you, but I can tell she must’ve been caring; the kind of mother that would go to war for you.”

“Hehe, yeah, she was.” A tiny smile crept to her face, thinking back on the remarkable woman. “I owe her a lot in life.”

“A good mother’s only wish in life is to keep their kids safe and happy no matter what. So yeah, this isn’t easy. The thing I love the most in this world, my precious baby girl, you’ve helped invite back the very thing I failed to protect her from. I’m absolutely livid.So don’t tell me you understand. You’re not a mother.”

A lump formed in Jacquelyn’s throat. The little joy she had fizzled out. Kali’s words felt colder than Atlas winds and they had a right to be. However…a click at the door cut through all that.

“We’re home.” Blake said down stairs. Kali quickly ran downstairs. Jacquelyn put down the mug and ran too, but then, she stopped. A loud slurp came from behind her. She turned back around, gasping. Adam sat in her chair with her mug. His face was a bit pale and clothes were replaced with something a bit nostalgic.

“Hey, how you feeling? ” She said, smirking at his attempts to look cool.

“Dehydrated. Also a little stuffy.” He took off his old signature jacket. “Cannot believe this thing was still around. I guess evidence lockers really collect everything.”

“Did you climb up here?”

“Both Ghira, Blake and I all agreed that Kali is the absolute last person who should see me.” He walked towards her.

“Pfft yeah.” Jacquelyn did her best to chuckle but the smile she tried to force turned to a lip quiver while tears came automatically. Adam put her arms around her and she lost it. Her fingers clung to his shirt and wept, not caring who heard.

“Do you enjoy scaring me?”

“What did you think happened to me?”

“I don’t fucking know.” She sniffed, “so many things. I didn’t want to think you decided to up and leave but now I kinda wish that was the case. At least then I could be pissed at you for being an idiot. I held you Adam. You were so cold.”

“You off all people should know how close to death I can get. But I’ll admit it, I thought I was a goner. I’ll tell you about everything later, but first…” Adam let her go and stepped out of view from the balcony doors.

The entire Belladonna family came up stairs. Kali’s eyes were noticeably more red and her hand held Ghira’s. Blake’s eyes were also a bit puffy but much less.

Jacquelyn sighed as she wiped her own eyes. “Have we all been crying today?”

Blake chuckled halfheartedly “Looks like it. You okay?”

“Not really. I need a nap.”

Kali looked at the balcony. “…Adam, sincerity starts with eye contact.”

“Is that what you want from me?”

“No. Frankly I like not seeing you, but it’s rude to let this woman stand alone after waiting.” Kali wasn’t petty. She knew this wasn’t about her.

Adam walked into view slowly and stood beside Jacquelyn. He took Kali’s glare head on. It was actually nice to know one person in this room would definitely not hold back against him. He’s gotten used to that.

Blake looked at Jacquelyn and spoke. “Where’s Ilia and Sun? I thought they would’ve stayed.”

“Those two only stayed for about an hour. Ilia said she had to do something important and Sun tagged along with her. I have no idea where but they took an airship. They said they’d be back by sunrise.”

That was a little concerning. Blake had hoped to have everyone here for this. What in the world could possess them to leave?

“Guess this is everyone for now. Adam, we gotta do something with you. Even if you’re technically dead, things have to be different.”

“Lock me up.” He said bluntly. Everyone jumped a little from the suggestion.

“Lock you up!? Adam I made a case to keep you out of-”

“I wasn’t finished.” He interjected. “There’s already a collection of people here who know I’m alive. Those guards of yours in particular. Loyalty is easy to strain. If you just let me walk then they will resent you. Allowing them to put me behind bars covertly might give you a better chance to negotiate what to do with me later on.”

“Or you’re locked up forever without real protection. You might be at their mercy. I’m not allowing that.”

Jacquelyn nodded. “Neither am I. We didn’t get you out of one situation just to throw you back into the exact same one! Even if they work for Blake, she can’t watch over their every action.”

Ghira rubbed his beard. That was true. It wouldn’t be good for Blake to be visiting jail constantly anyways, still. “It wouldn’t be wise for Adam to go unpunished. I think for people’s peace of mind he must be detained for a while.”

“Dad! But…”

“Saber is a good man. He wouldn’t act out of line on a whim. Besides, I will volunteer personally to check on him daily.”

Kali looked at Blake’s shocked expression. “Sweetie, he is still a criminal.”

“I know, but…this doesn’t solve anything! How do you expect him to prove things are different behind a cell!?” Blake looked at Adam. “How can you be okay with it?”

“I’m not. If I see another pair of shackles again it would be too soon; but the public finding out about me is no short of a death sentence. However, I do have conditions for going along with this.”

Kali’s eyes narrowed. “Are you really in a position to discuss terms?”

“As long as this is a majority, then yes.” That wasn’t gonna score points with her but oh well Atonement or not, Adam refused to be walked all over. “First, Jackie’s home was blown up. I’d like her to stay here until it can be rebuilt. Second, I’d also want Sienna to be put in Jackie's care when she’s out of the hospital.”

Both Kali and Jacquelyn were highly confused. The maiden spoke up. “Ummm Sienna Khan?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. She’s this little girl that escaped the mineshaft with me.”

“White tiger ears? I remember a girl by you in the desert. Why me?”

“Unfortunately she’s not speaking much.” Ghira said. “Adam says you’re pretty good and patient with situations like these. Also, the child seems attached to Adam, so maybe she’ll be comfortable with the person around him.”

“Be careful though. She can get pretty defensive and violent.”

Jacquelyn squinted. “Giving me a way to focus while you’re gone, is that it? Hmph, like I’d say no regardless. Of course I’ll help her if I can.” She folded her arms. Guess she was getting single mother practice early.

“I’m glad. I do have one more condition.” He put his arm over the maiden’s shoulder and pulled her close. “I’ll go to jail, after I help Jacquelyn get through her pregnancy.”

The room went silent. Jacquelyn felt her face get hot and eyes water again. He knew. These terms weren’t for his benefit at all. They were all for her.

Ghira and Kali looked at each other, shocked by this revelation. A twinge of guilt hit Kali for the words she spoke early, but now she understood Jacquelyn’s feelings just a little bit more.

“You would send yourself to jail even knowing her condition?”

“I don’t make money and I don’t see any outcome where me being free makes it easier for Jacquelyn or those two kids. Anybody drawing the connections would be problematic to put it lightly. At least this way I’m not a complete dead beat. So, do we have an agreement?” He asked Ghira.

Blake bit her bottom lip. Right now she needs to look outside herself. She reminded herself of Yang’s parting words. “Slow down. I don’t need things done in a night. Sigh, besides, it’s not like I have a better plan.” Blake looked at her father. “It’s not unreasonable.”

“That’s not exactly the problem. I’d agree but even nine months of him being free is a lot to swallow. We simply don’t have the men to watch him or a place to keep him.”

“Yeah I don’t want him in my home of all places.” Kali added. “Now matter how you look at it, Adam is too dangerous for anyone to look after while he’s free. I can’t go on good faith where there isn’t any.”

“Mom he’s-”

“OH! OH! I’LL WATCH HIM!” Yelled a voice outside, brimming with energy.

A gust of wind blew in from the balcony bringing a glimmer of faith and dozens of rose petals. Blake’s jaw dropped. “Ruby!?”

The full fledged scythe wielding huntress grinned ear to ear. “Yo!” Ruby dashed in and stopped right in front of Blake, giving her a big hug and waving to her parents. “Busy day huh?”

Blake grabbed her leader by the shoulders. This had to be a fever dream. “Ruby, why are you here!?”

The reaper’s face went red as she started chuckling. “Hehe, so funny story…”

xxxx

“Ruby?!” Yang questioned, shouting over the edge of her ship at another ship passing by. Sure enough, her little sister turned around and gasped.

“Yang!? Why are you on a boat leaving Menagerie!?”

“Why are you on a boat docking to Menagerie is a better question!”

“I stopped by your house only to hear from Jaune that you went to see Blake for the first time in forever! You think I was gonna be calm about it? I took the first mission here I could find to have an excuse!”

Yang could not believe what she was hearing. “Rubes…but that..why!? Just why!?”

“You have a bad habit of saying things you don’t mean when you get emotional. If things went south then they might not get better.”

Moments like these made it really hard for Yang to believe she was the older sister; especially when Ruby is absolutely right. “Can you not call me out like that?”

“Why are you leaving? Don’t tell me things went up in flames?”

“N- Well they almost did, but it’s fine! We’re okay; more than okay. I had to cut things short because…I gotta do some stuff. So does she.” Ruby would have a cow if she learned Yang was pregnant. Yang wanted to tell her, but Jaune had to be first. Well…technically second, but first in her heart!”

Ruby could not believe she rushed over to Menagerie for nothing! Well at least her sister looked happy, so things must’ve gone okay. “Well, I’m happy for you! Sigh…I guess I’ll knock out this mission as fast as I can then-”

“Actually, Ruby, can you do your big sis a huge favor?”

xxxx

“And now I’m here.” Ruby rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment. “Would’ve gotten here sooner but a supply mission is a supply mission. I also checked in with Saber, was it? When I explained who I was he gave me a brief and vague update. Since I came here to mediate in the first place and Yang asked so nicely, I thought I’d lend a hand.”

“You were gonna do that favor or no favor.”

Ruby grinned. It was nice to be known so well. “Mr. and Mrs. Belladonna, I’ll watch Adam. That’s the main reason you turned the offer right?”

“Y…Yes but-” Ghira stuttered.

Kali sighed, “Do you really plan on sticking around for nine months?”

“Technically as long as he’s with me and out of sight then I wouldn’t have to stay here specially, but I can understand if you don’t want him too far away. If he’s genuine then having him help rebuild the blown up home should be no problem. I can stay in the house to watch everyone, or I’m happy to rent a place and keep them there. Ilia has a spot out of the way of people. We got options.”

Call her impulsive, but Ruby was persistent. A game changer everywhere she went and she knew it. The girl took a step back to be in the middle of the room. Her hands went on her hips. The next words she spoke were with pure confidence and sincerity.

“If you need good faith then look towards me. I love your daughter like family and I’ve always looked out for people, so believe me when I say this. Adam Taurus has nothing on me. I can take him.” Bold words but she meant them to the letter.

That confidence was felt by everyone. Even Adam felt challenged, though he had no intention of betraying anyone. His first time seeing Blake’s leader and the sister of a person he never thought would save his life, and she was trash talking him. Huh, I guess they really were related. The argument was strong, too strong for Kali and Ghira to deny. Both of them gave a look of uncertainty before nodding.

“I will cut everyone some slack and let them stay in this room tonight as long as you’re here too.” Kali said.

“Yes ma’am. I appreciate it.” Ruby gave a nod as the older woman left.

Ghira gave a smile to Ruby. “I’m glad Blake has family everywhere.” He left after his wife, leaving the rest of them to sort the rest out.

Ruby finger gunned Blake before turning around,

approaching Adam for the first time in her life. He was definitely tall. That’s for sure. “I don’t think we’ve officially met yet.”

“But I’m positive you know everything you need to know about me?”

“Eh, Blake’s not much of a talker. My sister said a few things but they weren’t exactly helpful, just nasty. You’ve done a lot to her, more than you probably know. Still, Yang fights her own battles and I guess recently she won a big one. We’ll only have a fight if you start one, deal?” Ruby extended her hand.

Adam couldn’t get a read on Ruby. She was open, yet guarded. Kinda Jacquelyn. He shook her hand. “Pretty bold to say you can beat someone you never met.”

“Really? I don’t think so. If my friends could do it years ago then me doing it now should be cake. I mean you even look like a ghost right now.” Her eyes shifted to Jacquelyn. “Congratulations by the way.”

“Thanks?” Jacquelyn grabbed Adam’s sleeve. “Can the two of us talk on the balcony in private?”

“Be my guest.” Ruby watched her new assignment get dragged away by….whatever that girl was to him. “So Blake, I know this isn’t the sweetest vis-eep!” A tight hug snuck up on her.

Blake squeezed tightly and let her stress fade

away. “That’s my incredible leader. Always coming to my rescue.”

“Awe, oh sweet hehe. Now I really know you’re stressed.” Ruby hugged back happily.

Outside, things were a little less warm and cozy. The cool breeze against Jacquelyn’s skin did little to cool her off as her hands tugged gently on the front of Adam’s shirt. Her eyes were glued to the floor while she felt his hand on her head.

“For the record, I’m not the biggest fan of all this.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s been preaching about being more than what I was? Salvation and all that?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t proud.” She lifted her for him to see her pouting. “So you knew I was pregnant all along? Gotta admit, that makes you getting kidnapped willingly and trying to go to jail makes you look really shitty.”

“Jackie-”

“I know I’m twisting your intentions but I can’t help but feel that way okay? I mean it’s fine. I’m just the gal who took pity on you and helped for her own therapeutic needs or salvation; whatever you wanna call it. Sure we slept around from time to time but that’s what happens when you have no one else. We had no labels. Circumstances made us glorified roommates at best. I mean yeah sure, on paper I guess I did what I set out to do. You’re changing.”

“And you’re trying not to cry.” He rubbed her cheek. Jackie wasted no time reaching to hold it in place. “You’ve spent a few years trying to get me to be more direct with myself. Think you can take your own advice right now.”

“……I fucked up. I should’ve just been helping you but I did more than that. I fell for you, and I can’t say with confidence I know how you feel back because we never talked about these things. A situation like this is what I used to imagine but along the line all I thought of was us, always together.”

“So you’re basically asking me what you are to me, is that it?”

“Stupid, right?” Jacquelyn started laughing at her own insecurities until Adam wrapped his arms around her and rested her head on his chest. The sound of his heart filled her senses and calmed her.

“I thought of you every day I was trapped. To tell you the truth, I don’t feel much different from the day you found me. If anything it’s only harder for me to deny how fucked I am.”

“Idiot, that’s a world of difference, and I’m not the only one who sees that.” Jacquelyn gave a soft smile. So much between was unsaid and uncertain, but that's fine for now. He thought of her, fought for her. She did the same. Those actions were worth a billion words. Roughly nine more months of actions before life changed forever. Best to not waste them. Jacquelyn tilted her head up and leaned in, kissing him gently. The joy she waited for was finally hers as he kissed her back.

Two sets of footsteps came back up the stairs. One pair was a very exhausted Ilia and the other was a slightly less tired Sun.

“Ilia! You’re back!” Blake yelled.

“Yeah I-” she spotted the intimacy happening on the balcony. “Hmm didn’t need to see that.”

“Be nice.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing this entire adventure. Also hey Ruby. Couldn’t resist a good drama?”

“As if! I came here to keep things drama free!”

Sun guided Ilia to the couch for her to plop on. Poor girl has been traveling nonstop for at least three days now. He was tired too, but a sudden rush of energy hit him in the form of Blake giving him a running hug and a quick passionate kiss that made him laugh.

“Haha, is that you saying sorry or thank you?”

“It’s me saying you’re amazing and I love you for rolling with this so effortlessly.”

“Oh there’s effort. You’re just worth it.” He smiled, kissing her again. “I’m just happy you’re safe, but you gotta-”

“Slow down. Yeah…I’ve been told.” Blake rested her head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong, like he always is. “Where did you two go?”

Sun looked at Ilia who immediately got up and left to bother the pair on the balcony, grabbing Ruby too. Sun let Blake go. The man let out a faux cough. “So umm this is probably a completely inappropriate time to ask this but…”

Blake saw him reach into his pocket and her face immediately felt like fire. “Wait!” She frantically grabbed his wrist before he could take his hand out. “I know I asked but you could’ve lied!”

“Hey! I was actually trying to get things prepared back in Vacou but people started getting abducted. I know I just talked about you slowing things down and this isn’t the first time we’ve discussed-”

“Yes!” Blake could see the goofy and confused smile Sun was forming. It only flustered her more. “Don’t be surprised. Listen, it was always gonna be a yes. I’m still going to say yes; especially with all that’s happened. Lately it feels like I’ve been putting off things in my life for things I want in my life, but…you are someone I always want. Even if I don’t say it all the time.”

“I know that. It’s okay. Equality is busy work. It is your dream.”

Blake blushed, “So is marrying you. When this situation gets sorted out and dealt with, can you ask me then? You’ve given all your attention through this. I want to give you all of mine when.”

Drat! How could that feel so bittersweet sweet and yet appropriate? Sun knew his face was red too. Blake didn’t reject him by any means but the moment of courage was dashed! Guess that was the point. Typical Blake. Nothing typical about her. Sun let go of the ring in his pocket and chose to hold Blake’s face, staring into her eyes. How could they be so determined one moment and bashful the next. Honestly…

“My future wife is so ridiculous sometimes.”

“I think that’s what my future husband likes about me.” Blake smirked, “I love you.”

The two shared a kiss, taking a moment for themselves.

Ruby smiled from outside and looked at the others. “Okay, I know there’s more of a reason for nabbing me, because that pretty moment was happening no matter how many were around.”

“I brought you out here because the four of us plus Sun are about to keep a secret.” Ilia put her back against the railing, her head looking towards the stars. “Sobek, I handled it.”

Jacquelyn went bug eyed. “What? H-How?”

“Talked to the victims here, Vacou, and Adam briefly. If I would’ve gone in with you all then I might’ve recognized him. He did work in Atlas after all. Anyways it’s dealt with and you don’t have to worry about any of those victims talking. They already wanted to forget the ordeal so adding funds was icing on the cake.” Ilia stared at Adam with soullessness

“I know, you didn’t do it for me.”

“Oh how I wish that were true. Let’s make things clear right now, I’m so pissed at you. If you weren’t injured then I’d throw down right now. Blake never told you this most likely, but near my house I gave you a grave. To me you deserved at least that much; you kept me alive and going for a time. As much as I now hate some of the things I know how to do, I was fortunate you taught me them because those skills help people.”

Adam watched as Ilia took her pointer finger and pressed it against his heart. He could feel her shaking.

“If you ever want my help again then you will keep me in the loop at all times. I was there before and after Blake worked beside us. I had every right to know about you being alive as much as she did.” Ilia would never admit it to anybody but as much as she was crushed when Blake fell for Adam, she couldn’t help but feel angry when both began undervaluing her contribution. Like they say, three is a crowd.

Adam removed Ilia’s finger and nodded. “Hehe, I can accept those rules.”

“What’s so funny huh? Ugh, you really know how to tick a person off.”

“Nothing. Just…everyone is mad at me for something different. Hard to keep track of it all. Guess being a leader was doomed after all. I don’t get any of you. I can’t help but laugh at myself.” He chuckled to himself.

The strange humor of it all caused Jacquelyn to join in quietly while Ilia rolled her eyes and let things be as they were. She said her peace. Ruby though, she couldn’t help but look at the three of them, Adam specifically. There he was, a person recently beaten to near death, laughing at his own past mistakes in a world that didn’t want him.

“Hmmm I don’t get it. What was scary about this guy?”

[prose-for-hire]

My babysitter’s in love with a vampire

 Pairing: Spike x chubby!reader or Dracula x chubby!reader

Request: you are spending the night with dawn and then you see all the likes she has on her facebook pics and you get insecure about your weight and then spike swoops in and saves the day? something like that? or hell instead of spike make it Dracula. im feeling rebelious with my request lmao

Requested by: @lilacprincessofrecovery​ - sorry about the wait love 💜

Warning: Insecure reader. Weight mention. Low self confidence.

A/N: Right, so, I’ve been enjoying the interactive element I’ve been using (I hope you have too) and this one’s gonna be little different. You can choose Spike or Dracula (the one that appears in Buffy or one of your choosing if the characterisation fits). Kinda modern au I guess (smart phones/facebook/etc). Reader doesn’t get much love online, but there’s no hate more of an absence of like(s).

You were babysitting. Not to say that you and Dawn weren’t friends, she wasn’t even that much younger than you, it’s just her older sister was very protective. You had been in school with Buffy and you understood - It was just the two of them now, so you had offered good rates to Buffy so she could go out and do whatever it was she needed to do all night while you kept Dawn company. You didn’t judge and you didn’t feel the need to demand to know where she went all night – it wasn’t any of your business.

Now, you were aware of the supernatural element in your town. But you didn’t realise that Buffy and Dawn did too. You all skirted around the subject, trying to avoid mentioning it to each other as much as you could.

You had both been watching a movie when she had excused herself to the bathroom. But she had been a really long time so you went to check she wasn’t feeling sick or anything. When you got upstairs, you saw through the ajar door that Dawn was now in her room taking pictures of herself.

Dawn enjoyed taking selfies and posting them online and she sat on the edge of her bed as you walked in as she was constantly refreshing the page as the likes and comments rolled in. Her most recent picture having brought over 100 likes on her picture so far. This made her bounce around with glee, finally getting the attention she had been craving herself. Who knew all she had to do was take a mirror selfie?

She gushed about all of the praise she was getting and excitedly showed you, waiting for you to shower her with more compliments. But you had gone quiet, thinking of your own page. You barely posted and when you did, you would be lucky to get even a quarter of the likes Dawn would get. Dawn was blissfully unaware of your insecurity. She presumed you weren’t bothered about that kind of thing. She thought you were so cool, so hadn’t even considered that you wouldn’t have as many likes on the app or even mind about it.

She had noticed that you were quiet so she had tried to make you take a picture with her to post on your page. So that you could both show the world that you were spending another Saturday in watching the same option of movies. You let her take the pictures, you smiled and tried not to stare too long at your face beside Dawn’s on the pictures she saved and then sent to your phone. 

After you opened the message and looked at the pictures again, you knew you wouldn’t be posting them. Dawn was confused and a little hurt when you refused to post the pictures, embarrassed over the number of likes (or lack thereof) you knew you would get.

You went quiet as Dawn kept hounding you to post them, missing that you were growing more and more upset. She just kept pushing the matter, she had never been exactly tactful. But it started to really upset you, to even have to admit the growing insecurity that was under the surface, never quite properly hidden.

Dawn finally noticed that you were not in the same good mood you were in earlier. But it was too late, you had started to feel the prickle behind your eyes. The lump growing in your throat. You got up, rushing for the door as Dawn stood up and watched worriedly.

“I-I just need some air”

“You can’t go out- it’s dark-!” Dawn called, but you shook your head and she say the stake concealed in your pocket. Her eyes widened and she just nodded. You were too upset to acknowledge what had just happened. Instead, you just ran off, leaving the younger girl frowning after you before getting distracted by her phone buzzing rapidly with notifications after her recent post had been found by the masses.

You ran out of the front door, your eyes streaming with tears as you just need to get out of there. As if you could run away from the hopeless feeling of not being good enough.

Dracula:

He had been watching you for a while, he had been interested in you after a single glance several nights ago. He had kept a distance, watching and waiting. He could feel that you were going to be the one. The beauty that your face possessed had enchanted him in a way that he was only used to holding over others. Your frame was larger, but that merely meant that there was more of you for him to be enraptured by. More of you for him to worship should you accept his offer. And he had no doubt that you would accept his offer, his love was yours.

You ran past him, hiding under the large tree that loomed above the Summer’s residence. You sat, curling your plump frame up as small as possible as you wept. His eyes never left you as he glided towards you, as if walking on air. He moved his head, unsure as to who could affect you this much. He wanted to tear them to the ground, make them grovel at your feet.

“Your eyes… they cry with the tears of a thousand waterfalls and yet you do not see your power” He said, his voice strong and commanding of everything in the vicinity. He held his hand out and turned it upwards as if to offer you his hand. As he did, you find yourself rising to your feet, still sniffling slightly.

“Who-who are you?” you stutter. Why would this beautiful man give you the time of day (or, night as the case may be).

“Dracula” He stated with such confidence you would never question it. You were drawn to him instantly. But you had been rendered speechless in his presence, “What is the matter, my love?” The affectionate term, although you had never formally met, felt so right. So soothing and it made your tears slowly dry up and regulate your breathing. You reached for his hand that was still outstretched waiting for your touch. Demanding to feel the warmth of your hand in his. Your hand slipped into his so easily, as if they were made for each other. He leaned in, moving your hand towards his lips. You closed your eyes as his lips contacted your hand.

He straightened up slowly and asked you, without once opening his mouth, for you to explain. To reveal why you were so sad. He wanted to put it right any way that he could. He wanted to show you the vision he saw before him.

“I’m- nobody likes me- not the way they like, well, my friend” You admitted, knowing he wouldn’t know who Dawn was. His eyes bored into yours and you felt completely seen for what felt like the first time in your life. He frowned, not aware of such popularity contests that were now evidently so important to the modern world, “It’s all about how many likes you get. How popular you are… and I’m j-just fat”

He shook his head slightly at this, you were not ‘just’ anything to him. Your form rendered him full of awe. Your plus-sized figure the epitome of beauty to him. He had seen you outside after dark leaving a young gentleman who had not been kind to you after a date. Your features had been upturned and it had taken all of his strength not to turn into his other form and follow you home. Instead, he would take care of the man that had hurt you. 

“Your figure fills my vision with the light of the golden sun that I cannot cast my eyes upon… you are radiant beyond compare” He spoke, rather than dwelling on such an insignificant human. He willed you to feel it and you did.

“Look into my eyes and see as I do” He rested his hand against the side of your face, a feather-light touch. His thumb stroked softly along your cheek. His eyes scanning over your face, as if to learn every inch, every quirk of your expression. He wanted to know what every look meant. What every tear told him. You closed your eyes as you allowed yourself to accept his sentiment. Accept that he saw you in this way. There was something deep within that told you he meant every word so intimately.

“Your beauty is beyond this realm, my dear…” He continued, “Please. Join me”

“D-do you really mean it? About someone like me?” You whispered, having to confirm once more.

“Join me, an eternity awaits” He asked, an edge that almost sounded pleading. Although the change in tone would only ever be evident to you. You nodded as he took your hand. You walked away into the night together, knowing there was no thrall. You felt affection. Love.

You wished you could show him even a fraction of the affection and comfort he had laid upon you tonight. As you wished this, he felt it and he knew that time would show him of what he was already sure of. 

Spike:

He had been smoking a few streets away, stalking to get to that tree outside of the summer’s residence. He had adopted that place as his own, you were always spending time there and so he had taken to waiting for you – especially if you weren’t staying over than night. He always waited, watching from the shadows. He wanted to make sure that you were safe, that he could be convinced no harm would come to you. He had long since admitted his feelings for you to himself, he was just trying to formulate a way to tell you of this.

You ran past him, in floods of tears. He rounded back on himself, following you straight away flicking his cigarette into the night. His heart crumbling to see you upset in this way. He caught up with your shapely form, a gentle hand on your upper arm that you looked down at through blurry eyes. You turned, facing his caring eyes. this expression you had to tell yourself couldn’t possibly be the love you wished it was. His eyes boring into yours with so much concern it almost made you cry harder.

“S-Spike?” You frowned, unsure if you had just been imagining it. He had been exactly who you would imagine to be there for you and you were amazed to see him there when you turned. 

“Love, what is it…?” He asked, his voice almost cracking with emotion, “Is there anything I can do?” he wanted to hurt whoever had hurt you this way. Make them pay in all of the worst ways possible. To drink from their skull. He wanted to put it right any way that he could.

“I’m- nobody likes me- not the way they like Dawn” You sniffed, wiping your eyes again, “It’s all about how many likes you get. How popular you are… and I’m j-just fat” You sighed, gesturing to the app that was still open on your phone. His eyes widened in shock, his jaw tensing. He glared at the phone, mad at it for being the reason for your tears. 

How could you ever think that? How could you even talk of yourself that way?

“Don’t be bloody ridiculous!” His voice raising slightly, “You… you really think that makes any difference?” he cocked his head to the side, studying your expression closely. He started to reach his hand, wanting to touch your face, but he swiftly moved his hand and looked away as you looked back to him.

“What?”

“You’re bloody beautiful, y/n. Ever since I met you, I’ve wanted you. Been sodding obsessed with you…” he admitted, his words so honest you almost wept further. You just stared, not believing he could feel the same way you did for him. Your silence made him continue, “So what if you don’t get likes on that stupid bloody face-app-thing? All that counts is the people that matter… and, well, I hope I matter to you love. ‘Cause you really do to me” he insisted. His eyes pleading you to listen to his words. Every syllable the most honest he had been since he first met you. He had longed to say these words. Had long, lonely days or little sleep imagining you by his side. In his arms. 

 “But how could you... about someone like me?” You gestured at yourself and he shook his head with such vigour, as if he could shake these thoughts from your mind in the same way. He clasped his hands around your outstretched wrists. Stopping you from tearing down your beauty with your harsh words. He was shocked you would even question the way he saw you. To him, loving you was as easy as breathing. Hell, easier - he didn’t need to breathe after all.

“You’re the most captivatin’ person I’ve ever laid eyes on… and I’ve seen a lot in my time. Trust me, I love you. Your size. Everything. Just- please- let me show you how much?” Spike said those words as if they were the most important he would ever utter. You had never seen him plead like this before, although you had seen the way he looked at you sometimes. You had thought he was just being kind. But now you knew. 

With every soft brush against your skin, you knew. He held his hand out for you and you took it, the crying had subsided at his hand wrapped around yours comfortingly.

You just hoped you could show your love for him in such a meaningful way. you took his hand with such trust, he almost felt it pulsing through his veins as you clasped your hands with his. You walked away together, into the night. Both of you wishing for your moments together to never end.

[chikoriita]

Single Father Seeking Sane Step-Mama Pt. 1

I started writing this as a prompt fill for @thekatesheffield but then the story got away from me. 

Read on AO3

Spring 1824

Phillip wondered what was going through his brain all those weeks ago when he made this utterly horrible decision. He must have lost his mind to do something this drastic.

First, he blamed it on his son Oliver. The last governess fled in the dead of night after his most recent escapades. Phillip would have survived if it was only the empty position. No, it was the blacklisting of Romney Hall from all of the local posting agencies. His children earned quite the reputation for themselves. If he was not their father, he might have admired it.

Phillip still heard the echoing rebuke from the last agency that declined to work with him. “Until you find a lady to rein in those children of yours, no one will work with you.” Never before had he wanted to throttle a woman in his life.

His children caused mayhem, but they were his children. Phillip Crane was not the best father in the world. He preferred his plants to people, and speaking to his children was just as difficult as adults. Still, he was all they had after Marina’s death. Even more, they were all he had left.

Even the lack of governess might not have led him here. That honor went to Amanda, his nine-year-old daughter.

One stormy February evening as he worked alone in the greenhouse, a footman came searching for him. “Miss Amanda is nowhere to be found, sir!”

The terror he felt at Marina’s passing was nothing compared to what he felt at that moment. Without a word, he bolted to the manor house. The staff was whipped into a frenzy, and Oliver, the poor child, simply wept in the foyer.

“I didn’t mean to yell at her Father. She usually yells back!” He cried.

Phillip wanted to comfort his son, but there was no time. They had looked for an hour for the girl, but when they could not find Amanda, they retrieved him.

“Amanda!” He bellowed. “Amanda!” Phillip needed to believe that she was inside. If she was not here, then she would be outside and lost in the rain. His heart constricted at the thought of his daughter in that weather.

He tore through the nursery, the library, and even made his way to his rooms when he saw the faint flicker. Had anyone thought to check Marina’s rooms? They had been closed since her death, but the adjoining door still working.

Phillip’s stomach clenched at the thought of entering the chamber. He had not been inside for close to a year. But if there was a chance Amanda was there, he would take it.

Despite his bravery, his heart almost broke at the sight he found. Amanda was curled up against the headboard, clutching a pillow in her sleep. Her tear-stained cheeks were red and blotchy. He rushed to her side and gently woke her up.

“Mama?” The hoarse croak jolted Phillip. Amanda had not called for her mother in years. “Where’s Mama?”

He could not answer her then, but he was determined to have her answer soon. The events of that evening caused him to take the most drastic of measures: looking for a wife in London during the social season.

To make it worse, with the Cranes’ reputation in Gloucestershire, Amanda and Oliver arrived in London with him. He luckily convinced their temporary nurse to travel with them, though it took a hefty bribe. The girl was terrified of what might happen to her in the city. He opted for a townhouse on Bruton Street. His wife’s cousins, the Featheringtons, lived nearby. If needed, he might call upon Lady Featherington for introductions.

True, it had been close to a decade since he had last seen them. Would they even help him?

Phillip did not have a long list of requirements. He was not looking for a Diamond nor did he want one. He did not need a massive dowry. He was not a catch by debutante standards either. Romney Hall was nothing to sneeze at, for sure, but it was no castle. Sir Phillip was only a baronet and a botanist to boot. With the twins in tow, he had his work cut out for the season.

And so, he rode outside of the traveling carriage to arrive at their townhome. Phillip could hear the arguments bubbling inside the vehicle and prayed for patience. All he needed was to find a nice girl who would enjoy a quiet country life. Someone to be a calming influence for the twins. Someone who would be on his side.

After his first marriage, he deserved that much, did he not?

~~

Eloise Bridgerton peered out of her bedroom window at Number Five to see what the ruckus was all about. Naturally, she had the best view of the street. A traveling coach pulled up to the house next door, and a vaguely familiar man rode astride. He stopped and jumped off the horse.

All she could see was that he was large. Not as tall as Benedict, truthfully; no one was. Still, the man fit his coat well, even though it seemed a few years out of date. Eloise leaned closer to see if there was anything else she could glean. It was while she shamelessly studied the man that he looked up at her.

She jumped back from the window, hoping he did not think her a lunatic. The glimpse of his face struck a memory, but she could not name him. Maybe Mama would know. She hastily pinned up her hair and made her way downstairs.

“Mama!” She called out into the hallway. If not her mother, then at least Hyacinth should be around. Her younger sister was just as nosy as she. She stepped out to see if anyone was around their courtyard. A sharp whine caught her attention.

“Oliver, give it back!” A young girl’s voice could be heard.

“No, you had it the entire ride. It’s my turn!”

“Children,” an exasperated voice pleaded. Eloise figured it was a nurse or a governess. “Let us go inside without incident.”

“But Mary, he doesn’t even want it!” The child stamped her foot. “He’s just being a horrid beast.”

She knew she shouldn’t be spying on the new neighbors. Mama would be appalled to find her eavesdropping. Still, there was something about these children that drew Eloise closer.

A glance from their gate revealed that the gentleman was nowhere to be seen near the squabbling children. Where was their mother? Their disagreement grew louder. Well, then, Eloise thought. She had not learned at the feet of Violet Bridgerton to stand by in this situation.

“Hello!” Three wide pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. The younger children, a boy and a girl, looked as if they were twins. “Are you moving into the house next door?”

“Yes ma’am, we are.” Eloise was right. The girl was most likely was a nurse. A governess would have more restraint. Although considering what she heard and saw, Mary was at her wit’s end.

“My name is-”

A shout interrupted her. “Oliver! Amanda! Where are you?” The voice sounded as if it came from the courtyard next door.

From Mary’s reaction, it must have been the gentleman. “Is that your father?” Eloise asked.

The younger girl, Amanda, nodded. “He’s here to find a wife.”

Eloise stifled a giggle as the nurse hurried to stifle Amanda. “Come children. Your father is looking for us.” Mary tried to guide the children inside, but they were obstinate.

Oliver held his ground firmly. “Father knows where we are. He was riding beside the coach the entire time. It is not as if he could lose us.”

Eloise intervened before poor Mary needed to wrestle the boy into the townhome. She crouched lower to meet Oliver’s eyes. “If you two listen to Mary here, then once you are settled in, you are welcome to tea at our house. Even your father is invited if he wants to come. Simply come over and tell Wickham that Miss Eloise invited you. That is me. Eloise Bridgerton.” She held her hand out for an introduction.

Oliver solemnly shook her proffered hand. “I am Oliver Crane. This is my sister, Amanda.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Oliver. We Bridgertons have tea at half-past three. I hope to see you both soon.” And Eloise, who had her fill of nieces and nephews, spoke the truth. A fact that even she was surprised by, and with a promise of tea, the Crane children left for their own house.

~~

“What took you so long?” Phillip sternly greeted them as they entered the house.

Amanda looked up at his face and smiled shyly. “We were talking to Miss Bridgerton. She invited us over for tea.”

Bridgerton… Why did that name sound so familiar?

He sighed. “Amanda, we cannot accept invitations from people we don’t know.”

“But we met Miss Bridgerton. She lives next door, and she invited us over to tea,” Amanda insisted. “Right, Mary?”

Phillip raised a brow at their nurse, who nodded reluctantly. “What prompted this invitation?”

Mary struggled with the words, but Oliver did not. “She expects us to be there at half three. Miss Eloise even said you could come.” He took Amanda’s hand and tugged her forward. “We have to get ready.”

He held back a smile at Oliver’s insistence. He gestured to a footman to lead the children to their room. “A word, if you may, Mary? Tell me what happened in the five minutes I was apart from the children. I cannot have them antagonizing the neighbors so soon.”

The nurse looked heavenward. She had not been long in this position, else she would have known that prayers did not work on the Crane family.

“Sir Phillip, nothing untoward happened. The children were uncomfortable after the trip, and they squabbled. The young lady introduced herself, and the children, well…” She trailed off.

“Well?”

Mary smiled for the first time since they left Gloucestershire. “They liked her.” With that said, she excused herself to see to the twins.

Phillip stood there in the foyer of 6 Bruton Street wondering what he had missed in those five minutes. Who was this Eloise Bridgerton? Why was she interested in his children? He thought back to the moment of his arrival. Was she the pretty woman in the window?

Pretty lady, he corrected himself. They were still in fashionable Mayfair.

“Perhaps tea would be a good start to our time in London,” he mused to no one at all.

~~

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters!

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (32/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (Very M)

It is dark when she opens her eyes. 

Or did she open her eyes?

She cannot be certain. 

Everything is swimming, everything still hurts, and there is a deja vu to this moment. She is sure she had lived it before. This aching limb, rotting core feeling that eats at her and tries to swallow her.

She chokes on air to try to convince herself she is being foolish. That the rock monsters, moss and crystal, that disfigured woman aren’t real. That Bjarg - 

No. That all had to be fiction. Her mind had invented it. She has always had an extraordinary imagination. It had kept her safe in the palace. It would keep her safe now.

But then why is the world black now when she opens her eyes? Even in the blackest nights in Bjarg’s cabin there had been the faint glow of embers, the hot springs cave there had been the lamp. The palace had always made sure that no night or day was entirely dark. There has never been a time where the world has been this black. There had always been some light by candles, lantern, hearth, fire, sky, or the inexplicable. There had never been a time where light had not kept her in some sort of company but now… 

The world is a void.

Is she alone? There is no confirmation. She cannot know for certain when her eyes betray her to darkness.

She struggles to sit up with a gasping breath. Nothing makes sense. She feels the same as she had before, all the pains and aches, but now sightless as well. If one of those giants - those trolls -  were close then she would have no idea. What if some other wild thing was just waiting for her to stir to see if she was awake and edible? What if she is made to face any of the challenges she has met thus far but without the aid of sight?

At first the idea tightens her chest and steals her oxygen. She could be crushed or beaten or assaulted or worse. Even so she streadies herself. She settles her breathing and stays still. She cannot trust herself just yet, knows what happens when she succumbs to impulse and panic.

The world all feels too strange. Something is out of balance. Something is not right. She squeezes her sightless eyes shut and tries to get her mind to focus.

Surely this is a dream.

There is no other explanation.

But then why does she ache? Why is she so certain she cannot see? Dreaming women do not need sight so why is she asking for it? Why does she demand this right? 

Because she simply knows. For years she had second guessed herself, her instincts, her senses. No more. She is not of the dreaming. She is of the waking, the living, and that does not make things more easy. It would be simpler to pretend, to lay back and give up, but she is beyond that now.

So she blinks, again, again, and again.

Again, faster, again, more quickly, again… 

She blinks until the muscles in her eyelids twitch, flutter and give out.

They have nothing else to give. It is not their fault. They have done all they can, but still the hot tears well. She squeezes them back. There is no time for self pity. She must form a plan, must forge forward despite everything. If she knows anything it is the sitting, waiting, has never done a single thing for her wellbeing.

She focuses past her deficit and attempts to answer other questions.

Where is she?

She reaches out her arms and only finds fistfulls of what she assumes is damp moss. The weight of the air around her says she is in a mystical place of fog and damp green growth, but what if those senses are lying to her too? What if she has finally lost herself to her own mind? What if she had been asleep this entire time and the more diligently she attempts to awaken herself the closer she is to dismissing each instant to vapor?

She inhales a shaky breath.

What has she seen and what has she imagined? What is true? Would she even recognize the truth if it came to her now?

Everything hurts.

Everything tingles.

Her mind is muddled, but she resolves to not let it confuse her. She never knew how much she relied on sight until it was taken from her in a black and merciless blur, but that will define her. There are things she would surely know if only she could see. There were ways she could aid her escape and she knows exactly where she would run if she knew the way.

But just then she is struck with a sharp remembrance. Something that is just now pulling to the surface and wiping everything else away.

If she were able to run she would run until she found Bjarg’s home.

But it is not as simple as that. If she is not dreaming, if what she had seen before held true, then Bjarg had laid so still beneath her bleeding palm as she wept. Bjarg had died. 

A strangled breath escapes her throat at the idea.

She is ready now to doubt herself, to second guess any notion that she is capable of protecting him from herself. She cannot ignore the concept that he is gone, that she has failed him, that she really has nowhere to run.

A second sound comes from her now, a kind of keening wheeze as if her body had no space for her breath. She staggers to her feet. It does not matter where she goes, but she cannot stay here. It does not matter what she can and cannot see. She may have nowhere to run, but she will not sit in this place where he died. 

She stumbles forward a few paces when she hears a shift. 

At first she thinks perhaps she imagined it, created it herself in her steps, and she freezes. It is that same deep grumble the trolls made. The one that shook her and she fights between the need to lay down - play dead or simultaneously to scramble and fight. Before her instinct can make a decision she feels a heavy weight on her shoulder. 

She jerks, scrambling backwards until her back hits a stony wall. Her mind pulls instantly to the giants, the trolls. She lurches forward but between her skirts, blindness, and unfamiliar terrain she falls within instants. Her body braces for impact with the mossy ground but it does not come.

Instead she is caught in two arms. They are strong. They sink with her weight and momentum before they bring her up to stand and hold her tight against a firm wall of heat and strength. Her heart throbs in her chest as she wrestles to remove herself from this strange grip, but no matter how she fights they do not release her. Her arms flail, legs kicking, but nothing lands. She is held too closely, too firmly, for it to be much good. 

Still she struggles and thrashes as much as her aching, injured body will allow until:

“Easy now,” the voice is raspier, lower than it should be, but still she knows it. “Easy, min lille ven.” 

And her entire body goes rigid for one instant before every muscle collapses, legs failing. He falls with her to the supple ground as her hands scour him as if they were her eyes. She finds the soft leather of his kofte, the matted mess of hair, the bristled jaw, the oversized nose - 

“Bjarg,” she gasps, fingers looking for lies. “It cannot - you - you’re dead!”

It feels ridiculous to say as she touches him, is held tightly against the firm line of his body, but she knows what she saw. Or at least she thinks she did. A strange sort of dizziness besets her and her hands grip the thick of his shoulders for balance. 

“Breathe min navnløse. Breathe.” 

He pulls her onto his lap and cradles her against his frame. A large hand cups the side of her head against his heart. It is beating strong and deliberately. That sound, the incessant tattoo of life thrumming against her ear, causes her to suck in a stuttered breath. She realizes then what he meant when he had told her to breathe. Her starved lungs ease at her deep inhalation. The spinning of her mind slows as she absorbs his heat, his smell, the unshakeable certainty of his hold through each inhalation.

“You were dead,” her voice is muffled against his chest. “I saw you. You were dead. You were dead and that - that thing - “ 

She feels him stiffen. She draws back and even though she cannot see she looks up to where she knows he watches her. There is a long pause and she can hear the change in his breathing. It sounds like he has just run a mile. His arms leave her only to have rough hands cup her face. 

“What was shown to you?” There is wreckage in his voice she hasn’t heard before and it sends a shock down her spine. 

She is not entirely sure how to respond.

She has seen so much she couldn’t explain, but still she tries: “Monsters,” her voice is thin and high. “Monsters made of rocks and moss and they spoke and they took me - oh - they took me to - someone - and we went to find you and…”

Her jaw works, but there are no words left.

She has no idea how to continue. 

She has no idea what it means to tell the truth, to speak the suspicions of her heart. All she can think is that he is here, he is alive, he is holding her. She wants to sink into it, but this place is so strange. She does not trust it. She does not trust that this is the Bjarg she has grown to know and follow. How could she?

She stiffens.

Her body pulls away from the hands that cup her face.

She does not stand, but she backs away. She holds her arms out in front of her as if to warn a potential assailant. Her muddied mind has learned better than to just simply trust. Trust had rarely done her a favor. She cannot simply trust this voice, that he is what he says - means what he says.

“What do you know?” His voice is lower than she remembers, raspy, but still she can hear him. The tone of his voice reminds her of that time in the snowy wood just before he had collapsed. There is something so deep and desperate there, but she will not fall into something for the weak minded. 

She clenches her fists: “Nothing. I have been fed only scraps.”

And even in her blindness, her supposed disadvantage, she feels the power of her statement. She feels the depth and width of her accusation. She feels how she leans on walls she cannot see for numerous ways. She feels the courage of someone who has nothing left rise within her as she scurries back a few more inches from the intoxicating heat of whom she hopes is Bjarg. 

And oh does she want to believe that, but she knew what she saw. She knew she had seen him dead and she knows you do not simply return from that. That knowledge gives her the sense of power despite her disabilities. She struggles up to stand.

“This is not my home, my people.” She says as she juggles her jumbled skirts. “This place and its inhabitants are yours. Why should I be the one to explain it?” 

She can practically hear his breath through the mist. She does not know if he stood when she had but she pulls herself up taller regardless. Her hands clench fists at her sides. She has been tricked before, taken advantage of, and she will not allow it now. 

She will no longer stand for the truth to be kept from her reach. 

Life, she realizes, is not waiting for her. Maybe she will stop waiting for it. 

She senses his nearness before she feels him. Her body tenses, neck arching back and hands raising as he cups her elbows. She hears the low, grunting exhale as his fingers tighten to keep her close. Her nostrils flood with a mix of salt and rock and earth as she considers struggling. She will run even if she has no chance of escaping. 

“Logi,” this supposed Bjarg fights against her struggles until he is holding her wrists tight in front of her. Still she pulls as much as she can, fighting herself as much as his hold. When she does not still in his grip instead of bringing her in closer he releases her as suddenly as he held her. She staggers a bit but comes to nothing. The shock of her freedom nails her in place. 

Questions lodge in her throat and she is about to run. 

“What was taken from you?” The question is unexpected, but offered as one might offer an olive branch. 

“I do not know what you mean.” Her response is reflexive, caught off guard by this abrupt change of currency between them. 

“If you were there - if you were part of - well…” he struggles and then stops for several long moments.

Then:

“Logi,” his voice comes from her side and she whirls towards it, arms coming up only to be caught by his again and he gives a low hum as he draws her close to him once more. She stays stiff even as his hold softens all the more until his arms barely touch her, his hand barely touches the side of her head to bring it to his chest. 

His lips graze her hair, beard catching strands, and her body heats and chills at the same time. His head drops low as his voice, the intensity is there even as he holds her like she may break.

 “They took your sight,” he says and she tries to not react, but she knows he feels her waver in the comfort of what she hopes against hope are his arms.

He does not ask. She is not certain how he knew, but she could not deny it. Every step, every motion she did or did not take betrayed her detriment. She eases back from his hold, but does not run. She makes a guess at where his face may be and she is met with a disheartened chuckle.

He takes one of her hands but does not draw her to him. Instead he wraps it in his own calloused grip and tugs. She resists, aching body sore as she leans back, and she can almost feel his hurt at her forbearance. 

Then the tension changes. Instead of pulling, he gives way while still holding her hand. She feels the heat of him again, the unchangeable scent of leather and musk, and even though her mind want to doubt her heart does not. His free hand rakes into the tangled mess of her hand at her ear, thumb stroking her temple. 

“It is me, min lille ven,” he says. “Surely even without your eyes you know me.” 

And she did. 

She had surveyed the landscape of him and found it to be definite, but so much had happened, so many rules had been broken, there were trolls. Her spine goes stiff. She knows him, which is why she knows he is dead. But what if he isn’t? 

 She is as much full of hope as she is dread. This place is so unknown and now she is as helpless as she has ever been. For once she weighs her options instead of acting on impulse and she finds herself agreeing with a nod. 

“I know Bjarg will lead me as I need,” she attempts to keep it distant, but she hears the blatant hope in each syllable.

He is her last hope. She is struck by how long this has been his right without her acknowledging it. She is confronted with just how much she does trust him in this savage place where the very rules of her reality are bent. If it is some trap it will be no worse than what she has already endured. 

She squeezes the hand he holds and she cannot be certain but she thinks she feels his grin.

“Come,” his voice enlivens. “There is much we must make right.”

[ previous ]

[to-be-small]

The Youngest Princess and The Giant ‘Part 1 & 2′

(2,200 words)

Part One

Once upon a time in a faraway land there was a princess, born under a curse. The first part of her curse was her plain appearance. Her twelve older siblings were all born with great beauty each more so than the last. The youngest princess was born with dull limp hair and forgettable features. She was such a disappointment that her father took one look at her and handed her off to a nurse content to never see his daughter again. The second part of the curse was the night she was brought in the world her mother left. The last part of the curse was the hate that her mother’s death by her siblings. They looked at her and did not see their sister but the cause of their mother’s death. The princess was alone, shunned by father and siblings raised by the very same nurse that the King had given her to.  

The Princess grew very different than her siblings did on the other side of the castle. While her siblings learned trickery and deceit, the youngest learned fairy tales and verses. While her siblings had only each other for competition, the youngest played with the children of the servants. While her siblings fought for their father’s attention she was given it freely by her nurse.

She was thirteen when she was presented to her siblings. She was laughed at, for her hair and her face and her bare feet.

See how she talks, they laughed. See how her face gives away her every emotion. The pointed. It is a curse to have her instead of our mother. The spat.

And the youngest ran, and she wept in the lap of her nurse. I am ugly, she sobbed, I cannot lie and trick, I am useless. The nurse combed her hair and hushed her.

You cannot see their pain and see how it has made their thorns. One day you will no longer feel them. She said, she then offered a story to the youngest and the princess yelled at her and sent her away. If they princess had known what would happen next.

Her siblings jealous of their sister made their father send the nurse away to leave the princess alone. And she was, she hadn’t even had a chance to say good bye to the only one who had loved her since her birth. She was alone for now even the staff and their children would not speak or play with her fearing her siblings wrath.

She was alone. She spent many days weeping before deciding to run away. She searched the castle for an exit but instead while walking outside the courtyard she heard quiet sobs. She searched for the sound until she found a window by the ground that lead into the castle dungeons.

Why, she asked, why do you weep?

A low rumbling voice unlike any the princess had ever heard came from the dark cell. I am alone, it said, I have no one.

Would you like to hear a story? She asked, unsure why she would even offer.

Is it a good one? The voice asked.

The princess sat on the ground next to the window. It is my favorite it had a happy ending.

Tell me it if you would.

So the princess told the story of cap o’ rushes her most favorite story. And when she was done, she told the story of the goose girl and after that a tale of crossed lovers. And for each the voice praised her. She stayed until the moon began to rise.

Would you mind, she asked, if I return tomorrow?

Why would you?

Because, she said, I am just as lonely as you are.

The voice grunted. Tomorrow I tell the stories.

For weeks the princess came and for weeks they shared stories and the voice told stories that the princess had never heard before and that could not be found in any book. When she asked where the voice came from. It just far away. And when she asked for its name, it said she could not pronounce it. Despite this the princess came to trust the voice, and gather the courage to ask the voice why it was in the dungeon.

The King had me stolen from my homeland so I would fight for him. I escaped and I stole to survive. When he caught me he told me I could either fight for him in his army or I could be imprisoned.

It would have been simpler to fight, do you not fight for fear of dying? She asked.

She was taken aback when the voice laughed loud enough to rattle the bars on the window. No, little thing, as he was prone to calling her, no human can kill me. I stay in this dungeon so I am not forced to hurt anyone that does not deserve it.

The princess made a decision right then. She was going to see the voice free. That very night she waited for the warden to fall asleep and with a knife she stole from the kitchen she sliced the man’s belt in half grabbed the keys and she ran. In the moonlight she held the keys and it was only then she noticed how large the keys were. Each bigger than her hand.

She came to the window and whispered for the voice. Wake up, I have something for you.

What are you doing out this late little thing you should be asleep.

Do you mean what you say about not hurting others? The princess asked, still holding the keys in her hands.

What have you done Princess? The voice asked concerned.

Please answer me.

Yes, I do not hurt the innocent.

The Princess smiled. I have your freedom I have the keys to your chains, do you need me to take them off for you?

The voice was silent for a long time. No, it said. Drop them through the window.

The Princess did what she was told, it was a long, long drop before she heard the keys clatter as they hit the ground.

I could have been lying princess, I could wreak havoc and kill and hurt if I was free, why do you trust me?

She thought for a long time on the answer. You could be lying, I am not graced in finding lies like my siblings but you did not ask me for a single thing. You have not hurt me, you have only given. I trust you and trust means willing to be wrong.

The voice sighed. Tonight I will escape but I need you to go to bed and sleep for no one must know that you were involved. Unless, the voice stopped unsure of what to say next, unless you wished to come with me, away from your family.

Part of the princess wished to join the voice but as much as she trusted the voice, she still felt that the castle was her home. So she declined.

I understand, the voice said, but if you ever need an escape I will do you the same as you’ve done for me just say these words. And in a voice so low only the princess and mice in the walls could hear he told her the magic words. Then he commanded her away back to her room and bed.

She fell asleep that night. Sad that her only friend would be gone but proud of the hard choice. Her nurse would be proud of her.

The next day the entire castle was in a tizzy. Apparently some monster had escaped the dungeon. The keys found next to a sleeping warden who was swifty killed for his mistake. It had made a mess and killed a few guards. No one would tell the youngest what the monster was though. Not her siblings who scoffed and mocked her nor the staff who hushed her and said it was bad luck.

She wouldn’t hear that voice for another three years.

Part Two

She was sixteen when she was betrothed. He was an old fat lord who had a debt owed to him by the King himself. The King had soiled one of his daughters and in return the King offered one of his own for marriage. The Lord thought he would get one of the cunning beautiful Princesses and so he agreed. He cursed a blue streak when he saw the youngest when they were official introduced. She was dull and slow he said but she still was a princess with a princess dowry and land and so the wedding was planned.

She was mocked by her siblings who were courted only by the smartest bravest and the most handsome. We will have only the best who bring the best and you will marry a pig. It is fitting in both cases.

The Princess stayed silent. She knew the King’s wrath and knew what would happen if she tried to run away. So she resigned herself to the marriage until it was the night before and she saw her dress for the first time. It was ugly. The fabric was cheap and hard on the eyes. It hung on her as if she was a scarecrow and it itched as if was made of crawling ants.

That would be my marriage. She realized for the rest of my life I would life in a dress like this.

So, she crept to her window in her bare room and looked to the stars and closed her eyes. She whispered the magic words and waited.

She stood with her eyes closed for nearly an hour before she gave up.

I am foolish and stupid. She said as she crawled into bed. Thinking that a monster would keep to his word. She tried to remain angry at herself but despite trying to just feel anger she feel asleep with tears in her eyes.

It was in the middle of the night that she was stirred half away by the fact her room grew suddenly pitch black. She half opened lazy eyes to see a ginormous hand reaching for her. She didn’t have time to think much less scream as the hand scooped her up blankets and all and pulled her away. She was dropped and this time she screamed sure that the hand had dropped her from her window only to hit something soft and not as far down as it should have been.

The ground she fell into was piles of furs she realized and she looked up and realized the walls that surrounded her were some sort of leather. She noticed the way they slanted upward and inward before she understood that she was in a bag.

The hand had placed her into a giant bag. And if she craned her head back she could see the sky. Not for long as a flap was placed over the opening at the top and was enclosed in darkness.

Panic caught in her throat as the bag started to sway as the giant began to ran. She wrapped herself in her blankets and did her best not to cry.

It was a giant. Giants had a habit of eating people. She thought of the stories of nurse and of the yellow teethed hair knuckled giants she told about.

The Princess began to weep remembering the stories and cried herself to exhaustion. And when sleep got close the sway of the bag was soothing enough to get her to sleep.

It was a long good sleep and the princess woke to the sounds and smell of a fire. She pulled her blankets close and sighed happily. She must be at home and the servants had set the day’s fire. It had just been a dream.

That thought soured as she realized that meant she would be wed today she opened her eyes expecting to see her wedding dress but instead seeing what seemed to be a bonfire.

It was massive easily as tall as three stories. Everything wrong and unfamiliar came to the Princess at once and she buried herself under the blankets.

It did not last for long as she was picked up blankets and all and set on another surface. The blankets were pulled away with ease and she was left looking into the face of a giant.

The stories did not get the size wrong four stories tall easily, but eyes that were warm and sharp. Not dull and cold like stones.

It was the eyes that gave her courage. Maybe she could reason with it.

If you have taken me to eat, then I only ask you do it quickly and painless. Said doing her best to stand tall.

The giant smiled and his smile broke into a laugh that shook his entire body. He threw back his head and slapped his legs.

I suppose you wouldn’t know any better. He said wiping away tears. And the Princess’s eyes grew wide.

It was the voice. The one she befriended all those years ago. The one who promised to come and save her if she wished. The one who turned out to belong to a monster.

The fright and relief made her sob and she ended up falling on her knees. Her entire body wracked with them. The giant at once stopped laughing. More gently he lifted her up in two hands and held her close to his chest.

I’m sorry little thing, he said, I didn’t mean to frighten you so much. I didn’t want your father finding out that you knew about me. If he thought he could use you against me he would. I had to make it seem like I was taking you for revenge. I’m so sorry.

It was a comfort to hear the words and his beating heart. She could even feel the vibrations in his chest. It calmed her down enough that she could talk again.

I forgive you, she said, wiping away her tears with the palms of her hands, but I expect to know more about you. No more hiding anything.

No more hiding. The giant agreed.

.

.

.

Part Three 

[evabellasworld]

Death of Mandalore

Chapter 17

AO3 Link | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

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Summary:  After murdering Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Republic, Vanya Doyvesky joined leagues with both Death Watch and Darth Maul, hoping to reclaim her Mandalorian warrior heritage. But with broken promises and betrayal against Death Watch and Maul’s crime syndicate, the former Mandalorian Jedi had to choose the right path not only for her but for Clan Doyvesky as well.

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Pouring a cup of lemon balm tea from a porcelain teapot, Katrina carried a tray of cups as she entered her office, with Vanya sitting in front of her desk. “I got tea if you want some,” she offered to her older sister, placing the tray beside her. “Good for your anxiety.”

“Thank you,” Vanya replied, as she took a sip of her warm drink and sighed. “Where’s Maria?”

“She’s late, as usual,” Katrina told her. “Apparently, the Jedi punched her in the nose when he was trying to get the Duchess out of prison.”

She answered with a nod, continuing to indulge in her citrusy tea. Staring outside the window, Vanya gazed at Sundari, where the streets were surrounded with Death Watch commandos, and not a single citizen dared to wander in the streets. “So, what happened to the nightlife here?”

“Almec set the curfew from six in the morning till seven in the evening,” explained Katrina, as she sat down and faced her. “Breaking curfews would result in either an arrest or getting shot on sight.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It is what it is, unfortunately,” she rolled her eyes. “And as much as I have power in the administration as well, I don’t have much of a say in the decision-making.”

“But you’re his aide,” Vanya pointed out. “Surely you have the right to defy and compromise for the sake of the people.”

Katrina shook her head, her arms crossed. “The decisions for Mandalore were based on the administration's votes. If two-thirds voted yes, then I cannot do anything to stop it from happening. It is unconstitutional for me to interfere with the passing of the bill.”

“Well, Almec’s administration is corrupted and vile, so we cannot trust them to run the government, let alone decides what’s best for the people out there.”

Her lips tightened as she rubbed between her temples. “You know, now I finally understand why Satine wanted a peaceful Mandalore in the first place. Though her government is flawed when it comes to military, security, and culture, at least she puts her people first. Almec and Maul, on the other hand, doesn’t give two flying kites about them.”

“You know, what you’re saying is true,” admitted Vanya, her shoulder slumped. “Vizsla was bad enough, with violence and all, but Maul, he and Almec are the worst leaders of Mandalore. I was wrong about the latter. If we were all at home with Mama and Papa instead, none of this would have happened.”

“Vanya, please don’t say that,” Katrina held her hands together. “You did everything you could to preserve our clan’s honour. If anything, it was Maul who manipulated you into thinking that joining his side is the right thing to do.”

“No, Katrina, it was my fault,” she confessed, as she put down her cup on top of a small saucer, clearing her throat. “Because of me, we were part of the problem in Mandalore. Because of me, Satine was killed right in front of her lover and because of me, he cut off our friendship that we’ve built together since we were seven. So don’t you dare tell me that I did nothing wrong, because we both know the sins that I have committed towards my best friend, the Duchess, and my own people as well.”

Blinking back her tears, Katrina bobbed her head as she got up from her desk and wrapped her arms around her sister. “I’m so sorry, Vanya. I just want to go home, that’s all.”

“It’s alright, Kat’ika,” she spoke in a hushed tone, stroking her hair. “I miss Mama and Papa too.”

“I hate it here. I don’t like being cooped in this palace so much, especially when we can’t even fucking leave in the first place.”

“I don’t like it here either. I thought it was nice living in the palace, but now it feels like I’m trapped in a bird cage, waiting to spread our wings in the sky.”

Katrina nodded as she let go of her, brushing her cheeks with her handkerchief. “It’s not the same anymore. Back then, Maria and I could go outside and play in the streets. We would fly kites in the air, we could chase each other, and we even played marbles with the neighbour’s kid. Now, I don’t even see kids playing outside anymore and I feel terrible for restricting their childhood wonders.”

“Yeah?” Vanya’s lips curved a bit upwards, leaning against the chair. “Before I left, there was a girl that I was friends with at the playground. We would always be picking flowers and chasing butterflies while asking each other questions, like why is the tree so tall, and why do bees like honey so much, you know? We didn’t think much in the past, but now I wish I never took those moments for granted.”

“That sounds like something I would re-experience again,” she smiled tenderly, sitting beside her. “So what about those moments with Obi-Wan? Did you have a similar experience with him as well?”

Her smile disappeared as she took a deep breath. “It was my first day at Jedi training,” she recounted her bittersweet memories. “It was my first time being away from home, and I was nervous to meet my new classmates and my new mentor. I introduced myself in front of everyone, but before I could take a seat, I slipped and fell on my face. Everybody in class was laughing at me, all except for Obi-Wan, who helped me up and led me to my seat beside him.”

“Later when we were on a break, I was sitting underneath the cherry blossom tree all alone, watching the other kids play together. But then, Obi-Wan sat beside me and asked me whether I was okay. At that time, I answered yes since I didn’t want to be a downer but then, he noticed my frown and asked me again, and I finally told him that I miss my family so much.”

Vanya paused, before continuing her story. “Although he doesn’t know what it was like being away from family, he told me that my family loves me very much and that he gave me his pinkie and promised me that we would both have each other’s back, no matter what happens.”

“What did he promise you?” Katrina asked.

“I promise to stay, I promise to never lie to you, I promise to listen to you, I promise to never stab you in the back, and I promise I’ll always be the friend you need,” she uttered every single word that Obi-Wan had said to her that day. “But instead of fulfilling those promises, I did the opposite, and I hate myself for hurting him.”

Katrina’s eyebrows dropped as she watched her sister crying, covering her face with remorse. “Well, it’s not too late to repent and turn over a new leaf,” she advised.

“But it’s too late to repair my friendship with him,” wept Vanya. “I betrayed him and broke his heart, like a cruel person I am.”

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. Besides, if we stay here any longer, we will never get to see Mama and Papa again.”

“But how are we going to explain everything to them? They’re never going to forgive us for letting Vasilia get killed in front of us.”

“Vanya, that’s not true,” Katrina puts her hand over her shoulder. “I’ve known Mama and Papa. They will mourn for her, like we all did in our cell, but they won’t blame us for her death. Believe me, they will understand what we’ve been through for the past few days.”

Vanya jutted out her lips, picturing their parent’s cordial face in front of her, their arms spread out. “You’re right,” she let out a sniffle. “We should head home. It’s what Vasilia wanted for us, instead of avenging her death.”

Smiling at her, Katrina was about to open her mouth when Maria burst in, panting. “Goodness me, what took you so long?” she raised her voice.

“Sorry about that, I was busy with shit,” Maria gave an excuse. “Anyways, what were you guys talking about?”

“Pack your things,” Vanya stood up. “We’re leaving this place.”

[weaver-of-legends]

Loki’s boot-steps rang softly on the smooth, shining red-yellow marble tiles as he and his guards passed into the dimly lit, cool hall before the council chamber, leaving the humid warmth and coming rain behind. It smarted, walking down these halls as a prisoner with no say in if he wanted to turn to the right or verge to the left—it stung, his absolute inability to decide how fast or slow he wished to proceed.

It happened all at once, too quickly, too soon—he had been deep in his thoughts and then suddenly they were upon the doors before the Council Room. He felt fidgety, a war horse sensing the coming battle but unable to flee without knowing if turning away would be safer than risking what lay ahead. He wanted to turn and run, to beg for more time, but there was no more time, there could be no more delay. Ragnarök would come, and they must have him dealt with beforehand. He knew it like he knew each breath he took.

The large, brass-colored double doors boomed as they opened inward to admit him. The torchlight and sunlight bounced off of the engravings inlaid into the metal—one of Bor’s great battles with the monsters of Niffelheim.

Loki swallowed, his mouth felt dry.

“Proceed,” the Einherjar holding his chains prompted in a low voice.

Loki’s eyes widened, the unshed tears burning at the edges of his eyes again. His lips parted, letting out a whisper of a breath. He tilted his head forward, chin down, eyes straight ahead, and strode into the room as grandly as any parade horse, sending the chains swaying and slapping dully against the leather panels on his war jacket once again.

He came up in front of the dais where Odin sat in all his glory, one hand closed lightly around Gungnir and the other lying in his lap, the useless arm hidden neatly in his crimson mantle, his gnarled, broken hand concealed in a doeskin glove.

Ægir and Tyr flowed from behind him silently, only their steps sounding and their mantles rustling gently, to take their seats on the Council. Eight lords and one king—the Council of Nine.

The Einherjar holding his chains jerked him to a halt just before he came to a full stop, making him stumble back, and Loki grit his teeth, seething at the disrespect. He looked up at Odin, searching for some sign in the old god’s face as to what his punishment might be—for some sign that Odin would hear him, and listen, and believe him; and not deny his words as the desperate ravings of a murderous liar. But Odin’s scarred and weathered face revealed nothing, and his single good eye held only the cunning wisdom of an ancient monarch long-seated and much-revered.

Despite it, Loki hoped vainly that he would be allowed to say his piece. Hiding his mounting terror, he smiled, friendly and nonchalant—as if he had been brought in for committing a trick on a servant and not guided in with chains strung off of him like so many May-day streamers.

“You decide to see me at last—” he spread his hands as if encompassing the whole room, still smiling, “I was beginning to suppose you would leave me in the dungeons and forget me.” Loki canted his head to the left. “But here, thank the Norns, I am.” He dropped his hands back at his side.

Odin shifted his hand on Gungnir as he rose slow from his seat, moving the spear so its end struck the floor. It rang—ominous, and quietly into every corner of the large chamber.

Loki watched him steadily. He ignored the shifting of the lords; Ægir's bad habit of fiddling with the rings on his right hand when he felt ashamed.

“Do you feel so little for the anguish you have caused?” Odin’s voice moved through the air softly, yet it could be heard as clear as a pan-pipe’s high call. The gravity of it made Loki stiffen, and his heart began to beat erratically in his chest.

Loki feigned curious ignorance, peering exaggeratedly about the room. He lifted his hands again. “I see no pain inflicted by my hands—but then, I have been gone for a very long time, so perhaps I have forgotten of some old trick or spell I set in place; I will right it, if I can, only tell me so I might mend the damage.”

“You cannot redeem what the dead have taken, Loki! Or do you truly feel so little for the death of Baldr? Is your heart that cold toward the pain of your people, the tears of your mother, the grief of your siblings, that you dare make such a show of ignorance? After you fled from Asgard the night the despicable deed was done, and hid from all responsibility!” Odin’s voice rose in sharp command, in cutting judgment. Loki’s breath shortened, he heard a far-off ringing in his ears.

“I never would have, I only mean to say that I—”

“I wanted to hear of you, to listen to your words, and yet your absence reveals your character! You laugh and delight in suffering, you sit eagerly and watch wrongdoing commence—” Odin’s voice strained as he nearly shouted, sounding weary despite his outrage. “—and what is more egregious to my sight is that you revel in the unfortunate circumstance of others; would willingly cause them discomfort for your own pleasure!”

“No, that is not what I have done! I would tell you if you would only hear me, Father—” Loki leaned toward him, curbing his anger and looking at Odin imploringly.  

“Too often have I heard you, too often have I let you speak lies into my face; let you pacify me with shallow promises and gilded words concealing poisonous barbs beneath, thinking you mended of your ways. No more shall I allow this deceit in my presence, I cannot be wounded again with the blinded faith of a hopeful father, only to be laid low with your tricks!” Odin pressed Gungnir against the smooth stone again, and it rang like a peal of thunder.

Loki stepped back, eyes bright and watering. Odin set Gungnir into his damaged hand and then descended the steps from the dais, approaching Loki, deep red mantle swaying in his wake.

“It has been considered and thought out among the council, and it has been decided—I, Odin, king of this realm and protector of the Nine, now take from you your titles!” Odin reached out with his hand and caught Loki’s hand in his, wrenching the rings from his fingers to fling them to the ground; distantly they bounced and rolled across the marble. “I strip you of your place among my ancestors, and among my sons,” Odin took hold of the braid nearest Loki’s ear and pulled the golden clasp from it, and then from the next braid, and the next. Finally he combed the braids out with a rough downward motion of his fingers. Loki jerked his head. “For the crime of killing another Æsir who was your friend and companion, who trusted you—the son of your mother’s sister—I proclaim that you are no longer welcome within the gates of Asgard, and shall evermore be spurned by her citizens.”

Loki parted his lips, but no words came. He stared at Odin in soundless horror, waiting for the final blow sure to fall.

Odin had turned from him and taken two of the ascending steps to his throne, his shoulders hunched, and his stance tired, leaning heavily on Gungnir. But now he paused, looking back, forcing Loki to look up. “A life must be paid for the theft of a life. Loki Liesmith, for the crime you have committed—the cruel act of murdering Baldr in cold blood—you are sentenced to death. You will be taken hence to the Falls of Brunnr and deep into the caverns beside them, and there you shall be bound to the stone beneath the head of Franang. To suffer the poisonous venom that drips steadily from his fangs, until you are dead; however long the Fates decree that end shall take.”

Loki panted as the verdict reached its end and Gungnir rang out—loud and final through the chamber, symbolizing that the sentence should stand for all time. He yearned to breathe but felt as if someone had checked his flow of air. Staggering backward, he went easily into the hold of the Einherjar. His wild eyes found Ægir, looking ill and pale and pained. He had known this, and he hadn’t told him. He had known Odin would not hear him.

Franang.

Darkness.

Suffering.

Death.

Loki’s heartbeat pounded, he felt faint. The Einherjar dragged him toward the doors, away from the Council. Suddenly he rallied, fought against their relentless pulling, strove against the chains.

“No, no, you must hear me!” He twisted in the Einherjar’s grasp, broke loose, scrabbled across the marble as the guards raced after him. One stepped on the hem of his cape, and he fell headlong at the foot of the dais stairs. Loki reached out, fingers catching the edge of Odin’s red mantle. He stared up in mad desperation, feeling every single boyhood anxiety brought to bear. He pulled hard on the fabric like an adamant child, even as the Einherjar grabbed him and heaved him backward, tearing his hands out of Odin’s cape.

Loki twisted and arched his back, writhing fiercely. His tears fell hot and fast down his face. “You must, I beg you, hear me! All-father—my father, Father, do not let them do this to me—Do not let them put me in the dark, alone, to die! Hear me, hear my words! I am innocent of the crime you accuse me; I have done nothing wrong! Father!”

His voice resounded as the Einherjar took him from the council chamber.

But Loki only stared at Odin as the king stood there on the steps; silent, unmoved. Unfeeling. He felt his soul shatter into nine thousand pieces. Odin would not hear him. Angrboda had spokenthe truth; he had been only a pawn in the chess-match of politics, and he had been found wanting, so he was outcast; eliminated like so much refuse. It stung to understand in full how much a father could abandon a son. For the first time since his childhood, Loki wept bitterly.

[arimorningstar]

Sweat collected precariously at the end of my nose. I took care to wipe it on my forearm. It would not do to dirty my hands this way in the kitchen. It was hot, but it wasn't the reason I was sweating. My hands trembled as I plated the meal. I took a deep breath to steady myself before placing the carefully arranged platter on the tray. Training my features into impassivity I stepped through the kitchen's double doors into the darkened diner. Coming around the counter, my mind flailed for the details of the ritual that the producers briefed me on. I shook my head at the nonsense of this thing that was happening to me, but I knew better than to ignore their instructions.

"...when you turn the fifth corner-" they had said, cutting me off before I could begin to protest, "-yes we know the diner doesn't have five corners, but it'll be there and so will He."

"He". I could hear the capitalization of the word. Swallowing hard I pressed forward, making a counterclockwise sweep of the dining area. As I rounded the third corner of the restaurant I shook briefly and started sweating again before steeling myself once more. /This is ridiculous I'll turn the corner and there won't be anything there/, I thought to myself, but part of me, way in the back of my brain where fight or flight lives, wasn't convinced. I closed my eyes as I rounded to fourth corner and prepared myself for the climax of this obvious prank. There was a dizzying sensation as I opened my eyes and my stomach dropped as I laid eyes on a small alcove. There it was a fifth corner and just beyond I could see the back edge of a booth, that I absolutely knew with every fiber of my being, that hadn't been there and never had.

...But then, here it was... /Ok, ok... this is real and it is happening, now get ahold of yourself. You cannot show fear/ I took a deep breath once again and let it out slow and silent. Steadying my hands and putting on my most congenial face, I forged my way ahead. No turning back now.

They say the camera adds ten pounds, but I doubted the old idiom at the sight of the person seated before me. He was far larger than I believed him to be from the show. His back was to me and He was motionless save for His slow breathing... no, more of a slow, yet calm, seething. I came around the table flashing what I hoped to be a convincing smile as I reverently set the platter before him. I took the seat facing him and placed my hands, plams down, on the table in front of me taking care that my fingers were well away from the plate.

"What do you have for me today?" He spoke with a friendly exuberance that in no way matched his face.

"Well.." I began weakly with a raspy squeak and then cleared my throat, "well, here we have spicy lamb coconut curry sliders on a king's Hawaiian roll and my special twice cooked loaded potato wedges. He shifted forward and with a speed I could scarcely believe he had the sandwich, a quarter of it already in his mouth, curry sauce dripping down his fingers and the backs of his hands and into the nooks and crannies of the many rings he wore.

"So, tell me about these fries," he said around a mouth full of food. His voice still friendly but this was unmistakably a command.

A bit taken aback from the scene before me I, shakily, began again. "I-I uhhh, begin with a massive Idaho potato. I bake it and scoop out it's insides and mix it with my loaded potato fixings. I load the skins back up and chill them for an hour then slice them into wedges. Then I bread the potatoes in my savory bread crumb mixture and deep fry them. When they are golden brown I pull them out and add extra cheese to the melt and hit them with just a tiny bit of truffle oil, and it's all served with my signature sriracha fry sauce."

He seemed pleased at my offerings but at the mention of the sauce, His mass quivered with excitement. The producers hadn't steered me wrong, they had told me I'd better have a signature sauce in my back pocket if I wanted a homerun. "...and go big or go home. Big, bold flavors. The spicier the better! If you want subtle, this ain't that kinda show, " they had told me. I'd hoped they were right about that last bit, because there wasn't just sriracha in that sauce, I had managed to get my hands on a Carolina Reaper. The next few moments were crucial.

He was smiling now. A real smile, I think. I didn't see if the smile met his eyes because I'd been warned away from making eye contact. He daintily dipped the end of a massive fry into the sauce and dangled it above his mouth, lowering it in. He closed his mouth around it and began to chew. As he thoughtfully considered the flavor I found myself wondering, once again about the lack of cameras and the darkness. The producers had told me that they would get their footage and that I'd be "amazed what we can do in post" and said nothing more.

I was startled out of my revelry with a loud slap on the table. I held my composure but despite my best efforts I felt a warm trickle running down my leg. Just a small amount, no one would know but me. At least I hoped. If He could smell fear...

The open handed slap on the table gave way to pounding with a fist. "THAT. Sauce. Is. KICKIN'!" He proclaimed, punctuating each word with a pound of the fist. He took the extra large ramekin of sauce and threw it back like a shot, slamming it empty on the table. As he brought his head down, level with mine, I saw his eyes for the first time. He stared at me... no, through me, and His smile widened. It continued to widen revealing one after another brutal tooth until his head split at nearly a ninety degree angle. As his skull tilted back, without looking, he once again seized the sandwich and a fistful of fries, dropping them whole into his now gaping maw. He did not chew nor swallow. His head simply tilted back down onto his jaw, and I watched, helplessly as his eyes glazed over and faded to a opalescent cataract gray. I sat frozen, terrified of what may come next. Of this the producers had said nothing. I was unprepared.

Face blank, He began to intone in many voices, none of which were his own. "Once I was a dream... and in that dream I stood upon a mountain.... and in the valley below there was a town... and in this town were many inhabitants... there were many but not one had a face... I reached up to my own face to find it missing as well... startled by a soft snapping of a twig I found myself face to face with a great stag with a grand set of antlers with countless points. The stag met my gaze and I saw that it's face was my own. It spoke then to me in a terrible voice...((this town is your town, and you are it's mayor))

His eyes began to clear, still speaking in His many voices and he spoke,. now to me, "...and now your face can be added to the residents of my town". Again his face began to split in that terrible wide grin as His true voice issued from deep within him, lips unmoving, "but first it's time YOU got your desserts." His head now rocked back once again at that unnatural angle. With tears standing in my eyes I stood, unbidden, as if in a fugue. Somehow, to my absolute horror, I knew what He wanted. I knew what would come next. Now standing before him I could see into His great, gaping maw. I could see the downward facing barbs that would insure a one way trip as I reached out with my good hand. Even in this trance-like state I couldn't bear to touch the surface of the inside of that mouth. As if some primordial fear held me at bay. Like a crocodile wrangler, sure that if I made contact with His flesh, He would close on me like a deadly trap. That's when I felt it. His tongue rose to meet my outstretched palm, and I felt a powerful suction against my hand like shaking hands with a colossal squid. I felt tendrils rise from the tongue and wrap around my fingers as I was violently pulled in to my shoulder. My trance now broken I pulled desperately, flailing against an impossible strength. I could feel the barbs bite my skin and His teeth scraping the flesh of my shoulder. For some horrible moments I wept and wailed, senseless....

And then... nothing. I was alone in my kitchen. My arm hooked over my sink. Dazed, I stood. Was it a dream? All some panicked anxiety driven hallucination over being on television? But no... my arm was covered in scratches and some foul smelling mucus coating me from shoulder to finger tips. Which as it turned out, to my relief, to be durian puree. And in my hand was clutched an object... I pried my adrenaline clenched fingers open to reveal a single chrome ring with a skull wreathed in chrome flames. The ring only big enough to fit on one finger, and as I slid it on to my pinky I heard a whisper in my ear in His voice, "Welcome to Flavortown"

[torendheavenandearth]

2.6

“‘Great Guro,’ asked the Student to Munsad Buralakaw, Civilization Diwata. ‘Pray tell, and let the ancestors hear: for what purpose do we suffer? For what purpose do we let our fellow men take advantage of us?’

‘Violence for violence’s sake,’ replied Munsad Buralakaw. ‘Man is the only soul capable of it. To inflict evil because they want evil. To inflict good because they want good. Higher concepts become swords, ideals become blades. Man is both divine and infernal, God between the fingertips of Good and Evil, neutrality compromised. For this reason, suffering cannot end.’

‘So, Great Guro, do you say that suffering cannot be removed?’

‘To remove suffering is to remove Man.’

‘Then why must Man persist, if all things are to suffer? Would it not be a greater good to simply end suffering by ending man?’

‘Nay, hangal,’ said Munsad Buralakaw. ‘Persist to ease the suffering of others. Because to remove Man is to remove goodness and joy and hope and love.’” - From The Lost Teachings of the Forgotten Diwata.

▼

Upon that bloody throne, they kissed, short and sweet. “Quick! Before more Guwardya Sibil arrive,” said Lulu, breathlessly. They rushed into the busted open door but--

--Lulu was gone. It was only Qayin, again. It always ends with just me, she thought to herself.

Qayin didn’t even go into the door. She was there again, in that door frame, in that liminal space between within and without. The doors bring me to places… thinks Ang Nilapastangan. Do I dare…?

She was already halfway in. If she were to back out now, then it would be a horrible waste of life, now wouldn’t it?

With a breath, Qayin stepped through, and she was there.

She was there at the end of all things.

Again.

Again.

▼

She didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she could do it all over again, but there she was.

It’s not fair, Ang Nilapastangan said to herself, her words echoing into white void. She’d come to terms with this. She’d accepted this part of her. She’d accepted that this had happened, that all of this was in the past, it was part of who she was, it was part of her name, it was part of the broken sword that formed her soul.

Why then, was she still so scared? Why then was she still so unsure? Why, then, was she still so angry? Why was she still filled with regret?

Remember what happened here, Qayin, Ang Nilapastangan spoke to her past, but her past does not listen, for the past is not the present and never will be. Always ever-fading memories, stuck in that twilight dream of never-happened and must-have-happened.

Qayin stepped forward. She was in the middle of a sea. A sea that reflected only white sky. And there, in front of her, was God.

Demonyong Bakulaw was in his Dimunyu form. He had revealed to them that he was not simply a demon or a sitan, but he was a Dimunyu, one of the original satan-kings that sided with SANLIBUTAN in his rebellion against his grandfather, MAYKAPAL, the BATALA. In his Dimunyu form, his corpus melted away and vomited a burning serpent-gorilla, with seven-hundred and seven hands, wielding weapons half the length of the sky. His face was that of a gorilla’s but he sported a mane like a lion and whiskers of a dragon. With his sky-rending weapons he faced off against God, this God being DYOSVETA, God the Father.

He was not winning, but his bravado was enough. “I’ve faced off against the Creator!” Demonyong Bakulaw roared. “I am YAWANG BAKULAW DAOTAN, and you will fall by my rebellion!”

In that liminal space, that non-existent yet everpresent space of sea-sky, the demon ape faced off against God the Father. DYOSVETA’s countenance was that of a true demon sky god: a great humanoid lion, with skin of marble clouds, and lightning running down the length of his body. His wings numbered in infinities, and his face was a sculpted marble bearded figure in a perpetual scowl. He had a crown of fire and light, which had been impossibly frozen into a perfect shape, one that resembled a king’s crown and or a sword impaled upon his head.

He wore an armor of angels, and his sword was demonkind melted together in an ever-wailing mass, and was called ATONEMENT. His shield was the sternums of men sewn together, with their still-beating hearts turned into embellishments, turned into roses, and it was called MERCY.

“I come unto you with a form you may decipher with your misunderstanding eyes,” said DYOSVETA. “Now kneel before the Sky.”

Lulu was spent. Her single golden-agimat arm was falling apart, the burning red lights running up its length fading in glow. Her eyepatch had been cut, revealing her missing eye. Qayin knelt next to her, holding her by her shoulders. “Lulu! We have to go!”

“No, Qayin! Remember what we said!” She grasped Qayin’s hand, which was wielding the Soul Eater. “Use it. Use my Gahum.”

Qayin knew what that meant, and she shook her head. “No. Lulu, I can’t.”

“You can. You have to. Become the winner of the Hagdanan, Yinnie. Please.”

Qayin opened her mouth to say something, but her throat tightened up, and she couldn’t choke the words out of her mouth. She was crying, and her tears were blood. “I can’t.” When she said it, it was weak, fractured, broken. Non-words.

“You can,” said Lulu, and her conviction was true.

Demonyong Bakulaw skidded onto his knees and caught the fierce sword strike of DYOSVETA with his arms. His soulstuff, his Kalag, was failing, dissipating, but his scowl never left. “Never let your anger for God fade,” he would always say.

“Lulu--”

Lulu reached up and kissed Qayin wholly in her mouth. A full kiss. A desperate kiss. A final kiss.

And then, as she did so many times before, she guided Qayin’s hand. “I love you,” said Lulu, and they both wept crimson.

Qayin, only with the help of Lulu's own hand, impaled the tamawo woman's chest. “I love you,” replied Qayin, but she couldn’t say the words, so she only mouthed them. Lulu crumbled with her fingers trailing Qayin’s cheeks, trying to wipe away her tears one last time.

Lulu failed, of course, and her hand simply fell to the side. She fell limp.

But in her death, the Soul Eater grew more powerful. The Soul Eater was, in truth, a simple sword. It had the shape of a kampilan, with the difference being the eye that grew at the pommel, held in place by the Bakunawa jaw that was kept open. It also had veins running up the length of its blade, as if it were alive, but it was not.

The blade felt heavy in Qayin’s hands as she rose to her feet, staring at the now dead Lulu. Who thought her final resting place would be here, in the end of all things?

Qayin turned around and readied to face God, DYOSVETA, the Father.

When she turned around, DYOSVETA’s face was there, and his sword was ready. Demonyong Bakulaw was dead, nothing but a lump of meat and Kalag upon the sea-sky. DYOSVETA swung his sword, but Qayin parried it away in the heat of battle. She could only see red. She broke DYOSVETA’s ATONEMENT.

She became the Swordbreaker. And with that, Qayin raised her blade and brought it down.

God was Cut.

But without another word, DYOSVETA summoned BLASPHEMER, spear made up of coagulated darkness and the sound of weeping rebellious angels being tortured for eternity. In a space quicker than an instant, the BLASPHEMER was through Qayin’s skull.

“Hesitation leads to death,” spoke DYOSVETA, and Qayin was BLASPHEMED, again and again, until she was thrown out of the End of All Things and left to die upon the wet ground of a random barangay in the middle of the Archipelago.

Her head was punctured, riddled by god-holes, and for her heresy she was laid down onto the muddy ground, never to reach the heights that she did. She failed her friends. She failed Bakulaw. She failed Lulu. She failed herself. She thought she was ready, she thought that surely, this time, she would be able to deal some kind of blow against the Tyrant of Crimson Sky, but no. She failed, she died, and she was going to lie down there, upon the mud ground, as the rain began to patter.

A man and his wife walked up to her and carried her into their house. They were talking, Qayin knew, but she didn’t know what they were saying. Her memory was hazy, her hearing blurred and unfocused.

All she remembered was that, as they were mending the wounds that they could--and called for a mananambal to heal the rest (the God-driven spikes into her head, the hatred of god lashed across her back)--they asked for her name, and she responded: “Ang Nilapastangan.”

Apparently, her story had already begun spreading from there. From the people that saw her--watched her--literally descend from heaven like a hated lightning bolt. When it got out that her name was Ang Nilapastangan, she was cemented upon the fabric of the universe. She became one of the Karanduun, one of the few that the masses and the oppressed and the countryside would tell stories about in their darkest nights.

“Swordbreaker,” they whispered, and deviled-spirits carried their words to the next town, to the next barangay, to Biringan, to the villages and hamlets of the Empire. “The Blasphemed: Ang Nilapastangan. She Who Broke God’s Sword.”

▼

Like a gasp, Ang Nilapastangan is hurled back into the hallway. The blue figure is closer now. Just a door away. A room away. The Pistang Gatusan nga Gabi’i to her left is ending. The greatest of the spirits, the Philippine dragons: crocodiles that swim in the clouds as if the sky was a river, are already making their way through the parade. The crocodiles are always the last, and these giant ones burn with the colors of the four primary elements: of fire, water, earth, and air. The Ninuno of the World.

Ang Nilapastangan turns back to the blue figure, and it’s in front of her. A gaping maw, jaw ripped open, mouth revealing not a throat but another face within it. The face of a smiling woman, eyes blackened with ash poured into her sockets. Blood drips from her lips. “Qayin?” Her tongue seems to savor the word, the secret name of Ang Nilapastangan.

“Yawa,” says Ang Nilapastangan. “Leave me now. I have made my peace with who I was, who I am. You have no power over me.”

The blue figure’s sprouts spider legs, tipped with razor sharp blades and each one with a long proboscis tongue extending from invisible compartments. Her wings sprout from behind her, webbed with blackness. “What makes you think I am Yawa?” and the woman laughed.

Ang Nilapastangan’s eyes narrow, just for an instant, and then she smirks. “Ah, you must forgive me. Sometimes I forget my own stupidity. If you wanted my Gahum, Asuwang, then perhaps you should’ve just asked.”

“Hm?”

“Here.” And Ang Nilapastangan raises her hand, filling it with contained pastel power. The technique she learned from Lulu.

I will never use blades again, thinks Ang Nilapastangan. Like Lulu, I will rend heaven and earth with my own two hands.

With a single punch, she punches the Asuwang away, sending her flurrying back through the endless hallway that they are in. Pastel light streaks from her fist and paints the walls white. The Asuwang, however, lands on the ground and then skitters onto its spider-blade legs.

Ang Nilapastangan raises an eyebrow.

The Asuwang flings itself forward, bladelegs ready to cut, but Ang Nilapastangan steps into the lunge--some of the blades cut into her skin--and grabs the Asuwang’s body, which is now shaped more or less like a serpent-centipede. Ang Nilapastangan whirls around, dragging the Asuwang’s head across the pastel painted wall, and then flings her out of the window.

Ang Nilapastangan’s Gahum ignites as she flings her, and the glass windows shatters as the Asuwang’s body slams against it. The Asuwang flies across forestry, over to where the Pistang Gatos nga Gabi’i is happening.

Ang Nilapastangan turns around and kicks a door down. A normal room. She kicks another one down and there! A staircase. She runs down it, stopping for nothing. It’s a long staircase, much longer than it had any logic being, and she knows that this is not the city hall but the illusionary labyrinth of a madman demon.

As Ang Nilapastangan steps on a step halfway down, the Asuwang explodes into the scene and slams against the staircase and begins scuttling down the steps. Below, a pile of corpses writhing and eating each other grows, rises, and stops Ang Nilapastangan from reaching the ground.

Ang Nilapastangan leaps, bringing her fist up and performing that pastel technique again, this time infused with her most violent Gahum.

In the air, she throws her fist down.

Her Gahum tears through the staircase, obliterating it completely, and the pastel power slams against the pile of corpses, flattening them and sending them flying against the walls. Ang Nilapastangan uses this opportunity to use the midair amalanhig to buffet her fall down to the ground.

Ang Nilapastangan throws the battered amalanhig away from her and stands.

The Asuwang slams down to the ground behind her.

Before Ang Nilapastangan is an opening that led to the open doors of the lobby. There she ses that past the doors of the lobby there’s nothing but more hallway.

“Foolish girl!” screams the Asuwang, and Ang Nilapastangan tilts her head back in both exhaustion and boredom. “You think you can get out? This entire town hall has been given to me by Padre Sangalang to become my fantasy! My reality! You cannot escape for as long as my nightmare-proboscis seeps into your soul!”

Ang Nilapastangan turns. Her punch made a makeshift circular arena for them: flanked and walled off by the mass of writhing corpses and body parts. There, before her, blade-legs clinking against the stone floor, is the Asuwang woman, seemingly in her fully manifested diyablo form: a serpentine centipede, although the little legs are little blades, useless for moving. Eight spider legs, two of them for piercing, all of them made of demon-swords. Her face is, in truth, a shield-mask that hides her true face within her maw. A veil of hair, beautiful and silky, flutters about her as if she’s underwater, and her eleven wings sprout from behind her. The wings seem to be grafted on, since they grow and overwhelm her left side like a tumor.

“Face me, Karanduun!” shrieks the woman. “I am Kinalimutang Birhen ng Walang Hanggang Kasakiman, the Fantasy Arachne Demon, and you will know my name as I eat yours!” She surges forward, four spider blade-legs acting like hydraulic presses. In the next instant she is in the air above Ang Nilapastangan.

Ang Nilapastangan, all this time, has been keeping her Gahum in check. If she didn’t, they’d find her. She’d be a bonfire in the middle of the forest, with night-demons watching all about.

But if she wants to get out of this alive, she has to bring out her Gahum. This is potentially a powerful asuwang, perhaps a Gabunan, an elder, but she isn’t sure. If she holds back, she can die, and with her death will be the beginning of the end.

She takes the attack head on, choosing to let her Gahum burn. Her soul a furnace, she catches Birhen’s lunge and digs her heels to the ground. She is driven back a good few feet from the force of impact, but she manages to catch the attack. Ang Nilapastangan slams the Birhen down to the ground, making sure her faceshield cracks against the stone. The Birhen shrieks, and swings wildly with her spider blade-legs, and Ang Nilapastangan has to leap back to avoid the swings.

Not wild swings, Ang Nilapastangan understands. Those are calculated swings, trying to lop her head and feet off.

With the pressure off of the Birhen, she rises to her feet and, using her wings, takes to the air. Ang Nilapastangan smirks: no way can she be that aerodynamic with that body.

Of course, that thought is immediately broken when the Birhen begins gliding around like a dragon in water, swooping down and cutting with her bladelegs. Ang Nilapastangan is caught by one. It cuts through her skin like a hot knife upon clay. She curses and evades the rest of the attacks.

“For a Karanduun, you are not living up to your reputation!” shrieks the Birhen, flying into a graceful spiral in the air and then turning to face her, coiling her serpent-centipede body.

But, Ang Nilapastangan notices, her mask-shield is cracked, and she smirks.

She leaps up just as the Birhen strikes forward, like lightning. Ang Nilapastangan catches the two blade-legs pointed at her like spears, lifts her feet, and then slams them up against the Birhen’s mask shield.

The Birhen screams. The crack spiderwebs, but it does not shatter. Not yet.

The Birhen flails around, flinging Ang Nilapastangan against the wall. She flips and then slams feet first against it. The corpses beneath her writhe, are crushed by some aftershock.

“You cannot kill me, fool!” yells the Birhen, spiralling in the air again and then launching black javelins at Ang Nilapastangan. Ang Nilapastangan turns to one side and then sprints. The black javelins impale the wall in her wake. Ang Nilapastangan’s every stride is burning crimson as she moves diagonally across the wall, moving to a spot higher than the Birhen.

A black javelin bites at Ang Nilapastangan’s ankle, but it’s negated by a sudden flash of bright red light. No beats missed: Ang Nilapastangan launches herself off the wall, turning into a red lightning bolt heading straight for the Birhen. The Birhen, apparently, sees it coming: she twists her entire body around to avoid the lunge, catches Ang Nilapastangan’s body with her serpent-centipede body, and then flings her down to the ground.

Ang Nilapastangan isn’t going to lie: She felt that one.

She pushes herself off of the ground, just as four javelins impale her hands and feet, pinning her to the ground. Ang Nilapastangan winces, and blood runs down her wounds. She shakes her head and flexes her muscles once, and the javelins shatter.

She pushes herself up again, but as she does, another javelin is sent through her back. Blood splashes up, red blossoming. Ang Nilapastangan doesn’t let herself fall to the ground. She keeps her body off the ground.

And then a great force sends the black javelin down even more, opening her wounds. The Birhen has turned into a modest devotee, a woman with a conservative skirt and with a tapis over that, with a butterfly-sleeved blouse, and a panuelo on her head. Her eyes and hair glow azure, even as her face is a placid mask.

She’s standing on top of the black javelin, driving it deeper.

“Oh, you’re disappointing,” she says, in an infruriatingly patronizing tone.

Ang Nilapastangan bursts.

Inhibitors released. She has to. She knows that if she doesn’t, her sheer luck isn’t going to be enough to save her. She has to bring back the things she’s learned, the skills she’s hidden away deep in the recesses of her soul when she inhibited her Gahum.

But not the weapons that she’s accumulated. Never the weapons.

Karanduun are known to be prone to great shows of brilliance, their faces and skin burning like the sun, their veins like magma. Their hair is like the sky. It was the highest form of visual expression: becoming nature.

Ang Nilapastangan becomes Ang Nilapastangan, the Swordbreaker, the Crimson Bodhisattva Biraddali. Her hair turns into wings, her horns shatter and form into a halo of power. Her eyes burn bright magenta, and her skin turns into the sun-fire hot skin of a demon, liquid steel.

With another flex of her body, she blows the Birhen away. The Birhen slams against the wall.

The javelin is gone now. Ang Nilapastangan is standing now. She tilts her head back and stares at the Birhen.

The Birhen, eyes wide, takes to the air and then shapeshifts back into her serpent-centipede form, her body contracting and then unfolding like cloth thrown to the wind.

Before she can finish her transformation, Ang Nilapastangan is there, above her, fist sent straight down. “Sinagsibat!” Ang Nilapastangan announces, as her fist burns violently with the pastel brush strokes, melting together to create a white-red spear of energy, which she launches straight through the still-shapeshifting Birhen.

The spear-fist sears through some of the newly formed legs of the unfolding cloth. When the Birhen completes her shapeshifting, she has lost 3 of her legs, and 3 of her wings.

She screams. She attacks without abandon now: the Birhen assaults Ang Nilapastangan with her blade-legs. “Spider Rips the Web!”

Ang Nilapastangan parries every attack without a single cut. She catches the last blade leg, turns in the air, and then flings the Birhen straight to the ground. The ground shatters, the debris turns into strands of illusory matter.

It’s breaking apart, Ang Nilapastangan thinks. She knows the truth about this place, however. Some kind of illusory labyrinth, formed by powerful Asuwang sorcery. In the back of her mind, Ang Nilapastangan congratulates the Birhen for putting up such a convincing fever dream. That would mean that the Birhen is truly an adept Asuwang, with many years upon her back.

Unfortunately, it’s time for it to end.

She bends Gahum and impossibly pushes against air, sending her streaking straight down into the earth where the Birhen has fallen. Her fist slams against the Birhen’s now exposed head-tongue, sending a shockwave rattling bones.

Debris and dust kick up as if someone had dropped a cannonball into water. When the dust clears, Ang Nilapastangan is gripping the Birhen’s neck. A vise grip, one that no being in Sansinukob can remove.

However when the dust clears, Ang Nilapastangan sees that it’s not the Birhen she’s strangling with a single, Gahum-burning hand, but Lulu. Her tears are blood, her face that immaculate white again. Her single eye blinking red.

“Q-Qayin…” her breath is ragged. She’s dying again. She’s dying again.

She’s dying again.

Ang Nilapastangan’s grip faltered.

Return to the Table of Contents.

[royalbirthchamber]

A Debt of Vengeance Part XIV

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII Part XIII

**Well...I never thought this tale would go on as long as it did...but here we are! I want to thank everyone for all their support, love, feedback, and questions. I hope you have enjoyed this tale as much as I have enjoyed writing it. And thank you for being so patient in between chapters: would you believe it’s been a year and a half since Malchior and Sybil first met? Anyhow: I hope the ending is everything you all could want and more. Thank you - L. Wyvernic**

The now-empress reclined against the mountain of silken pillows and rubbed the grand swell of her stomach. There were so many questions swirling in Sybil's mind, so many things that didn't make sense. She watched at Malchior turned away from the door as the two other women left and silently walk back to the large pallet where she lay. Kneeling beside her he placed his hand on hers and for the moment they both felt the baby ready to be born, neither saying a word.

"Malchior," Sybil softly whispered. She intertwined her fingers with his and looked into the demigod's face. His eyes were glistening with a torrent of feelings: love, sorrow, guilt, joy...Sybil felt her throat tighten as her own tide of emotion began to rise.  Neither knew how to give voice to the weight in their hearts, the sins they carried beginning for redemption.

Malchior lowered his eyes, fighting to find the words. "All this time I've been nothing but...a monster."

" It's over now," she murmured, squeezing his hand, "It's all over."

He shook his head and looked into Sybil's eyes. "No, you don't understand: I always knew, the moment I first saw you waiting for me in your father's castle, I knew at that second. I just refused to believe it..."

" Knew what?" she asked, puzzled by his words.

The emperor shuddered with sorrow, regret. He forced himself to go on; she had to know.

"When I entered your father's castle, I was ready to destroy you," he whispered, "But then...seeing you seated there, it was as if every single moment of my life was compressed into this tiny point focused into one single second. My past and future all happening at once and in my heart, I felt my destiny calling to me. My prydia..."

"Malchior, I'm not your prydia," Sybil turned her face away as tears spilled down her cheeks. "Please...stop saying foolish things!"

"They're not foolish things, Sybil!" he cried. "I speak the truth."

"Would anyone else treat their 'prydia' as you have treated me?" she asked, facing him again. "Yes, I have been cruel in the past but it was onl-ahhh!" Sybil gasped: her womb contracted, the pain rolling down over her stomach and spreading into her back and hips. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing instead. The pains were getting stronger and closer together now. She felt Malchior release her hand and massage the underside of her belly where the pressure seemed to focus.

"That was a strong one," the emperor said. Sybil nodded in agreement as the pain finally abated. He grabbed a damp, cool cloth from a near-by crystal bowl and placed it against her forehead. She softly moaned, welcoming the refreshing feel of the wet cloth against her skin.

"Before...I took the throne, I went to see an oracle," Malchior quietly began. "It's customary for the heir to see her visions and prophesy before they are crowned. I was young, then, and did not give her words much thought. But...now I cannot forget her words. Of all the things she saw there was one part, one... prophecy which still haunts me: 'And two empresses will thou have, But only one a prydia be. One will fall, thy soul departed, The Second, sealed, will return it to thee.'"

"But...it doesn't say which one," Sybil replied, "Only that you would have two empresses but only one would be your prydia. That doesn't prove anything."

"'The Second, sealed, will return it to thee'. My sigil...the one I placed to protect you and our child: it can only be sealed to a prydia," he replied. "I placed it upon Thyra as well, even though I feared that prophecy. I would defy Fate, I would prove the old crone oracle wrong, but..."

"You...knew she wasn't your prydia?" Sybil softly asked, "Even when you married her and made her empress?"

"I loved her so much, Sybil." Malchior shook his head. "I loved her and swore that she would be my Fated One, that I would control my own destiny. When I laid my seal upon her, I felt so...confident that I had won over Fate." He then held his head in his hands. "Obviously...we both know..."

Sybil sighed and stared at the vaulted ceiling high above her as her mind tried to process everything. Ever since her father ordered Thyra's death her life had been nothing but chaos. Had Thyra actually been Malchior's prydia his sigil would have protected her and her child from the dark magic poisoning her assassin's blade. Instead both Thyra and the baby perished and proved that Malchior's sigil was powerless. It had, however, protected her own baby...

"You...really hurt me, Malchior," she finally said. "You, my father, Dysarq: all men who have seen me as something to be used." She rolled onto her side, facing away from the emperor. The position eased the pressure from her lower back from the large baby slowly making its way into the world.  "If I'm your prydia...why would you treat me so...cruelly?"

"Oh, Sybil, forgive me," Malchior pled. He gently laid beside her on the pallet and pulled her body close to his own. Even now she felt warm and safe in his arms. Sybil guided his arm around her belly so he could cradle it as well and Malchior nuzzled her neck in response. "Please, beloved...forgive me."

"I just want to know why?" She asked.

"I refused to believe that Thyra wasn't my prydia, even after I failed to prevent her death...even though the oracle had spoken such. During the war, when your father's armies surrendered, I decided that I would make his daughter my consort: that it would prove the prophecy wrong. By marrying the daughter of my hated enemy, a princess I had never met and who would despise me, I would thwart the gods...but I was wrong, Sybil. Fate had outwitted me once more by making you my prydia. When I entered you chambers and realized it the moment I laid eyes on you...I was so terrified. I just wanted to make you...hate me."

"That way...there would be no love," Sybil mused.

"And if there is no love...then I wouldn't be hurt again."

"Only...I would be the one hurt instead."

Malchior gently rolled Sybil onto her back and cupped her face, his own a mask of sorrow and remorse. " I have proven myself unworthy to have the love of my prydia. I accept this. I have drawn up documents giving you reign over Roliam once more. You...and our daughter...can go and live there. When I am gone, she will inherit my throne. I will not interfere: you two can live in peace."

Sybil looked into his eyes and knew he was speaking the truth. He would give her everything: her freedom, her kingdom, even his own child just to atone for his sins. He had hurt her, there was no denying the fact. He had been heartless, cruel, cold...and in turn, she had given him the same but then there were times...he had been tender, loving even. He adored their child from the moment she became pregnant and the fact that it would be a girl did nothing to diminish his love, something her own father never done.

And Sybil, despite everything - everything!- knew in her heart he would be the only man she would ever love. Was theirs a perfect love? No: it was one born from loss, grief, and a desire for vengeance. Both had entered the union wounded and instead of helping each other to heal they lashed out in pain, desiring to make the other suffer just as much. She remembered when her mother lay dying her father refused to see his wife one last time. Sybil was furious and bitterly wept as she held the woman's hand and cursed the king. The queen, whose heart never turned bitter in spite of her sufferings, comforted her daughter with an old proverb:

"If all could be understood then all would be forgiven."

The baby kicked as if waiting for her to make a choice before it entered the world. She reached up and caressed Malchior's face. For the first time in her life, she was free to choose her destiny.

"I shall tell you what I want," she began, "I will stay in this chamber and give birth to our daughter. I will sit beside you on the throne as your empress and advisor, and I will bear you a family of strong sons and proud daughters. All I ask...is that we learn to understand and forgive each other."

"Sybil," Malchior's eyes brimmed with tears as her forgiveness washed over him and finally began to lift the oppressive weight of grief from his soul. He leaned down and kissed his empress, their lips touching for the first time. Sybil softly moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, her body beginning to yield to his as their tongues intertwined. Warmth flooded her body; not just the heat of lustful passions that she had known but a deeper warmth, more intense than when he had called her 'beloved'.  They would both heal.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another contraction. Her body slightly bucked as her hard stomach surged. A long, low moan escaped from her throat, her mouth pulling away from his as the pain grew along with her voice.

Malchior's hand slid under her gown and caressed her laboring belly, feeling the muscles of her womb tighten around their baby. Sybil arched her back, panting, as the pain peaked and then slowly faded once more. The pressure behind her cervix and in her hips was slowly building as each contraction gradually forced the large, Artemian child into the world. Sybil began to seriously fear that her body would not be able to accommodate such a large baby no matter what Malchior of the midwife said.

" How...far apart are my pains now?" Sybil murmured, "They feel stronger than when you brought me here."

"About fifteen minutes or so," Malchior replied. He pulled back her tight gown and began to kiss her stomach. "You're doing wonderful, Sybil." He rose from the bed and walked to the wooden table where various supplies awaited and grabbed a small glass vial. He returned and gently opened her thighs, allowing him to kneel between her bent knees. He opened the vial and carefully poured the sweet-scented oil onto his hands, rubbing them together as the smell reached Sybil's nose. It was similar to the same heady oil Mavis had poured into her bath. Sybil sighed and she inhaled the perfumed air while Malchior began to knead the sore flesh of her swollen midsection.

"Ahhh," she moaned, "That...feels wonderful, my lord."

Malchior did not spoke but relished watching his laboring empress sigh and moan in pleasure as his hands worked and caressed the tight, translucent skin. Her body was ripe, swollen with life, ready to erupt with his child and seeing her writhe upon the silken sheets was a delicious sight to behold. The baby's movements made ripples across the surface of her belly as it squirmed, impatient with the slow labor. He traced his fingers over the shifting mound as his other hand continued to firmly massage the underside of her stomach.

"Let me see if you've progressed, my empress." He carefully slid his oiled fingers into her sex. Sybil moaned, enjoying the feeling of him inside her despite her current ordeal. "About two, two-and-a-half fingers open." He slowly withdrew from her cunt and began to run his fingers over her sensitive clit. Her gentle signs became lustful moans of pleasure and her hands gripped the sheets as he teased her. After a moment of delicious torment, he rubbed more oil on his hands and began to rub her belly.

Sybil opened her eyes and saw the hungry look on the god-emperor. She slowly raised herself up into a sitting position and held out a hand.

"Please, I think I need to kneel while I labor. My back..."

Malchior helped her up until she knelt upon the bedding and supported her heavily pregnant figure from behind. Her belly hung between her bent knees, resting on the bedding, and the large baby pressed down against her gradually opening cervix. Malchior continued to cradle and rub her stomach. He pulled her in close, his erect cock pressing into her back through his trousers, and began to kiss the nape of her neck. Sybil released a series of moans and sighs as he continued to kiss her until another pain seized her once more, tightening around her like a fist. Her voice raised from a whimper into a painful cry, her hands pressing into the sides of her solid midriff. Malchior placed his hands atop her and whispered encouragements into her ear.

"Breathe, Sybil. Like this," and he led her through the pain, both breathing as the contraction gripped her body. As it passed she sagged against with a soft cry. The demi-god continued to caress her belly and kiss the side of her tired face. "You're so beautiful right now, my love. So strong and beautiful."

"You wanted to see me suffer, remember?" she replied with a wry smile. He softly groaned as he clutched her belly.

"I think you've suffered enough, my empress," he gently replied. "I could still delay this, let you rest for a day, and then make sure your labor is easy...painless..."

"No!" she fiercely shook her head. "I...I want my baby and I want...I want to suffer, Malchior.  I want you to watch me in agony as I birth this child. Just...promise me she'll be okay." Sybil ran a hand over her swell. "Promise me...if something goes wrong, you'll make sure she-"

"Sybil stop," Malchior interrupted her, "You will be able to bear this child. Those things Dysarq said were just horrible lies: I will never allow you or our children to perish in childbed."

The two remained kneeling on the pallet as Malchior hungrily kissed his prydia, cradling her belly through each contraction while Sybil moaned, cried, and panted through the cruel pain. It seemed her labor had stalled: after two hours the contractions were still about fifteen minutes apart. Sybil sat against the pillows once more, her knees bent, as the emperor gently checked to see her progress.

"Still the same," he calmly replied as he withdrew his fingers from her soaking sex. Sybil groaned in dismay. She had hoped for some progress after two hours of laboring in her beloved's arms. Her waters still remained intact and her womb no more open than before: two hours spent in vain! Malchior laid beside her and kissed her greedily, distracting her from the disappointment. She felt a familiar ache between her thighs as fire flushed through her body. She looked up into her husband's face as the lustful blaze burned in her eyes.

"Fuck me," she whispered, "I demand it, Malchior!"

Malchior's eyes widened, ignited with the same carnal flames that now burned in her. " You demand it, royal whore?" he teased. His hand moved from her cheek and slowly trailed down her body. Sybil shivered in delight and kissed him again.

"You promised to break my waters, to ravage me without mercy as I struggled to bear your child." she whispered, "Do it, Malchior! I need you!"

" I did promise, my little whore," he growled into her ear as he slowly slid his trousers off. "I did promise to fuck this child out of you."

"Please..." she whimpered, rolling onto her side to allow him better access. She felt him slide next to her on the pallet and lift her leg up, crying as her cunt ached to be impaled. "Oh Malchior, please..."

"Is this what you want, Sybil?" he teased her soaking folds with the tip of his massive rod. She nodded and moaned with each brush against her sex. Malchior buried his face into her neck, kissing her clavicle. " You do not know how long I've waited for this moment: fucking my whore prydia as she labors with my child, breaking her waters, and then finally watching as the royal baby mercilessly plows through her. Oh Sybil...thank you."

Sybil did not have time to reply as the emperor penetrated her hard. She screamed in a mix of surprise and pleasure as his cock stretched her open and began to thrust mercilessly into her.

"Oh gods, yes!" she screamed, "Harder!"

Malchior roughly gripped her belly, pulling Sybil into him and allowing him to plunge into her sex. Sybil felt him slam into her cervix repeatedly, his thick member filling her and hitting every pleasurable spot. She released a series of moans and screams in rhythm to his thrusts. The emperor groaned: the sounds of her cries only goaded him on and he had missed the feel of her cunt tightly enveloping his rod, missed feeling the baby kick inside his beloved as she begged for his cock.

"The Five Realms may think of you as their empress," he hissed, "but I'll always know you're my royal whore, Sybil. Wicked, wicked whore: begging to be fucked even in the throes on labor!"

"Yes!" she screamed. "And you're just as wicked, Malchior! So wicked! Oh gods!" She gripped his hand, the one holding her belly, as she felt another contraction begin to build. The pain and pleasure began to wrap around her, each building off the other into a mix of glorious torment. She moaned, her voice rich with agony, and her eyes began to flutter.

Malchior knew what was happening as he felt her stomach muscles begin to tighten. "Suffer for me, Sybil," he demanded. Sybil moaned in reply. The sensation of her stomach being seized by such pain only made him thrust faster and harder into his laboring beloved, his own orgasm building. He watched her face shift from ecstasy to a visage of torment. Her stomach surged, rock hard. Sybil bucked violently against his body: she began to shake as the combination of her orgasm and the contraction melted into one. She threw her head back as a raw scream tore from her throat: the pain and pleasure peaked at once and held her body prisoner. Malchior roared as he finally came with one last, deep thrust. His own body quaked with a forceful release, hot and thick. Sybil's cries continued as the tightening band of pain remained around her midsection. She gripped the sheets, gasping for air between her moans. The afterglow still cascaded through her even while she was tortured by the cruel contraction: it was both heaven and hell.

Something gave inside her, forcing a low groan from her lips. Malchior felt it as well and withdrew from her sore sex: a torrent of water burst from between her open, shivering thighs and spilled across the red, silken sheets. The contraction finally faded, leaving the empress trembling and drenched in sweat and birth fluid.

Malchior rose, quickly slipping back into his trousers, and grabbed some towels. He placed some on the soaked bed and used others to clean Sybil's legs and thighs. He gently kissed her stomach as he dried her with the soft towels. She weakly opened her eyes and gazed at her emperor. The chamber was now filled with the burning light of sunset, igniting his long hair into bursts of scarlet, crimson, and ruby. She watched as he placed his hand on her swell and felt the baby's position.

"Is she...okay?" an exhausted Sybil asked. "That wasn't too..."

"She is fine, my love," Malchior replied much to Sybil's relief. She gave a tired smile and stroked her belly. Malchior kissed her stomach once more. "Your labor should begin to hasten, now."

*****

Night fell and the birthing chamber was illuminated by the ethereal glow of candles and the small fire burning in the hearth. Sybil stood before the long wooden table, gripping its edge, moaning as another contraction held her. Behind her, Malchior rubbed her back as his empress groaned in pain. After her waters broke her labor did pick up again and the royal couple had spent the past hours pacing the chamber floors or kneeling on the pallet as Sybil panted and wailed with each fresh contraction. It was nearing midnight and now her pains were less than five minutes apart and lasting what seemed like an eternity. Her frame was soaked in sweat and every joint ached. As the contraction ended her body sagged against the table, her knees weak, and Malchior laced his arms through hers for support.

"I can't do this," she mewed, "I thought I was strong, but I'm too-"

"You are strong, Sybil!" Malchior lovingly whispered into her ear, "You are the strongest woman in all the Five Realms."

"I doubt that," she muttered. She looked over to the soft rug spread before the hearth. Malchior followed her gaze.

"Kneel?" he asked. Sybil nodded.

"...kneel, please."

He carefully led her over to the fireplace and helped her down until she was kneeling on all fours, her belly pressing into the red fibers of the rub. She closed her eyes and panted: the baby was so low now, the pressure almost unbearable. Malchior returned to her side and knelt. He placed a goblet of cold water to her lips, which she gulped down in seconds, and then resumed rubbing her sore back and stroking the side of her stomach.

"You're both going to be fine, " he softly reassured, "Do you think my magick will fail you now after all this time?"

"I'm just...scared," Sybil replied, "So scared..."

"But I'm here with you, beloved. Nothing and no one will hurt you or our daughter. Remember my sigil?"

Sybil slightly raised her head. Something had bothered her but only now did she remember what it was. "Malchior?"

"Hmm?"

"I thought...you said it had only been a dream when you sealed me. Remember?"

Malchior sighed. "I lied."

"But...you were gone. How did you return and then leave again? It doesn't...make sense."

The emperor caressed her face: it seemed the birthing chamber was a place where the truth would come to light as well as see their child born. " I did leave, with some men, that evening. We...that is, I, needed to see the oracle again. I needed to know if Dysarq would succeed and I needed to know...if you were my prydia after all. As we camped for the first night I heard you...calling for me. I knew you were in danger."

"The nightmare," Sybil answered. Malchior nodded.

"Yes. I had...to get to you, so I quickly set a portal back to the bedchamber and found you in bed, crying, but I could also feel his presence. I shouldn't...have left you alone: I knew then that unless I did something he would rob me of the both of you. So..."

Sybil closed her eyes. "You placed your seal-Aahhhh! Malchior!"

Her head pressed against the floor as her womb squeezed and hardened around the babe. Her voice filled the chambers; she felt her hips creak as the pressure behind the giant baby forced it into her pelvis. She gasped frantically for air as the pain overrode all other though.

"Breathe, Sybil! Breathe!" Malchior urged. He moved before her and lifted her panicked face up to meet his own. "You need to breathe!"

She slowly found control over her body and began to breathe deeply, exhaling each time with a long moan, tormented moan. Malchior pressed a cold cloth to her face as she worked through the contraction, knowing that the icy water would feel good against her hot face.

"Ahh...ahhh...ahh...too big," she cried, "The baby...too big."

"You can do this, my prydia," he replied, "All these months you've said you can handle anything this wicked emperor gives you."

"...I guess you're not...the only liar...here."

Malchior could not help but laugh. He leaned down and kissed her mouth. "I do not believe you were lying, Sybil."

" Tell me...what did the oracle say?"

"What do you expect? When I arrived she laughed, wanting to know why I was there if I already had my answer? There was no use in asking if you were my prydia: my seal lay upon you and our child. When I asked about Dysarq she said the seal would protect you from him...but not from me. The oracle warned me that I was on dangerously close to making myself unworthy of a prydia; it happens sometimes if one partner does not honor the other. 'the choice' she said, 'would lie in the Empress' hands'."

"...and I have made my choice, Malchior."

"I know."

*****

As the hours passed the pains became even more intense, almost on top of one another until Sybil felt as if she were suffering an endless contraction. She returned to the pallet, exhausted, and writhed upon the pillows as her body was tormented by wave after wave of excruciating pain. The contractions were frighteningly strong; Malchior barely could see the faint outline of their baby as the muscles of her womb mercilessly tightened into a clenched fist of pain. His hands tirelessly kneaded the sore flesh and his mouth sprinkled kisses on the taut surface of her surging belly, her heaving chest, her pale neck...

A new pain welled up inside Sybil's worn body: an urge she could not deny. She threw her head back against the pillows as her body followed its instinct and bore down. Her thighs opened as the baby finally made its first move towards the world, a journey that would not be quick. She wailed with effort as the felt the massive head sluggishly began to force its way through her hips - her bones creaked at the sheer girth and Sybil feared she would be split apart by the royal babe.

Malchior quickly slid his fingers inside and felt the top of the baby's head just begin to press against his fingertips.

My precious child...

"Let's get you to the birthing stool," he spoke with quiet urgency, not watching to scare his wife but also feeling a mix of excitement and anxiousness. Sybil said nothing, only moaned as he lifted her to her feet. Each step brought a whimper from her lips: the baby entering her canal made walking difficult and awkward. She gripped his arm and the other cradled her low-hanging belly. She could see the stool waiting for her by the fire, the sturdy rope hanging near-by: it seemed so far but somehow she found the strength to make it. She gripped the rope and slowly slid down until she was squatting on the stool. The position opened her hips more and gravity helped bring the baby's head down lower into her canal.

"Ahhh Malchior, she's so big!" Sybil moaned.

"Our beautiful, Artemian princess," he whispered as he sat behind her and supported her tired, heavy body. "She's coming, Sybil. You just need to stay strong."

She gripped the rope, just as she had done all those times before with Ansela except now her labor was real. Sybil felt the next contraction build and prepared herself to push again - she was strong! She would bear their child, and many more; she was the Empress of the Five Realms and would give her beloved many, many heirs.

Her knuckles went white with the sheer force of her grip upon the rope while she bore down on the baby. Her voice roared with determination and pain, echoing up into the rafters, and she opened her thighs as wide as possible.

"Yes, Sybil!" Malchior urged, "Push! Just like that!" He pulled her in close, his hands lovingly caressing her contracting belly, and began to kiss her face and neck. As she pushed he would murmur encouragements and then mention how her laboring cries were driving him insane with desire. She could feel him becoming hard and she could not help but enjoy knowing her agony was filling him with lust.

"I'm surprised you don't force her back inside and fuck me again!" she panted, "You're such a vile, horrible emperor. So wicked..."

"Do not tempt me, little empress!" he growled into her ear. "Your ordeal is still not over." The fantasies helped distract Sybil from the excruciating pressure as the large head continued to brutally force her open.

"Tell me...more, Malchior! What else will you do to me?"

The emperor spun tales of delicious torment: she would give birth before all his guards like a common whore, or perhaps he would force her to carry out her imperial duties while laboring before the court. There would be a special undergarment that would not allow her progress beyond the babe only partially crowning - she would spend the whole day as their baby's head bulged between her thighs, a damp mound behind the silk and leather of the garment. She moaned and begged through all the stories and felt his painfully hard cock throb as it pressed into her. Her fear was replaced by hungry desire: she almost wanted Malchior to force her on all fours and violently ravage her sore sex. Instead, it drove her as she continued to bear down and moan, feeling his heir painfully fill and stretch her. She must have pushed for a solid hour before she finally felt the enormous head barely press against her folds.

"Malchior! Oh god, she's coming!"

Malchior moved from his place behind Sybil and knelt before her so he could see her progress. He watched as she pushed, the lips of her cunt slightly bulged out and he saw the baby's head barely peek out from behind her folds before retreating back inside. Another push forced her sex to swell out a little more, fluid dribbling from her lips, and a second glimpse of the head from the almond-sized opening.

"I see her, Sybil!" his eyes sparkled with excitement and wonder. "She has your lovely, dark hair!"

Sybil reached down to the growing mound between her thighs and slipped a finger inside where she immediately felt the soft surface of her baby's head.

"...baby!" she gasped. "My baby!" Her emotions overwhelmed her and she began to weep with joy as she carefully caressed her child with the tip of her finger. Malchior took her face in his hands and begin to kiss his empress as his tears mingled with her own. She kept her palm placed against her labia and she bore down again, groaning and yelling with effort as her child slowly came. Her lips refused to part beyond a shy, modest opening forcing her sex to swell out with each push until it jutted out to painful proportions. Malchior gazed at the massive bulge and softly ran his fingers over the stubborn lips.

"You need to stop pushing, Sybil," he commanded, " and let your body stretch for the head."

"I can't" she cried, " Malchior I need to-"

"You need to stretch!" he firmly replied. "I'm taking you back over to the bed where you can rest and I can help your lips open."

Sybil didn't even have a moment to protest; Malchior picked her body up in one swoop and carried her across the chambers back to the bed once more. She leaned against the pillows and gripped the backs of her bent knees, pulling them as close to her body as possible. Malchior grabbed the bottle of oil and poured a few drops on her bulging labia before gently rubbing and massaging the tight, red tissues with his fingers. Sybil gently moaned as his fingertips would brush against her clit as he rubbed her glistening mound. He dripped a small cloth into a nearby bowl of hot water, enchanted no doubt to hold its temperature for hours, and then placed the hot compress into her swollen sex.

"Breathe," Malchior coached, "When the next pain comes, don't push: you need to stretch around the baby's head."

Sybil nodded as she felt a pain already on its way. Her moans started and the uncontrollable urge to push began to take hold. Before she was even aware of it Sybil was bearing down hard. Malchior's palm remained firmly pressed against the cloth-draped bulge, applying counter-pressure to his prydia's pushing.

"Sybil, you need to breathe! Don't push!"

"I can't!" she wailed, "I need to push!"

"Look at me!" Malchior leaned over and gently cupped her tired face. "You can do this Sybil! If not for me then for our daughter. If you keep pushing you will tire yourself and possibly tear which could...cause complications. I can't have anything happen to either of you. So breathe, pant - scream if you must!"

"I'm sorry, Malchior," she whispered. He sighed and kissed her face.

"There is nothing to forgive. You are so strong, my love, and the baby is almost here." He looked up at the lancet windows and noticed the first soft blushes of sunrise. "Look, Sybil: the sun is coming!"

She wearily followed his pointing finger and saw the soft pre-dawn light. "This labor will never end, Malchior."

"No, my empress: this will be the first morning out precious baby sees. Her first morning in all the Five Realms." He gently removed the hot compress and used his finger to gently stretch her stubborn lips once more. They had parted slightly, grudging giving the Artemian baby's head passage as it struggled to crown. As the next contraction came Sybil fought the urge to push and instead white-knuckled the sheets as her moans and cries filled the birthing chamber. She closed her eyes and wondered if she could honestly survive such an ordeal, but she had faith in her emperor's magick: he wouldn't let either perish.

The light outside slowly grew as Sybil fought her natural instinct to push. Malchrior continued to rub the burning, sore lips with oil and apply the hot compresses to the stretching swell between her thighs. With each contraction her lips slowly began to peel back around the enormous head, much larger than a mortal child's, until finally, the baby had nearly crowned. Sybil was exhausted, her throat raw from all her cries. She panted, her eyes half opened, as her stretched sex burned from the sheer girth of the child. Malchior placed another goblet of water to her lips and a cold cloth to her face, reviving her momentarily.

"Sybil, look."

Kneeling between her bent thighs he held a small mirror in which she finally caught the first glimpse of her baby. Malchior was right, the child had her dark curls which she reached down and gently caressed.

"Hello," she softly whispered, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks, "Hello my little sweetheart."

"I need you to push now, okay?" Malchior gently spoke, overcome with his own emotions. "Small pushes, Sybil."

Seeing and feeling her daughter, after all the months of sorrow and heartbreak, filled Sybil with a renewed vigor and determination. She pulled her thighs back once more and pushed , groaning as she felt the burning become more intense. Malchior placed both his hands on either side of the crown, pushing the flesh and tissues back around the massive head. Dawn began to fill the room and the first rays spilled through the windows and touched the damp, crowning head of her baby. Malchior gasped; this was a fortunate omen. A new era for his empire dawned with the birth of his firstborn. He gently bent over and gently kissed the exposed head of his soon-to-be-born princess.

Sybil's heart swelled: this dawn marked not only the birth of her daughter but also the beginning of her life, her new life as empress and wife to the man she loved. The old Malchior and Sybil were gone and now, in this new day, they were reborn. They would heal, they would love, they would build a family.

"She's coming!" Malchior excitedly spoke. He grabbed more towels and placed them around Sybil as the head finally crowned. He was amazed at the size of the baby's head jutting out of his mortal wife's sex. He looked back at his wife, his eyes filled with love and admiration. "Oh my prydia, my beautiful, empress. You look absolutely sublime."

"This will not be the last time either, Malchior," Sybil vowed before bearing down, driven to give Malchior their long-desired daughter.

He continued to press her burning lips down around the baby's skull as the empress whimpered with each push. Slowly the head emerged, the brow popping out as he supported her thin perineum. The nose, ears, mouth...all the little features slowly appeared as the head finally erupted in a spray of fluids.

Sybil collapsed against the cushions with a tortured cry, gasping for breath. Malchior cradled the baby's head, checking the neck for a cord and smiling when he found none. He took his wife's hand and placed it on their child's face. Sybil's fingers ran over the damp, chubby cheeks of her newborn with love and tenderness.

"...Avalee," she whispered, "My little Avalee."

"That...is a beautiful name, my love," Malchior replied.

"Malchior," Sybil looked at her husband, a serious expression crossing her weary face, "I want to name her Avalee Thyra...I think...that is best."

The demigod was dumbstruck. For a second he said nothing and Sybil feared she had misspoken, reopening old wounds in the emperor's heart.

"Sybil...," he finally spoke, his voice choked, "...I am not worthy of you."

Before Sybil could reply she was gripped by another contraction and she realized she still had to birth the shoulders. The head gently turned until the babe faced her inner thigh, the shoulders nestled against her pelvis. The two now focused on delivering the child: the journey was almost through. She jerked her legs back as far as possible and pushed with all her strength as the shoulders pressed against her pelvic bone. Malchior held the baby's head and worked to maneuver the wide shoulders free.

"Push!" he urged, "As hard as you can, Sybil!"

Sybil screamed, all her energy focused on pushing out the large baby lodged in her hips. The child did not budge, remaining firmly stuck at the shoulders. She began to panic after the second push: this was taking too long and her daughter needed out!

"She's not coming!" Sybil wept, "Oh god, she's going to die!"

"She's not going to die, Sybil!" Malchior reassured his terrified empress, "but I need you to get on your hands and knees." He helped her carefully turn until she knelt on all fours. Seeing the head of his child, so large compared to the mortal frame of his beloved, left the demigod in awe. He gently took hold and commanded his wife to push. Sybil strained with every ounce of effort left in her body. She forced herself to focus as the massive child stretched her every so slightly, tried not thinking about her daughter remaining trapped in her canal...Even now, so close to birth, she could feel the final few kicks: the child was struggling just as hard as she.

"Yes! Good!" Malchior smiled. "Keep pushing just like that!" A shoulder began to stubbornly slip through her stretched and burning sex. Sybil roared in agony as she pushed once more. Malchior was finally able to get a grip on the emerging shoulder and coax it out. The second quickly followed, allowing the emperor to pulled the rest of his daughter free as the remaining waters gushed out onto the towels. Sybil collapsed face down on the pillows: her body shook and shivered from the shock of delivering such a large child. Her consciousness reeled somewhere between the light and the dark. Malchior cradled the slippery, red newborn princess in his hands. He rubbed and gently patted her back and chest until finally the silent baby jerked and gasped for air, releasing a strong, reedy wail. Malchior sobbed.

The sound of her baby pierced the darkness clouding Sybil's mind and slowly reawakened.

Her baby.

It was alive.

"Avalee..." she softly murmured. Malchior turned his empress over and placed the squalling babying in her arms, weeping with joy. Sybil looked down at the baby: the same dark hair as her own, curls and all, yet her father's nose and eyes. She was so large and heavy in Sybil arms and yet she still found everything about her tiny and perfect. Sybil began to cry as well and kissed her newborn daughter. The three were now together.

****

The Five Realms rejoiced.

Everyone who saw the princess could not help but fawn and coo over the newborn. Sybil recovered in her chambers, the child never out of her sight. She was besotted with the little girl, singing to her as she nursed the Artemian princess or nuzzling her precious face. The other noblewomen who came to see the princess also came to pay respect to their new empress. They were happy for Sybil, who had suffered so and who convinced Malchior To allow them to bear children of their own. A few of the ladies were now pregnant themselves and they kissed Sybil's hand in thanks.

To say that Malchior was a proud father was an understatement. Seeing the mighty and fearsome demigod cradle and hold his newborn, his eyes aglow with love and tenderness...Sybil could not help but smile.

"Look, Avalee," he whispered, cradling his daughter before the windows, "One day you will reign over all of this!"

"Oh Malchior," Sybil sighed, "She's only two days old. She'll worry about that soon enough!" Malchior gave his wife an apologetic smile.

"You're right, my love. I just...I can't believe she is real."

*****

Sybil was crowned empress the same day as Princess Avalee was christened. They royal family rode through the capital as the people cheered. Sybil realized that she had never really left the palace and had no idea that she was so well loved. Stories of her ordeal as consort and of her wise advice had won her over: not only was she Malchior's prydia she was also a worthy successor to Thyra as empress.

Malchior looked at his wife, garbed in her coronation robes and wearing the Imperial diadem, and his beloved daughter cradled in her arms. The christening gown, first sewn by the princesses namesake, glittered and sparkled in the glorious light as the baby calmly watched the scene from her mother's arms. Nothing in the realms or the mortal worlds would tear them from him. Sybil turned, looked into her husband's eyes. She was thinking the same: nothing and no one would come between them. Their love was strong now and grew stronger as each day passed and they learned to heal. Malchior leaned in and they kissed.

The kingdom rejoiced.