#you see her fragility with her strength; her weariness with her grace

[narcissusneverknewme]

I am not immune to the same fallacies and failures of judgement my fellow men are subject to. I am superior to them because I am More right than they are though

[tulipatheticee]

i've been waiting for you

violet bridgerton x youngest! daughter

bridgerton siblings x younger! sibling

synopsis; From the moment Edmund Bridgerton passed, leaving his wife widowed with eight children and one on the way, Violet found herself adrift until the arrival of Isadora, her youngest daughter. Isadora, quiet and calm, becomes Violet's constant companion in bustling Mayfair, offering solace and steadfast support at her mother's side.

word count; 1.3k

master list

a/n; i have arisen yet again, this is my first bridgerton fic so hello to the brigderton tag! i have archived all my old stuff because they are old and tbh the fandoms have died SO LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF

my name is tulippa and im from sicily, im pretty confident in my english now but let me know if you see any errors! i mainly write fluffy family stuff like this, i love it idk. if you like this and want to see more like it let me know and ill provide for you! but its not like i wont write x reader romance cmon of course i will, but im best at parentxchild and siblings (PLATONIC ALWAYS DONT BE WEIRD) anyways i could go on and on but i wont, enjoy!!!

kinda proof read, kinda not, you've been warned

I'll carry you all the way

Violet Bridgerton had weathered many storms in her life, but none so devastating as the loss of her beloved husband, Edmund. His passing left her shattered, a widow with eight children to care for and another on the way. The pregnancy was fraught with complications, exacerbated by Violet's grief and the toll it took on her health.

Days turned into months as Violet withdrew into herself, mourning Edmund's absence even as life continued around her. Her family rallied, but Violet's sorrow was a heavy veil that separated her from them. It was during those long, solitary hours that she felt the weight of loneliness and the fear of losing both husband and child.

And you'll choose the day

The labour came unexpectedly, fierce and unforgiving. Violet's strength waned, her heart weary from loss and longing. The doctors and midwives worked tirelessly, their faces etched with concern. Hours passed like eternity until finally, a cry pierced the air—a fragile, yet determined cry that signalled new life.

Isadora was born amidst tears and relief, a tiny bundle of hope wrapped in Violet's trembling arms. The room, once fraught with fear, now glowed with a soft, golden light as mother and daughter gazed at each other for the first time. In that moment, everything seemed to still, and Violet knew she had been granted a miracle.

When you're prepared to greet me

She named her daughter Isadora, after the delicate Dahlia flower that Edmund had loved tending in their garden—a reminder of the beauty that bloomed even in the darkest of times.

As Isadora grew, she became Violet's constant companion, a beacon of joy and innocence in the Bridgerton household. Her older siblings doted on her, especially Anthony, Benedict, and Colin, who saw in her a reflection of their lost father's spirit. Isadora's laughter filled the halls of Bridgerton House and her curious mind sought solace in the quiet moments spent with her mother.

One afternoon, in the hushed serenity of the drawing room, Isadora sat at the pianoforte while Violet embroidered nearby. The soft melodies Isadora coaxed from the keys wove through the air, a testament to her growing talent and Violet's nurturing guidance.

"Does this sound right, Mama?" Isadora asked, her voice a melody in itself.

Violet looked up from her embroidery, a fond smile gracing her lips. "It sounds perfect, darling. You have a gift."

Isadora beamed with pride, her small hands continuing their dance over the keys. Despite her tender age, she played with a grace that belied her years, a testament to the bond she shared with her mother and the legacy of love that surrounded her.

I'll be a good mum, I swear

Anthony, Benedict, and Colin entered the room together, their voices low with shared memories and unspoken affection for their youngest sister. Anthony, ever the protective eldest brother, approached Isadora and knelt beside her.

"How are you today, Isa?" he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

"I am well, Anthony," Isadora replied, her gaze never leaving the keys. "Mama teaches me a new piece every day."

"Is that so?" Benedict chimed in, leaning over to peer at the sheet music. "You are quite talented, little one."

"Indeed," Colin added with a smile. "Father would have been proud."

Violet's heart swelled with bittersweet emotion at the mention of Edmund. She had feared she might forget the sound of his voice or the warmth of his touch, but in Isadora, she found echoes of him that kept his memory alive.

You'll see how much I care

"Mama, are you well?" Isadora asked suddenly, sensing the shift in her mother's mood.

Violet blinked back tears, her hand reaching out to clasp Isadora's. "I am well, my love. I am with you, and that is enough."

Isadora nodded solemnly, her understanding far beyond her years. Together, they continued their afternoon ritual, finding solace in music and shared moments that bridged the gap between past sorrows and future joys.

When you meet me

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

In the sunlit gardens of Bridgerton House, where the scent of roses mingled with the laughter of children, Isadora found herself in the company of her older sister, Hyacinth, and brother, Gregory. Despite their lively spirits, they adapted to Isadora's quieter demeanour, creating a harmony that transcended their differences.

You thrill me, you delight me

"Isa, look what I found!" Hyacinth exclaimed, holding a caterpillar in her small hands with excitement.

Isadora approached cautiously, her eyes widening with curiosity. "Oh, wow! What is it?"

Gregory, always eager to share his knowledge, chimed in, "It's a caterpillar, Isa! Hyacinth and I were just talking about how it turns into a butterfly."

Hyacinth nodded eagerly. "Yes, Isa! It's like magic! One day, it will have beautiful wings and fly everywhere!"

Isadora's face lit up with wonder. "That's amazing! Can I hold it?"

Hyacinth carefully passed the caterpillar to Isadora, who watched it crawl across her palm with fascination. Gregory leaned in, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Let's play tag, Isa! You're it!"

You please me, you excite me

Isadora giggled as Gregory darted away, Hyacinth joining in the chase. "Catch us if you can, Isa!"

Isadora laughed, her heart light as she chased after her siblings through the garden paths, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves and the gentle hum of bees. Despite their differences in temperament, they found joy in each other's company, weaving memories that would last a lifetime.

You're all that

I've been yearning for

— —- —- —- —-

In the quiet of evening, as the Bridgerton family gathered for supper, Isadora remained close to Violet's side. Gregory and Hyacinth, full of youthful exuberance, regaled their siblings with tales of mischief and adventure, and how Isadora won tag earlier in the afternoon. The three eldest Brigderton men shared the lovely pianoforte they witnessed Isadora performing in the morning and spoke of how she is progressing very, while Eloise, Francesca, and Daphne shared knowing glances over the table.

I love you, I adore you

"Isa, do you have to be better than us at everything?" Eloise teased playfully, nudging Isadora with her elbow.

Isadora looked up, a hint of confusing in her eyes, she went to speak before Violet interjected “ "Eloise is just being foolish, darling, she means well”

Isadora quickly understood and replied "I only wish to be like everyone else Eloise, you are so clever, and Francesca is so graceful, and Daphne—"

"—is the epitome of charm," Francesca finished with a smile, her gaze softening as she looked at her youngest sister.

I lay my life before you

Daphne reached across the table to tousle Isadora's hair gently. "You are quite the storyteller yourself, Isa. Perhaps one day you'll write tales that surpass even Eloise's wild adventures."

Isadora's face lit up with delight at the praise from her sisters. "Do you really think so, Daphne?"

"Absolutely," Daphne assured her. "You have a way with words and a heart as big as all of Mayfair."

I only want you more and more

Violet watched the exchange with a tender smile, her heart swelling with pride at the bond between her daughters. Despite the challenges they had faced as a family, moments like these reminded her of the joy that filled their lives.

And finally it seems

My lonely days are through

Later that night, as Isadora drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the love of her siblings, Violet tucked her in with a sense of peace. The Bridgertons, each unique in their strengths and passions, formed a tapestry of love and support that would guide Isadora through the years ahead.

I've been waiting for you

"You are so loved, Isadora," Violet whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Never doubt that."

Isadora stirred, a contented smile playing on her lips. 

I've been waiting…

And as Violet watched over her sleeping daughter, she knew that the bonds of siblinghood, and the enduring love of family would carry Isadora through any storm that life might bring.

…For you

pt2

a/n pt2; thats it guys :( i actually had so much fun writing this and if you want anymore of violet and isa or any of the siblings with isa let me know because i'd love for this to become a little oneshot series typa thing! your feedback is greatly appreciated <3

all my love!

~tulippa

[themosleyreview]

The Mosley Review: Gladiator 2

I believe the greatest burden of any sequel to an already successful original film, is the task of trying to make a successor worthy of the name that can surpass the original and meet all expectations. The all too easy trap of relying heavily on the nostalgia bait of reminding you that the sequel is connected while running through all the greatest moments and repeating their beats is prevalent in most. We all know that original Gladiator was a perfect film that is still used as a verb to gauge the quality of spectacle and storytelling and rightfully so. Like you, I asked the most important question once this film was announced: Why? Why make a sequel to a film that did not need one? Yes, there are more stories about the gladiatorial games and the many times Roman has fallen, rebuilt itself and fallen again, but is it necessary to frame this story in the confines of an already untainted legacy? Well I'm here to tell you that not only does this film fall into the trap formally mentioned, but it does show the fragility of the political landscape of Rome at the time. I just wish this film followed another path or different set of characters not related to the first film. It does deliver on what I've sorely missed in cinema and that is the epic feel of large scaled sword and shield battles that are dirty and blood soaked fun.

Paul Mescal stoically leads the familiar story branch of this multi-layered plot as Hanno. I liked his tenacity and raw intensity within the confines of the many fight sequences he expertly handles. He was a driven man and I loved his attitude and unwavering conviction. Paul brings the right amount of strength and compassion as the film progresses. Pedro Pascal delivers a great and more reserved performance in many ways as General Acacius. I loved that he was a reluctant combatant and leader in the Roman campaign to conquer all. There is a weariness in his eyes that was expertly explored many times and I loved that he got a moment of repentance with Hanno. Connie Nielsen continues to exude her regal and elegant nature from the first film, but now as a more seasoned and plotting Lucilla. She repeats the same plot again in this film, but there is a caveat this time around that has been seen many times in other stories. There is an emotional reunion in the film that I liked and Connie delivers a stellar performance in it. Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger were fantastic as the twin Roman Emperors Geta and Caracalla. Geta was the more unchecked ambitious one while Caracalla was more debaucherous brother that wasn't all there mentally. Their dynamic kept the tension of the political game alive and showed why they were never really fit for their roles as Emperors. Denzel Washington delivers his most slippery and slimy performance as Macrinus. It has been a long time since I have seen Denzel dive deep back into the villainous role and he was ever so riveting and playful. He was the pure definition of "taking advantage of a fragile situation and navigating how to come out on top". He was quick, efficient and devilish in his smile.

The score by composer and long time collaborator, Harry Gregson-Williams, was fantastic and as epic as it should be. It comes to life in the action sequences and especially in the more emotional moments. The gladiatorial fights are a highlight in the film as they provide story and spectacle, but also you see the many references to the original film. As I said before, I love the sword and shield genre of film and very few can handle it with grace like this director can. Where the film falters for me is the constant reminders of a better film that I just rebought on 4K Bluray Disc. The reunion story was a weaker part for me as I was more interested in how the politics of Rome were being executed. There are multiple vengeance plots happening and it all kind of felt clumsy in toward the end as we rush to the finish line. In the end, I was entertained by it, but not floored by it at all. Director Ridley Scott is a master at creating epics, but this is one film in his filmography that I wish he never touched. Let me know what thought of the film or my review in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

[finalfantasyandnerdiness]

Sparring

Ages ago, @imlilyyfromff13 gave me a prompt about sparring. I wasn’t sure how to fit this prompt into anything in-verse since I’ve only written it in That One You Might Remember AU, but then... crack happened? I don’t know, man. I just don’t like the Amazon Warrior garb. 

Fandom: Lightning Returns Pairing: Hope/Light, ish? 

”Do you seriously think I would ever wear something like this?” Lightning exclaimed. “In public?”

Hope’s facial expression—or lack of thereof—didn’t change even the slightest. “It will strengthen your physical attacks. This armor could be of use against enemies with a high affinity for magic, since they tend to be more receptible to physical damage.”

“I don’t know how you define ‘armor’, Hope, but this,” she gestured vaguely at the small but strategically placed plates of metal, “is not it.”

“I’ve added a lot of features to it. I’d say it’s one of my best garbs so far, actually.” A small smile graced his lips. “I just want to keep you safe, Light.”

His innocent demeanor would probably have fooled just about everyone—a teenage boy, proudly presenting his latest invention—but Lightning wasn’t “everyone.” She knew that the boy in front of her was, in fact, not a boy at all. He was a full-grown man, and he’d just given her an outfit that was in no way, shape, or form appropriate at any location other than a beach—or in the bedroom.

“How weak do you think I am?” she snarled. “Do you really think I’m desperate enough to wear something like this for some extra strength?”

“I honestly don’t see the problem.” For a moment, his façade flickered. His gaze strayed from her face and wandered down her body, lingering just a millisecond too long on certain areas. The corner of his mouth twitched, turning his boyish smile into something completely different. “I think it suits you.”

Lightning’s cheeks flushed. Anger, embarrassment, and a mixture of feelings that she wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole washed over her like a tidal wave. She clenched her fists, her nails digging deep into her palms.

“So you think I need extra strength, huh?” she said. “You think the Savior, chosen by Bhunivelze himself, isn’t strong enough?”

A young boy would probably have flinched at her harsh words. Hope, though, just let out a weary sigh. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

On some level, she did, but her rationality had left the building the moment she felt her face turn red. Lightning didn’t do embarrassment, but she definitely did rage.

“Go ahead, then. Have at it. Show me how weak I am.” She summoned her blade, which somehow managed to do a better job at covering her bare skin than her so-called armor. “Let’s spar.”

Hope’s weary look turned into pure exasperation. “Light…”

“I mean it. You’ve got a high affinity for magic, right? You’re exactly the kind of opponent I apparently need to wear something like this for. Prove it.”

She leaned into her fighting stance. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, and her heartbeats pounded against her eardrums. Deep inside, she knew she was overreacting, but Lightning Farron really, really didn’t do embarrassment.

“I’m not going to attack you,” Hope said firmly. “Calm down. It’s just a garb, and I’m not going to force you to wear it. You should rest. Tomorrow—”

Hope’s dismissive tone made the last, fragile layer of Lightning’s self-control crack.

“If you’re not going to attack,” she said, “then I will.”  

She raised her blade and pounced. Time seemed to move in slow motion as she approached her partner-turned-opponent. Her body moved with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine. She was the Savior—not some underwear model floozy. She was strong. Stronger than she’d ever been. She didn’t need…

Hope didn’t move an inch, but his facial expression changed as she rushed toward him. Like a veil being lifted, something deep inside of him seemed to reach the surface. Suddenly, there was nothing about him that resembled a teenage boy anymore. He didn’t even resemble a man. When she met his gaze, right before the inevitable collision, a spike of true fear joined her fury. The raw power radiating from her partner’s eyes… It wasn’t human.

Hope whispered something under his breath. The world turned black.

*

“Light? Are you okay?”

Lightning groaned. She tried to open her eyes, but quickly changed her mind. The bright lights of the Ark burned like acid against her retinas. She was lying on the floor, and while she had absolutely no memory of how she’d ended up there, she could certainly guess. She’d tried to prove a point, and it had misfired. Hard. Her body ached as if she’d been run over by an adamantoise—and her head felt like said adamantoise had decided to stomp on it.

Hope murmured some healing spells, and with frightening speed, the pain receded. She finally looked up, and found him kneeling next to her. His innocent façade was back up again, and if she hadn’t known better, she could have taken him for a concerned teenage boy.

She did know better, though. The mental image of his change of appearance right before he’d cast that spell flashed before her. Just the thought of that unfathomable power she’d seen in those green, glowing eyes made her shudder.

“I’m sorry.” Hope gave her an apologetic smile. “You surprised me. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

“It’s… it’s okay.” She cleared her throat. “I’m the one who started it. We’re good.”

With a helping hand from Hope, she managed to get up on her feet. Her head spun a little, but thankfully, her legs didn’t buckle under her weight. After receiving a blow like that, she considered that a win. She wasn’t entirely sure what spell he’d used on her, but it had been strong.

Way too strong.

She shook her head, trying—and failing—to cope with the thought of what her partner might actually be capable of. “I think I’ll have that rest now.”  

“Good,” Hope said. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough sparring for today. I don’t think I could pull off a spell like that again.”

“No more sparring.” Lightning didn’t doubt for a second that the last part of his statement was a straight-out lie, but she didn’t comment on it. There were other subjects that had to be brought up first, after all. Like the fact that she did, apparently, have some gaps in her techniques regarding opponents with a high affinity for magic.

“So, I…” She bit down on her lip and swallowed her pride. “I guess I’ll keep the garb.”

Hope’s gaze, once again belonging to a definitely human and definitely adult man, lingered on her so-called armor—and, most of all, the skin it didn’t cover. The corner of his lips twitched.

“I’d like that.”  

[the-ginger-avenger]

Hey, @advisortotheadvisor! I was your Sisters Grimm holiday person, and I wrote you a little fic about Red bonding with some of the Grimms. Hope you like it!

-

Red doesn’t remember much about her family. Those memories of before-before the Wolf, before the Scarlet Hand, before the Jabberwocky- are as insubstantial as smoke slipping through her fingers, leaving nothing behind but the barest flickers of emotions.

She remembers her grandmother the most. Those memories are clearer, polished with a shine of fondness, edged in sorrow and grief. Her grandmother, with her face perpetually lined with stress and weariness, but her eyes that shone with a steely determination. Her grandmother, as firm and unmovable as a mountain, but still filled with compassion. Red remembers her in the smell of baking apples, remembers her in the freshly baked bread that melts on her tongue, remembers her in the sound of a roughened laugh.

She barely remembers her parents, though. What they sounded like, their likes and dislikes, their personalities, are all smudged and faded. No matter how hard she tries, she can't remember much about them.

What she does remember, with vivid clarity, is the day they left her at her grandmother's. She hadn’t realized they were abandoning her, not until weeks later when they never came back, and even then, she hadn't understood. Not fully. But she remembers the look on their faces, that last time she saw them. There had been no anguish, no grief, no remorse.

There had just been relief.

Sometimes she lies in bed and turns those fragments of memories around in her head, trying to find some good in them. Some good moments to cherish. Some good moments to hold on to, there must have been some good. But all she can see is that day at her grandmother's, that relief on their faces before they left her life for good.

Relda’s house has always felt like home. There has always been something right about that cute home with its wraparound porch, its living room crowded with stacks of books, its walls always echoing with noise, but Red walks around on eggshells. She moves through the house quietly, tries to blend into the background, tries to be as unobtrusive as she possibly can. She doesn’t argue, she doesn’t make a mess, she does her best not to be a burden. She wants to belong, she wants to stay, she wants to be good enough for this family, but she knows, better than most, just how fragile family can be.

And she knows it’s only a matter of time before they leave her behind.

-

She feels the most at peace with Mr. Canis.

She has always felt that way, even when he still had the Wolf inside him. He was never the villain in her mind, never the monster, but the hero. Even through all those years of grief and torment, all those years battling the Wolf, he still remained good.

He makes her want to be good. To be caring. To be selfless. To be as brave and as strong as him. But there are so many days when she doesn’t think she’ll ever be as strong as him.

She gasps awake one night from a dream, fangs sharpening behind her lips, her fingers tapering into claws. The details blur in her mind, but she knows it was one drenched in blood, pain, anger, one filled with the desire for violence. Her heartbeat jackrabbits in her chest, a fierce pounding against her bones, and it doesn’t race out of fear, but adrenaline. The dream didn’t carry the weight of a nightmare, not like it should. The fear comes after, along with the realization that the dream wasn’t hers, not really. 

And the terror that follows that realization, the knowledge that even in her sleep, the Wolf is still fighting for control, feels choking. 

She’s out of the bed before she fully makes a conscious decision to move and flees out into the hallway. She’s trembling by the time she makes it to his room, a full body shiver that’s bone deep. The door opens before she can knock and he stands in the doorway, bushy eyebrows low over his eyes, blinking the last dregs of his own sleep away.

She wonders if her eyes are ice blue, glowing faintly in the dark. She wonders if he can see the Wolf writhing under her skin, clawing for freedom, but he doesn’t seem concerned as he steps to the side and ushers her into the room. He never seems concerned. He always has this firm, unshakable belief in her. A steadfast belief in her ability to control the Wolf, to do good. Hope from a man who’s been through so much pain, who has felt so much grief.

She cherishes his belief in her like a gift. Like a beacon that guides her out of her own fears, and already she can feel herself begin to calm.

It takes an hour of meditation before her hands stop shaking and after he helps her draw the boundaries between her thoughts and the Wolf’s, her wants and the Wolf’s. Reminds her that they are not one, they are not the same. He helps her rebuild the barriers between herself and the monster, and by the time she feels fully grounded, the sky outside has started to lighten.

She feels guilt over keeping him up so late when he gets so few restful nights, but he places a hand on her shoulder before she can apologize and gives her a small smile. There is a stronger reassurance in that gentle squeeze, in that small smile, than any words can bring.

-

The Wolf is never dormant.

Mr. Canis warned her it was a relentless creature. It will always be looking for a weak point. It will always search for freedom. Fighting it back is a constant struggle, and sometimes it is so very draining.

And today she’s afraid she won’t be able to hold it back.

She stretches out on the living room floor, tucked between two stacks of books, and tries to lose herself in her drawing. She hasn’t seen colors since taking on the Wolf, but she still finds comfort in drawing. There’s always been something grounding and peaceful in the act of creating a piece of art. But not today. Irritation coils tighter and tighter in her chest, smells are too strong, sounds too grating, and all the deep breaths she takes, all the mantras she repeats in her mind, don’t seem to help.

It also doesn’t help that she can feel Puck staring at her.

He’s just come back from a few months of traveling with Jake, and he’s fallen back into the flow of the house, of the family, with the ease, self-confidence, and sense of belonging that she yearns for.

He sprawls out on the couch, taking up all three cushions so Daphne has to perch on the armrest, though Sabrina stubbornly sits on his feet. Daphne has been talking about some new spell she’s learned and while Sabrina listens, but for the past five minutes Puck’s attention has been on Red. She’s never seen him so still before, so his gaze feels more pointed, and she thinks he can see every crack spiderwebbing across her control. That he can see the Wolf breaking through.

With no warning, he jerks his feet out from under Sabrina and dodges the throw pillow she tosses at him with far more grace than should belong to someone who routinely rolls around in the mud. He gives Red a pointed look before heading upstairs.

He’s halfway up the stairs before he calls over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”

For a brief second, her irritation flares and she considers ignoring him, staying downstairs out of spite, but that would be rude and her life here is still so fragile, still so new. Despite her foul mood, she still doesn't want to risk anything.

She follows him up the stairs and trails him into his room, her irritation shifting into confusion. His room, as always, is awe-inspiring. No matter how many times she’s been here it still takes her breath away. The sky opens up above her, not a single cloud in sight, even though she knows for a fact it’s storming outside. The long grass ruffles in a gentle breeze, a cool brush against her skin.

Puck stands beside her, plants his hands on his hips, and says, “Well, get on with it.”

She glances at him, confused, but he shrugs a shoulder and flaps a hand towards the field and the trees rising in the distance.

“Go. Run. Scream. Roll in the mud a bit. You need to loosen up.” She tenses at his words, at the rebuke, her mind spinning through all the ways she needs to do better, before Puck grins, eyes lighting with mischief. “You’re almost as uptight as Grimm.”

The comparison catches her off guard, as does the teasing tone, and her mounting panic cuts off under the surprise. She’s watched Puck and Sabrina trade insults that leaned more towards fond teasing enough that she recognizes it in his tone. Not a rebuke, but a joke.

His wings unfurl from his back, and with one smooth, languid flap, he’s airborne. "You need to relax. Have fun."

He’s halfway to the trees before she unglues her feet from the ground. She follows him at a slow, hesitant jog, before she starts getting faster, and faster, and faster, careful to use her own strength, her own speed, and not any of the Wolf’s.

It should feel like a bad idea, this frantic race through the grass. It should feel like giving in to the beast and its restlessness, but it doesn’t. The Wolf is a creature of rage and violence and there is none of that in this. She races into the trees, fast enough to make her legs burn, her breath to rasp, to dissolve all the tension and the fear that have been steadily growing in her chest for days, and all she feels is a burgeoning joy.

She breaks through the treeline and slows to a stop, gasping for breath, when something lands on the ground at her feet. It takes a moment for her brain to register that it’s a bag filled with Puck’s signature slime bombs, just before one splatters on top of her head. She glances up, spluttering in surprise, her nose curling at the stench, to find Puck grinning down at her, another slime bomb held in his hand, a dare in one raised eyebrow. Red only hesitates for a moment before she snatches up her bag and the game begins. She doesn't know how much time passes as they fling them at each other. Every one of his hits her, but she ends up laughing too hard to aim, so most of hers miss him.

She’s covered in slime from head to toe as they make their way back downstairs, but the grin is still stretched wide on her face. Daphne squeals in delight when she spots her and starts telling Red all the ways she can use the slime to style her hair, while Sabrina moves to punch Puck’s arm, even after Red tells her it’s fine. Everything’s perfectly fine. She feels a steady, buzzing warmth, the Wolf long forgotten, and she’s happy enough that she doesn’t even mind the smell.

-

Daphne never gives her the chance to feel out of place, never gives her the chance to blend into the background. She has always made Red feel welcome, but Red also knows that's just who Daphne is. She chats up strangers in the diner, makes friends with everyone in school, adopts every stray animal she finds outside. She is kind, and she is friendly, and wonderful, full of love and joy, but that doesn't mean she loves Red like a member of the family. Red is just someone who happens to live in the same house. She's just someone who happens to be there when Daphne wants to talk to someone. 

Red firmly believes this until the day Daphne marches up to her and asks if she can fix Red’s hair. The request catches Red so much by surprise that she can only nod her head. Daphne's answering grin is bright and contagious as she grabs Red's hand and all but drags her into her room.

Daphne is a whirlwind, all noise and light and unbridled joy, but in this moment it’s more subdued. She sits behind Red, more still than she’s ever been but talking a mile a minute, and Red sits still and stiff, afraid that any wrong move will shatter the moment. She's seen Daphne and Sabrina do each others hair on more than one occasion, that steady ease and familiarity they have for each other filling her with an ache of longing strong enough to take her breath away. She feels that longing swell in her chest now, feels that desire for this to mean more than just an act of boredom. 

Daphne combs through Red’s hair before she begins to braid it, talks about school and friends and drama and magic lessons, and coaxes Red into the conversation, and Red can feel the tension uncoil from her shoulders. When Red's braids meet Daphne’s seal of approval, they switch places and Red starts working on Daphne's hair. Red has never been good at carrying on a conversation, but the words come easy to her now, and she feels a bit of sorrow when she finishes the last braid, already mourning the loss of this moment.

But Daphne drags them both to the nearest mirror, and the two of them try different poses before dissolving into uncontrollable giggles.

Daphne slings an arm around Red's shoulders and beams at their reflection. "There," she says. "Now we just have to do Sabrina's hair and then we'll all match. The entire town will be talking about the three Grimm sisters and their awesomesauce hair."

Red brushes her fingers across her braids. “Awesomesauce,” she echoes around the lump that forms in her throat. Daphne’s words echo in her mind, and the smile that curls her lips stays on her face the entire day.

-

Of all of them, she thinks Sabrina will be the one to kick her out.

Red doesn’t blame her. Sabrina has an unshakable love for her family that Red has always admired. She cares fiercely for the ones she loves, and she does everything she can to keep her family safe. Red is dangerous. There is no guarantee that she’ll be able to keep the Wolf under control. Her being in this house is a danger to everyone Sabrina cares about, and she understands if the other girl doesn’t want her around.

A nightmare wakes Red in the middle of the night. It’s different from the ones she normally has. There’s no blood, no death, no fear. There’s just the hollow ache of standing in an empty house, searching every room for people who left a long time ago.

Her chest constricts and she pushes herself out of bed fast enough to make her head light. She slips out of her room but hesitates in the hallway. Part of her wants to see Mr. Canis, but she knows he didn't sleep well the night before and she doesn't want to wake him, so instead she heads downstairs. She'll get a glass of water, she'll give herself time to calm down, to realize how ridiculous she's being, and then everything will be fine.

She heads into the kitchen and almost runs right into Sabrina.

Sabrina blinks at her in surprise as Red mumbles a quick apology and then frowns.

“Everything okay?” Sabrina asks.

“Yes,” she stammers. “I just . . .I couldn’t sleep.”

Sabrina’s lips twist into a wry smile, one eyebrow rising. “Sure, me too,” she says, and Red notices the dark circles under Sabrina's eyes, the haggard expression on her face.

For a moment, she hesitates between asking Sabrina if she's okay or pretending she doesn't notice. She cares about Sabrina, she wants to know if she's okay, if she needs to talk, but she also knows Sabrina doesn't normally like for people to pry. 

In the end, Red just jerks her head in a stilted nod and slips past Sabrina into the kitchen. She's grabbing a glass when Sabrina calls out her name. 

She turns to find Sabrina hovering in the doorway, scowling at a spot on the floor. “If you ever want . . .if you need . . .” Sabrina sucks in a frustrated breath, her gaze traveling up to the ceiling. “Talking sometimes helps. And I know what it’s like . . .”

She trails off into an awkward silence but Red can fill in the rest. She knows what it’s like to be abandoned. She knows what it’s like to cling to your family tight enough to hurt, afraid they’ll disappear in the blink of an eye. She knows what it’s like, watching someone die right in front of you.

Sabrina crosses her arms, shifts on her feet, uncrosses her arms again. Her eyes drop from the ceiling to meet Red’s, and her shoulder twitches in a shrug. “You know, if you want.”

Heat prickles the back of Red’s eyes and she furiously blinks the tears away, knowing they will only make Sabrina mortified. “Thanks,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

Sabrina nods her head and gives Red a small but genuine smile before she slips out of the room.

It’s easier falling back to sleep, and Red spends the rest of the night dreaming of nothing, comfroted in the warm knowledge that someone cares.

-

These are the ways they love her.

Hours of meditation. Bedroom doors open in the middle of the night. Pranks and jokes and gifts made just for her. Listening to nightmares and worries. A surprise dinner of her favorite food.

Slowly, Red stops walking on thin ice. She stops forcing herself to blend into the background. Stops searching their faces for the same tics, the same expressions, she vaguely remembers on her parents’ face that day they left her at her grandmothers.

Relda’s house has always felt like home, and Red stops doubting that feeling. She stops fearing that they will leave her behind or reject her. The Grimms are her family and they will always be there for her.

[himluv]

Inevitable Update

Fuck it. We’re celebrating up in this bitch. HAVE SOME SMUT! (Set directly after Never Again).

Reminder, you can read Inevitable from the beginning here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998044

They walked back to the forward base in silence. Varric and Dorian walked ahead of them, close enough to defend in case of a threat, but far enough to afford the couple some privacy if they wanted to talk.

Riallan did not want to talk.  After her visit to the Fade, her body was exhausted, her heart weary. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, twining and tangling in whirlwind fashion, too fast to keep up with. The Nightmare, the Divine, Alistair, the tombstones. One after another, endlessly circling and pulling her under. The only thing keeping her head above water was Solas’ fingers laced through hers.

He walked in silence beside her, closer than he normally would. His hand was warm and dry, like the desert at night, and focusing on his skin against hers calmed her somewhat. She dreaded reaching the forward camp, when all eyes would be on her and he would let go of her hand to vanish into the background.

Except, he didn’t.

He glanced at her as they entered the camp, checking to see if she was ready to face the Inquisition. She nodded that she was, and when she loosened her grip on his hand, his tightened.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back. “Come,” he said, the word all the encouragement she needed. They stepped into the forward base side by side, hand in hand, and she took all the silent strength he offered.

Soldiers nodded to her, their eyes flicking to Solas, to their hands intertwined, and then back. There were gasps, whispers, money exchanged hands as bets were settled, but there was no outrage. No condemnation at the two apostates. And there was no outcry, no demands for her time or her attention. It was as if Solas were a barrier between her and the Inquisition forces.

Still, the relief was palpable as Solas raised the flap to her tent and followed after her. She had done all she could that night. Let the Inquisition fend for itself for one evening. Let the mantle of Inquisitor fall from her shoulders. Let her just be Riallan for a little while.

Solas lit the candles with a careless gesture. “Are you hungry?” He asked as he helped her unbuckle her armor. It wasn’t a task she truly needed help with, but his hands seemed unable to be far from her.

She knew she should be hungry, but she wasn’t. She shook her head.

Concern flickered across his face, but he nodded.

Once free of her armor and dressed in her customary leggings and oversized tunic, she sank onto the pile of blankets in the center of her tent. Normally, her field tent had just enough room for their two bedrolls and their supplies, but the Inquisitor’s tent in a forward base demanded something much more grand. She had a cot in one corner, a desk in another, and even a wash basin and mirror along one canvas wall. The first thing she had done the night before was lay out her bedroll and the bedding from the cot onto the floor. She would be much more comfortable there, even after all these months sleeping in a bed in Skyhold.

“Would it be too much to ask for a bath?” She smiled, meaning the words as a joke.

Solas frowned down at her. “Perhaps in a desert, vhenan. I can inquire with—“

She took his wrist in her hand. “I was kidding.” She chuckled, but it wasn’t as heartfelt as usual.  “Lie down with me?”

His mouth smiled but that little crease in his brow never moved.

She tugged on his hand and he sank to sit cross-legged in front of her. “Stop worrying,” she said.

“I cannot.” The candlelight lent his face a warm glow, playing across the long slope of his nose. “I worry about you, Ria. No matter how hard I try.”

She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Solas. I needed you to stay, I —“ His palm, warm and dry against her cheek stopped her.

“I do not blame you, vhenan.” A little frown, that crease in his brow deepened. “You made the right decision. Even if I could not see it at the time.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shook his head, once and so softly, more to himself than to her. “I fear we are well past the time where either of us could hope to avoid heartache.” His tone was light, offsetting the grim words, but his eyes carried a different weight now. A familiar one. He held her gaze as his thumb traced her jaw and then her lower lip.

She kissed him, swift and sudden. She expected to surprise him, but Solas met her desire, his fingers grasping the back of her neck and drawing her into him. Riallan’s hands roamed, bunching in his tunic, scraping his scalp, tracing an ear. And with every touch, every little gasp she pulled from him, it felt like her blood had set aflame.

She let out a little yelp as his hands moved to lift her onto his lap. He laughed, low and breathy against her neck and Riallan’s head spun. She dropped her head back, bit her lip, and sighed as his mouth explored every inch of her throat.

“Is this real?” She asked.

“Yes, vhenan.” That throaty chuckle again. It was such a rare and beautiful sound.

She rolled her hips against him and a wave of heat crashed over her at his moan. He pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her hips. She grabbed at his shirt, slow at first, but he didn’t protest as she lifted the hem. Instead he obliged her, raising his arms to let her pull the tunic over his head.

This was new territory for them. They occasionally helped each other out of their armor, saw and felt bare skin when one of them needed healing, but this feverish removal of clothing? Only in her dreams.

But she wasn't dreaming, not this time. The fire of his touch proved that. His hands, those long, artist’s fingers, crept beneath her tunic to rove over her skin. It was the most forward he’d been since that afternoon in the Forbidden Oasis. Not that there had been much time alone for them since then. But still, it’d been weeks of heated glances, lingering touches, and too brief kisses. She needed this.

Especially after the day they’d had.

It seemed, for once, that Solas agreed. Usually he was so hesitant, unwilling to initiate contact beyond a kiss here and there. But tonight he felt resolute, desperate even. And that worried her. As badly as she wanted this, wanted him, this wasn’t like him.

Riallan pulled back, her hands on each side of his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide to leave the barest fringe of sea grey around them. His lips were bright, even against the flush of his face in the candlelight. He looked amazing, suddenly so real beneath her touch.

“Vhenan?” He blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure?” She ran a hand through her hair. “We’ve never… We haven’t — I just want you to be sure.” She was an idiot. She had stopped them so she could babble half sentences and ruin the entire mood? Riallan sighed and looked down at their laps.

Gentle fingers lifted her chin. “I am certain, Ria,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I thought the worst today.” His lips pressed to the other side of her face. “And all I could think was that the last words I ever spoke to you were in anger.” A brush of his mouth against her forehead. “That your last memory of me would not be one of love.” His voice was low, rough and fragile.

She shuddered at the sound, at the emotion, a display so rare for Solas.

He kissed her, his mouth tender against hers. There was no rush, no desperate heat, just longing and need and relief. She melted against him, her arms looping around his neck as she deepened the kiss. They went slower, relishing in one in other, in the fact that they both still lived.

Impossibly.

With sure fingers, Solas tugged at the hem of her tunic, and once it was off and tossed across the tent, any lingering doubts Riallan had went with it. He did not hesitate. His touch was firm, decisive. He knew what he wanted and he would have it, if she would let him.

She gasped when his hands found the edges of her breast band. She had longed for this, for him to be so bold, to feel his hands on every inch of her skin. But now that the moment was here, she couldn’t seem to believe it was real.

And then the breast band was gone, tossed aside like her tunic, and his mouth moved to her chest. Her world narrowed to where his tongue pressed against her flesh, how good it felt, how his merest touch suffused her entire body with warmth.

He released her, the air suddenly cool against her skin. “I would make amends,” he said. The emotion in his words was still there, but something dark thrilled in his voice. A promise. “Isalan sera na aron tuelan.”

She didn’t understand everything he said. Something about lust and touch and the Creators. But she didn’t need to understand. She got the meaning just fine: he would make up for lost time. She nodded, she wasn’t really capable of more than that at the moment, and kissed him.

His tongue met hers, explored her mouth, teased her lips, as he tilted her back and laid her onto the blankets. Then his mouth traveled. Down her chin, her jaw, trailed along her throat to pause at each breast. A flick of his tongue on each nipple made her arch and writhe, and the smile he graced her with was utterly predatory.

It had been too long since a partner had made her feel this desired. Too long since she had craved someone as much as she craved him.

Her leggings went next, his stare transfixed as she wiggled her hips free of them. His touch was slow, reverent. Fingertips blazed along the tail of her vallaslin, claiming the territory as his. Marveling at the shiver that rolled through her. Solas’ eyes soaked her in, watched her every movement as if he could draw his pleasure simply from the sight of her.

“Please.” The word was a hush of breath on her tongue.

He smirked, all wonder replaced with stark hunger. His touch ghosted along her skin, those eyes watching for her frustration, glinting when she caught her lip between her teeth. Riallan closed her eyes and focused on the feel of those hands on her body, the casual touch that ventured up her thigh until it was intimate enough to make her moan.

“People will hear, vhenan,” he said. There was a smile in his voice.

“Let them.”

He hummed at that and then pulled her small clothes down her legs. More rapid-fire elvhen, too fast to catch, too low to hear, his breath against her skin as he bent down to press featherlight kisses up her leg. Then Riallan’s world went white as he tasted her for the first time.

She’d dreamed of this moment. Fantasized. But neither had ever captured the worship in his eyes. The shiver of elvhen that poured from his lips, spoken in reverence against her most sensitive places. The tremble of his fingertips where they bit into her hips.

Heat swirled low in her belly, spiraled, taut and desperate. “Solas.”

He hummed against her and smiled at her gasp.

“I — Fenedhis, emma lath, I…” Her eyelids fluttered, her sight flickering from the dark brown of the canvas above her, the flash of candlelight, the spread of the wolfish grin on his face as she fell apart around him.

She shuddered and shook, heat and light crashing through her in delicious waves until it was all she knew.  

Solas sat back and watched blissful agony wash over his vhenan’s face, consumed by the sight. The smell of her arousal overwhelmed him, the taste of her thick and cloying on his tongue. For the first time in his long life, a lover had conquered him completely. In that moment there were no Elvhen besides her. No Elvhenan to restore. No betrayed kin haunting his every step. There was simply Riallan.

He had not felt so free in millennia.

As her trembling eased, Solas trailed one hand across her skin to resume the work of his tongue. Tiny touches, light and wondering. Asking, was she ready to continue? The whimpers that came with each flick of his fingertip were answer enough.

And yet his hands hesitated at the lacings of his breeches.

This was the final piece. The last barrier he had built up between them, his heart’s last remaining defense. She would never know whole truth of him, he vowed then never to be Fen’Harel when he was with her, but that didn’t mean those truths wouldn’t belong to her. If he did this, if he succumbed to the desire decimating them both, he would surrender his every truth at her feet. If he relinquished his burdens, she would take them up, whether she knew it or not.

“Solas?”

Dark eyes stared up at him, wide and wanting and worried. For once he couldn’t bring himself to allay her fears. In the dim, flickering light of her tent, he was guileless and raw, nothing more than her apostate lover. Nothing more than that name on her lips.

“Let me help,” she said. Riallan sat up, delicate fingers on his lacings, twining with his until they worked together to remove this last obstacle between them. The breeches slid off his hips and she made to lie back, but his hand on hers rooted her in place. He kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist and the crease of her elbow, guiding her down with each press of his lips.

He breathed his love against the crook of her neck, tasted the salt-sweet warmth of her and relished the tiny gasp, the curve of her body against his. She made it painfully clear that she wanted him, needed him, and at last he admitted that he needed her too.

For months he had lied to himself, had denied her touches and her skin and the heat of her body pressed to his. He’d believed it was in her best interest to maintain his distance, even after he’d declared his affection. That it would protect her in the long run. But he knew now that was just another selfish excuse.

He was merely protecting himself, as ever.

But after watching her die, again, he couldn’t bear to imagine spending this night alone. He wanted to taste every inch of her, to know her body with his every sense and to let her know him in turn.

“Please.” The word fell from her lips, a chant, breathless and needy. He caught the word on his tongue, pressed his mouth to hers and relished in the heat of her kiss. Her nails bit into his hips, begging him closer.

Solas obliged her.

He stifled a moan and watched her eyelids flutter. Her lips parted, the heat blossomed on her cheeks for once not from embarrassment but from pleasure. Yet again he was struck by how real she was under his hands. Riallan was vibrant, visceral and all-consuming. She tethered him to this world in a way he had never known, in a way he didn’t think he could ever un-know.

His hands roamed, as if they hoped to map every inch of her body in the course of one evening. He moved gently at first. There was no need to rush, he reminded himself. There was time, for now. For this.

But Riallan had different ideas.

Her hands pulled him close, urged and pleaded, guided and instructed how she wanted to be loved. Solas had never known a lover so confident — love-making in Elvhenan was a languorous thing, much like everything else — and Riallan’s urgency thrilled him.

He’d thought to go slow, to cherish this moment, but as she moved with him she moaned and bit her lip and looked absolutely devastating in her passion. A millennium alone was far too long to withstand such perfection.

So, he gave her what she wanted. He worshiped at her altar, whispered his truths in elvhen so fast she could never understand. He gave her everything he had to give, body and spirit.

And though it terrified him, it was the sweetest surrender.  

[frumfrumfroo]

Happy Valentines Day!!

Under the cut a ‘gift’. Which is to say, an incredibly self-indulgent half-formed reylo fic with some salt

.

Her first thought was that she couldn't possibly carry him. He was twice her size, limp and awkward, solid as a rock and heavy as a boulder. The journey to the ship seemed an impossible distance to bear even her own weight, but she hadn't spent her entire life scavenging to leave behind the one treasure she'd always wanted most. She'd decided she'd do it whether it was possible or not even before rational thought kicked in and she remembered she had the Force.

"Hang on, Ben," she muttered into his shoulder as she leveraged him up into a sitting position. He'd passed out completely and a sizeable part of her was shriveling in on itself in terrified despair, but there was nothing Rey was better at than compartmentalising despair into a locked container in the deepest corner of her mind. "I've got you. Don't worry, Ben, I've got you."

She couldn't stop talking to him even though he couldn't hear her, and the more she spoke to him, the more she used his name. It was as if all the conversations she'd ever wished she could have in her life were bubbling up and pouring out, all the little longings for a name to call, a person whose private signifier always belonged in her mouth: intimate and knowing. It was as if all the moments she'd wanted to reach out to him were pulsing beneath her tongue, demanding release, like she could make up for the years and years that no one had. Like she could make up for his own name being forbidden to him.

"You're not alone," she told him, and saying it made her throat close with the threat of tears. "You'll never be alone again, Ben. I'm here. I'm here."

It took hours. She'd had to support him physically with her hand around his back- his head lolling against hers as she draped his arm across her shoulders- and drag them forward on her own two feet while using all of her focus in the Force to actually lift his weight. It left her shaking with effort and her brain fried, but they were back at the ship now. It was not built for two, especially when one of the two was as big as he was, but being seated pressed against him, his chest at her back and his legs running alongside hers, was actually wonderful. He was very warm and his warmth seemed to envelop her entire being from every side; she could feel the movement of his every breath, he was alive.

"I'm taking you home, Ben."

Rey didn't know many pet names or which ones might be appropriate for her to use, but she couldn't help thinking that even if she did it would be very difficult to find one as sweet and satisfying to say as his name. She had felt his relief, his recognition and regret when she called him and his true self answered. When his buried, guarded, suffering soul leapt up and knew it had been seen. He was so happy to hear his name spoken without scorn or accusation- she knew, could sense- that it had been so painful, but so right to finally hear it again.

He fretted behind her, perhaps roused by the focus of her thoughts in his direction, and she reached up without looking to touch the side of his face with the backs of her fingers. His skin was so soft and touching it made her knuckles tingle in a way she'd never felt before, and for a moment her mind went blank under the intensity of the sensation.

She had to concentrate or she was going to pass out too. Rey had never been pushed to such an edge of her endurance, and that was saying something. The gnawing, single-minded slowness of starvation hardly compared to this jittery exhaustion, weariness encroaching on adrenaline like a rolling sandstorm eclipsing a searing afternoon sun. Her nerves burned, her eyes ached, her limbs were heavy.

Still. She patted Ben's hair and greedily considered its silkiness, tucking away the thought of running her fingers through it freely and for as long as she wanted. He had let her, when he was awake and she had finally kissed him, he had allowed her to touch his cheek and his hair and he'd looked at her with such… he was so beautiful. Rey's heart clenched and she wanted to turn around so she could see him, to reassure herself, but there was no droid to help her fly the ship and the moment the rest of her adrenaline ran out she would be in trouble.

"Just a little longer," she whispered to herself. "Just wait a little longer."

She was good at waiting.

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

Her landing was less than graceful. The landing gear had been sheared off and they slid to a hard stop against a rocky outcropping and some huge trees. The minor whiplash finally snapped the frayed thread by which Rey's grip on consciousness was hanging and blackness descended.

When she woke, there was a blaster levelled just above her face with the business end aimed at something right over her shoulder and the sunlight was streaking in through the canopy of trees, shaded a twilight orange.

"Hey-!" she mumbled, confused and unable to snap to attention the way she usually would, her body as sluggish to respond as if it were submerged in sand up to her neck. Her head was swimming.

"Rey, I think that's… I think you have…" Poe's voice was steady and taking on that immoveable righteous quality which meant he was about to decide The Only Course of Action any right-thinking person could possibly take and impose it on the situation with reckless abandon.

"Stop right now," she ordered quietly, grabbing his wrist and pointing the gun away from the cockpit. "Stop thinking, stop-"

"Rey, I think that's Kylo R-"

"Rey!" Finn's voice carried from down the ladder, getting closer, "Rey! Let me see-!"

"Everything stops now," Rey said in a warning tone she didn't think left room for argument. She could sense Ben's mind surfacing, feel his pain and confusion building as awareness trickled in and her tense mental state drifted across their bond. He shifted in distress.

Poe's eyes widened hugely at the movement and he leaned into the cockpit to grab at Rey's shoulder and push the blaster under Ben's chin.

Her reaction times were shot or it would never have gotten that far, but things being what they were, she shoved Poe almost off the ladder when she managed to get her hands on him. "Don't touch him! No one touches him. Get me a medical droid right now."

"Rey!" Finn's face appeared over the lip of the broken windscreen, first relieved and then visibly dropping with his dawning horror. "That's-!"

"I know!" Poe snapped, clutching his hand where she'd smashed it against the X-wing's strut.

"Both of you will be quiet and one of you will get me a med droid." It wasn't a mind trick because she didn't have the will, but it had the force of one from her icy stare alone. In spite of these clear instructions, neither man moved and neither man shut up.

"What are you doing with him, Rey?"

"I'm asking you, nicely, to-" Her aggressive jerk forwards jostled Ben's definitely broken ribs and he made a tiny gasp of pain. She turned immediately and cupped his face in both hands, her voice trembling as she spoke to him, "Ben? I'm so sorry, flower, I'm sorry. You're safe now. You're waking up and I'm with you. I'm with you, Ben, and you're not alone."

If she had a spare fragment of energy left to be embarrassed or self-conscious, she would have deeply regretted the spontaneous endearment she'd just made up. Perhaps it was silly, perhaps it was inappropriate, perhaps she definitely didn't want any part of this to be in front of Finn or Poe or anyone else. But in her years of waiting on Jakku, the years of blurred sameness filled with the blinding monotone of shifting dunes, the years without colour or life or softness, the finding of a desert flower had been unspeakably precious to her. She'd kept them, every one, long after they were dry husks and only a fragile reminder of what they once were. And he was precious to her as they had been, a spark of kinship in an enormous, uncaring landscape filled with bleak expectation; it was an order of magnitude more powerful version of the same tender feeling.

He responded to her touch, moaning very softly as his eyelids fluttered. Rey could hear shuffling and whispers from Poe and Finn but they could have ceased to exist for all the attention she was willing to pay them in this moment.

"Rey?" Ben's voice, rusty and pained but unmistakable. Deep and soothing.

"I'm here, I'm here." She was helpless to say anything else.

His eyes opened to look at her, brighter than she'd ever seen them before, the sunlight showing golds and greens where she'd thought they were just dark, and her own eyes filled with tears.

"Are you all right?" he asked instantly, his gaze sweeping over her with concern.

She nodded, sharply, chewing at her cheek to keep from sobbing. She pushed up on her knees at the edge of the seat so she could press her face to his, feel the warm skin of his cheek against hers and the tickling of his breath in her hair. "I'm fine. We're safe."

Ben was probing at their connection, seeking reassurance that everything really was all right, and she embraced his presence in a way which seemed to throw open a floodgate between them and allowed sensations and emotions to flow like a torrent from each mind to the other. His arms came around her in response, holding her tightly.

"We're alive and I love you," she couldn't seem to stop herself from saying, whispering it into his hair, hiccuping on her words as the tears streamed down her face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispered back and feeling the vibration of the words through his sternum made her shiver with delight.

She was crying too hard to speak now, so she wrapped him in her arms and sobbed into his neck. She tried to keep her grip gentle, fighting the urge to clutch him with all her strength. She'd waited what felt like a hundred lifetimes to hear those words, first from anyone and then only from him. She'd tried so hard to be patient, she'd tried so hard to keep faith and live in hope, and in the end she hadn't managed patience but at least the moment had come.

At least she had this and would always have this. No one could take it from her.

By the time she'd gathered her wits and her storming emotions, Ben's hold on her had gone slack as he slipped into a healing sleep. The joy and contentment radiating from her mind had blocked out worry so completely that he felt too safe to stay awake, blissed out on her ultimate happiness. She'd done it. She'd saved him.

The sounds of an ongoing argument drifted up from the pair standing somewhere below her crashed ship.

"Well, he must have done something to her!"

"They can't mind trick each other, that makes no sense! You'd go back and forth forever like mind control hot potato!"

"You don't know how the Force works!"

"Neither do you!"

Finn's offended huff almost made her laugh but she decided she couldn't afford to let her guard down. Ben's safety was at stake and she'd promised him it'd be okay, she'd impressed upon his mind that he didn't need to worry or stay vigilant and no one was going to make her a liar.

She popped her head up out of the ship, slapping her hands down on the edge of the cockpit to make a sound as she pushed herself up so they would be alerted to her presence.

"Rey!" Finn called, surprised and uncertain, looking a little like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

"I'm not under mind control," she said flatly.

"What about torture?" Poe suggested, obviously fielding his personal theory. "He tortured you before."

"He never tortured me."

"You were interrogated, we were torture buddies, you told us-"

"I was interrogated, I wasn't tortured. He can look in your thoughts, he can't rewrite them. Well, he can't rewrite mine, anyway. The books say you can temporarily cloud the thinking of the weak-minded, but it doesn't work on Force-aware people."

The two men looked at each other. Poe said, "That's the Jedi, though. What about the Sith?"

"He's not a Sith."

"What is he, then?"

"He's Ben Solo."

Finn shook his head and Poe's face screwed up in confusion. "But-"

"He's more qualified to call himself a Jedi than I'll ever be if that's what he wants, but for now he's Ben Solo, General Organa's son, and he saved my life."

.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.

He was half awake as they brought him into camp on a hovering medical gurney and Rey was so caught up in enjoying the companionship of his groggy consciousness at the edge of her mind that she barely caught the distinctive sounds of hydraulics and clattering metal limbs before 3P0 staggered to an abrupt halt beside her. She knew it was impossible, but she felt like she could read the shock on his unmoving hard cast features.

Ben was much the worse for wear and the delicate skin around his eyes was bruised with fatigue, but he was an absolute vision- the most gorgeous thing she'd ever seen- when he smiled at the astonished protocol droid. It was only the second time she'd seen him smile and she thought it would be quite a long while before she stopped counting, before she didn't individually notice and mark something so important, hoarding the number in a secret place in her heart. If she ever did stop.

"Hey, Trois," he said, privately amused. She sensed a memory from him, of being a toddler who couldn't quite master the pronunciation of the droid's name and 3P0's constant, unrelenting corrections with his full title. The little boy who kept using his babytalk nickname long after he'd mastered his plosives, just to provoke the familiar, exasperated speech. The fondness he felt was tinged with pain. There was nothing he held dear untouched by regret. She would change that.

"Master Ben! Your Highness!" 3PO spluttered, completely flabbergasted at this sudden appearance. Rey's head whipped around to stare at him.

"Oh, 3PO, come on, we used to talk about saying that in front of-"

"Your Highness?" Rey repeated, turning her incredulous gaze on Ben.

Ben's cheeks flushed, even his exposed clavicle becoming rosy with embarrassment. "You know my mother's a princess, right? Human-Cyborg Relations was always a stickler for protocol in spite of her best efforts. Can't imagine why."

She was speechless. Then she grinned so hard her face ached. "Don't worry, I'll make sure everyone in camp is up to date on the correct address. Your Highness."

"You won't."

Rey took his questing hand and kissed his knuckles, leaning over the gurney to rest her forehead against his. "I probably won't have to with 3P0 around, but I am going to tell them who you are. Everyone. Anyone who will listen. I'm going to tell them the truth about you."

"And what's the truth, Rey?" He sounded distant but she could feel the ache of doubt in his heart, like a callous, like a bad habit.

"That Ben Solo was so full of the Light, the most powerful darkness the galaxy has ever seen couldn't snuff it out." She kissed his temple and the heat of his skin sent an electric pulse through her lips and down into her chest. Tightness gathered under her ribs and she wanted to touch him more, to keep him forever.

"Oh my," 3P0 announced when her mouth lingered, as if gradually realising he was being scandalised again.

Ben laughed and her heart fluttered at the sound. She'd never imagined him laughing, had no idea what it would be like. It was like water after a week of thirst, it was like rain. She stared at him, starry eyed, and he shook his head before finally returning her gaze.

"As is tradition," he said and laughed again. She didn't know what he was talking about but she had never been so happy in her life and she hoped that could be their new tradition.

[beingevil]

if there be thorns, Guardian Yang AU

title: if there be thorns 

pairing: none here 

Rating and warnings: Gen

author’s notes: In honour of a very special day, for Neon’s Guardian Yang AU. You can read it on Ao3 here!

summary:  Annerose POV,  set largely after Yang goes missing.

 So it is now, months away from Reinhard’s arrest, that she recognises the look in Reinhard’s eyes as he descends from the carriage. She has known her brother from the day he was born, she knows his hundred different tells better than anyone else: 

wordcount: 1690 words 

Even the Kaiser’s palace walls cannot keep the whispers out.

When Reinhard was taken into custody after the attempted assassination, Friedrich kept that knowledge from her, whether out of a misguided sense of kindness, or to keep her sweet and compliant – she did not know, and it made little difference either way.

 His court had no such reservations.

 It is Benemunde who first springs the knowledge on her like a steel trap, gleefully detailing how Reinhard had been taken away in chains, fighting the guards like a mad dog.

 It had taken much to listen with a pleasant, detached interest, to nod and smile, to thank Benemunde for telling her how Reinhard was getting along.

 Perhaps if it appeared she did not care, she would be less of a weapon against Reinhard.

 There is little enough she can do in the Kaiser’s grasp, but she can do her utmost not to be turned into a weapon against her brother.

 Life under her father’s hand had taught her all too well not to show weakness, and here in the Kaiser’s court of vipers she knows she needs every lesson she learned and more.

 She finds a quiet joy in Benemunde’s dissatisfaction, knowing she had denied the Marquise her satisfaction, as the other woman storms off, loudly calling her a disgrace.

 After all, she learned long ago never to act as if the names hurt her.

So it is now, months away from Reinhard’s arrest, that she recognises the look in Reinhard’s eyes as he descends from the carriage. She has known her brother from the day he was born, she knows his hundred different tells better than anyone else: the haunted circles around his fever-bright eyes, the rigid set of his mouth before he shapes it into a brittle smile for her and everyone watching.

 It seems he has dressed today with little care for how he looks. His blue coat seems carelessly rumpled, and the edges of his cuffs appear to have been worried at.

She knows why. His life has been transformed since they last met. 

The Kaiser’s walls had not kept those rumours out either.

The cravat around his neck is at odds with his ensemble, its cut a little too old. It must have been cream-coloured, once, but time has turned it off-white and its best days are clearly far behind it.

 Her musings on Reinhard’s odd sartorial choices on this day is interrupted by his approach.

 She puts her arms around him as he nears her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into his ear, hidden from the guards by the crook of her arm and the curve of his shoulder. When his arms close convulsively around her, she has never more wished to be able to speak freely to her brother. But they are ever under the gaze of the Kaiser’s men, and both of them know to be careful.

 Yang had been good for him, Reinhard’s complaining about his strange ways and fussiness notwithstanding. It had been good fortune that Annerose had learned long ago not to expect for either of them.

 She had thought that the savage wildness in Reinhard calmed, however momentarily, during his time with Yang. At their last meeting, she had smiled to herself as her wilful brother poured Yang tea as if he had done it a thousand times, even as he complained to her about how Yang couldn’t do a thing for himself, not even getting up in the morning.

 Then Reinhard had reached out and adjusted Yang’s cravat over Yang’s feeble protests – it had gone askew somehow – all the while deploring his choice in clothing and chiding him for not paying heed to Reinhard’s suggestions for suitable palace fashion.

 She had liked him, the quiet unassuming man whom court politics had unexpectedly thrust into their lives. She too knows what it is like to be plucked from the world you knew and thrown in the midst of a court where every smile could hide a dagger. She liked that Yang never made it seem like he expected anything of her or Reinhard, not even conversation, for even silence was comfortable around him.

 Above all, she appreciated that Yang was a safe pair of hands for her brother. It did not escape her that Reinhard, in his own way, turned towards Yang like a flower to the sun. She had thought it was good that finally, Reinhard had an adult in his life that he could trust.

 But Yang is gone now.

 And in her brother’s place is a wild creature that looks out at Annerose from behind his fevered blue eyes.

 She leads Reinhard to the conservatory, where heliotrope blooms in dreamy violet clouds. Deep magenta fuchsia hang their heavy lantern blossoms from the trellises, vivid petals tumbling down the conservatory walls. Hydrangeas unfurl their storied petals here, and honeysuckle trumpets grace the air with their sweet fragrance.

 Over and under it all, the scent of the Kaiser’s prized roses perfume the air. Summer is approaching its peak and so are they, petals of the deepest crimson, the palest pink, the purest white all unfolding to the air.

 Reinhard barely seems to notice. He is standing right next to her, but he might as well be a thousand miles away.

 In a way, he is.

 Never has she more regretted that they cannot speak freely here.

 She pours him tea, amber liquid swirling in its gilded cup. He glances once at it and not again, and she knows then who he must be thinking of.  

 Under the table, she reaches out and takes his hand.

 His nails are ragged to the touch, and there are healing scars scattered across the back and sides of his hand, recalling to her the destructive rages he would fly into as a child. How many fragile things already been consigned to his rages?

 How much more could he bear before he too would shatter?

 He rests his cheek on his hand, the very picture of an indolent, spoiled noble.

 “The weather is so very hot recently,” he says. “Sister, I do think that the next two or three weeks would be a perfect time for a sojourn into the mountains. I hear Freuden would be a wonderful place.”

 The question is in her eyes as she smiles at him, wondering what game he intends to play this time.

 “Did you not summer there last year?” He continues, without waiting for her answer, “If you go, I may join you there too.”

 Under the table, his hand tightens almost convulsively on hers.

 She laughs gently to give herself time to respond.

 “Dear Reinhard, whatever it is you wish, I shall certainly endeavour.”

 “Do,” he says, and his fingers once again close, painfully tight, around hers.

 She knows for certain then that he has no intention of joining her there.

 When he takes his leave from her, he rests her head on her shoulder for a moment, and he is her brother Reinhard once again, running into her arms with skinned knees and bruised knuckles from yet another fight.

 But her brother fights different battles now, far beyond the schoolyards of their childhood years.

 This time he is wounded with hurts she cannot heal.

 She would like to believe that he can draw strength from her presence like this.

 She embraces him and strokes his hair gently. Briefly, his shoulders shake as she holds him.

 It is all the emotion he allows himself in her presence that day.

 “Be well,” she says, reluctantly releasing him.  

 “Always,” he answers, smiling.

 There is a strange fey light burning in his eyes, one she knows too well.  

 He takes his leave, striding to his carriage without looking back.

 Never once has Yang’s name crossed their lips.

 She wonders what her brother has become, what new creature birthed in tragedy and resolve now loosed upon Odin, planning his vengeance.

 It is then that she remembers where she had last seen the cravat around Reinhard’s neck.

 It had been around Yang’s neck.

 They had laughed, all three of them together, on that day a lifetime ago.

 She sleeps poorly that night. Soon after midnight, she wakes to watch the moon traverse the sky until the dawn greets her weary eyes.  

A week later, as Reinhard has asked – no sooner, so as not to arouse suspicion – she seeks the Kaiser’s leave to holiday in the Freuden mountains, away from the summer heat.

The Kaiser grants her request, of course. She asks him for so little, after all.

 Here, where mountain ranges cradle her villa, alpine springs feed the lush green gardens and their wildflowers.

 Though she has been here before with the Kaiser, the silence feels different this, portentous as it weighs on her shoulders. There is bite in the cool winds as they tug at her skirts and echo through the ravines.

 She waits for news, but never expected it to come on wings this swift.

 Even guarded in the heart of the mountain fastness, the news reaches her, through the newspapers and the whispers from the villa’s servants.

 The capital has been plagued by a sudden rash of unexplained accidents and deaths – odd, for their frequency and occurrence, amongst the mid-ranking military and minor nobles. Stabbed, shot, poisoned – they meet their end through means as varied as their victims.

 Annerose is not naïve enough to fail to see Reinhard’s hand in this – the timing, the coincidence, fits all too well.

 A mysterious letter arrives at Neue Sanssouci which evidently threatens her safety, the Kaiser has her guard doubled as a result and asks her to be watchful. He has decided she is safer in the mountains than she is in the palace, a decision she knows Reinhard arrived at weeks ago.

 Her heart aches for her brother even as she wonders about his purpose – are all these deaths to lay at a dead man’s feet? Yang would never have wanted this for him.

 One day a letter from Reinhard arrives, and in its wake, when she returns to the heart of Odin, everything has changed.

[erinaceina]

Lymond Fanfic: Febricity

Massive thanks to @notasapleasure for encouragement and help with this.

Spoilers for Checkmate.

 Fever came to Midculter as 1558 wound itself to a dreary, a sodden, a lightless close, clad in blowing fog and gusts of leaden rain. Throughout that momentous year, the rheum had blustered and wheezed across Europe, una grande influenza di lunghe e mortali infermità, and now it crept on swift feet through the kitchens and the door-yard, and sank with a biting chill into the bones of Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny. Running before it as herald and handmaid, it brought an exquisite, drumming pain that swelled and battered in all the echoing chambers of his skull.

No stranger to hemicrania and the diverse pains of body and mind, febrile, high-strung and worn to new delicacy, Lymond paid it no mind. Lately Voivoda of all Russia, lately Marshal of France, former outlaw and former galley slave, accustomed to ignoring the exigencies of the body, he threw himself into the counsels of Scotland with all the vigour that France and Russia had commanded. If a tremor that he could not quite master shook the slender, elegant hands and an unusual degree of pallor deepened the purple shadows beneath the vivid blue eyes, they were well concealed by the gloom of the winter’s day and the brisk, spare grace of his every movement.

Islanded amidst a welter of papers in the Earl of Culter’s wood-panelled cabinet, attended at every moment by the fuss and hurry of secretaries and messengers, the brothers laboured over the business of the realm of Scotland, fair head and dark bent together in refutation of the years that had separated them. Exhilarated by this new and fragile accord, Richard Crawford did not perhaps notice as he might have done that his brother’s acidulous commentary came more rarely as the day wore on, or that a rasping burr sounded occasionally in that light, melodious voice. The untouched goblet of wine at Francis’s elbow told no strange tale, and it was with a start that Richard realised that even the dim light beyond the many-paned windows had faded to night and the candles were guttering and his own gut was gnawed with hunger.

‘Come on, Francis.’ Richard stood, stretching against the ache in his back with a monstrous yawn, and disentangled his younger brother from a teetering pile of maps. The hand that he touched so briefly was chill and clammy, but the fire had burnt low in the hearth and the heavy brocade curtains hung open against the bitter night. ‘Philippa will have my head if we don’t go down to dine.’

A brief, enchanting smile lit Lymond’s face and lifted for a moment the pall of weariness that hung about him. ‘Should we not be like the Artotyrites, enlumined by bread and cheese alone?’

‘Not unless you want your wife to serve my eyes on a plate like Lucia as garnish to your cheese,’ Richard retorted, crossing the room. ‘And I’m afraid the bread is gone and the cheese is fit only for the mice.’

‘For shame, Richard! Is there no Pangur Bán to haunt your castle and prey fiendlike on your vermin?’

‘None as fiendlike as the vermin.’ Richard grinned. ‘And anyway, I’m afraid Philippa has been teaching the cats to eat cheese.’

Swinging the cabinet door open, Francis let out a shout of laughter that dissolved into a hoarse, hacking cough. ‘A poison enemy of all cheese,’ he gasped, regaining control of his breath with an effort of pure will, even as the band of fire drew tight around him, shearing pain along the spaces between every rib.

Richard started, finding his own heart suddenly hammering in his chest as the raw blood suffused his brother’s face. He reached for Francis, one hand closing over a shoulder that felt suddenly, terrifyingly fragile through the thick cloth, the old resilience a gossamer-spun illusion that he had learnt too late, but Francis waved him off with a sharp gesture. ‘The Cornecraik in the croft, Richard. Count it as long-overdue penance for my damnable tongue, if you will.’

Richard retreated reluctantly, tucking his hands into the waist of his breech hose, and, seeing the ferocious expression on Francis’s face that he could, at long last, diagnose as wounded dignity and desperate pride, he spoke no further, but contented himself with a sceptical frown to match Francis's. But there was no recurrence of the coughing fit as they made their way through the corridors of Midculter, speaking desultorily of the business of the day, and the high, fierce colour ebbed slowly from Francis's face.

As they settled themselves at the board, charm and wit were alike in full flower in Francis's voice and in the swift, eloquent movements of his hands. If Richard found himself distrusting their intensity, he dismissed it as an old, rotten kernel of fear buried deep by the second Baron Crawford, his father. And if he caught Philippa's eyes lingering more often than not on Lymond's face, there was no novelty there.

Francis ate little that meal, the ornate Italian fork lying idle under one ringed hand, but touched the bright linen to his lips with fastidious frequency and drank sparingly from a goblet of well-watered wine. The marks of long strain and grief and captivity were perhaps stamped more deeply on his face than they had been for some weeks, but they were overlaid nonetheless by a patina of new joy that blurred them to insignificance. As the courses came and went and the wine and conversation flowed as freely around him as the waters of Saturnia, his voice, light, amused, only a little hoarse, rose from time to time above the chatter and burble, recalling some incident or joining Philippa's in scurrilous verse that painted Mariotta's cheeks with colour and made the dowager snicker into her shawl.

It was no surprise, then, when Kevin and the other children, wheedling, begged for music and would hear no demur, or when Francis, yielding, set down his wine. 'Enough, brat. A pype thou shalte haue also, In true musyke it shall go.'

He made to rise, but the enduring will that had sustained him throughout the long day as so often before faltered at last. Flesh, tested this year beyond the brink of endurance and snared now in webs of pain and the grip of a rising fever, betrayed him utterly. His soft-shod feet stumbling on the polished floor, Francis Crawford fainted, and slithered, quietly and unobtrusively, under the long table.

The dowager made a soft noise of distress. Kevin Crawford, eight and sturdy, froze, rebec clutched in one slightly grubby hand. Richard sat stock still at the head of the table, his mind filled with a soundless clamour no, no, no and the blood draining from his face until his pallor matched his brother's. For a heartbeat, nothing moved in the hall save for the dancing echoes of the firelight and the overturned goblet rocking gently in the dregs of spilt Bordeaux wine. Then, with a screech that set all the tableware jingling in sympathy, Philippa thrust back her chair and sank down beside the prone figure, her rich skirts unspooling around her. Her fingers, finding the bright gold of Francis's hair, trembled slightly, and she compressed her lips into a severe line. 'Oh, Francis,' she complained. 'What have you done now?'

The napkin that had fallen from his uncoiled hand was lightly but unmistakably stained with blood.

*****************************************

The faint was not, after all, a deep one, and Lymond awoke to the hazy echo of Amiens, and a blur of familiar faces ringed like the nodding heads of summer flowers about him, and the realisation that he no longer possessed the strength to stifle the outward manifestations of the fever that gathered force within. The cat lapping hopefully at the spilled wine was not, perhaps, the stuff of high tragedy, but Lord Culter, steadying his brother's slight, listing form with one broad shoulder and hoisting him unceremoniously to his feet, began to panic in earnest, feeling the concatenation of tremors rattling through the chest braced so close to his own despite the intervening layers of silk and linen and lace. For a moment, the golden head lolled slackly against the neat ruff encircling Lymond's throat before the dazed blue eyes snapped wide and the slender, elegant frame straightened in a fair imitation of insouciance. A sudden, shocking memory of the spring warmth of the Loire valley nearly eight years before and his brother vomiting helplessly behind a curtain in a stinking chamber in Blois arrived like a cuckoo in Richard’s mind. He could recognise now, as he had not at first then, the vulnerability and sheer stubborn will stamped in every line of Francis's body, and see it echoed over and over in the depths of Philippa's solemn dark eyes. With the inner shrug of a habitually sensible man confronting the inevitable, Richard released his brother and stepped away. Lymond favoured him with a slight nod that he would once have seen as cool, mocking condescension, and in which he now read a depth of relief that still held the power to shock him.

They stood for a moment, simply regarding one another, and Richard felt the weight of all the words unspoken bear down upon the air between them like Master Dee’s angels. Then, with a flutter of movement that scarcely disturbed the exquisite lace at his wrists and the fall of his yellow hair in the candlelight, Francis wilted like pot herbs in a stew. This time, at least, Richard caught him, the panic swelling now to uncontrollable proportions as he saw all his brother’s vaunted control stripped away. Philippa’s face was very pale, but the painted crescents of her brows were undisturbed, and Richard wondered at it until he saw that the hand cupping Francis’s elbow trembled over and over with the finely honed anguish of the caged songbirds of Constantinople.

‘Right, my lad,’ Richard said in the no-nonsense tone he had used so often with children and livestock alike. ‘It’s to bed with you.’ For a moment, it seemed that Francis would surely argue, would shrug off concern and command alike with some familiar, acidulous retort, but he merely acquiesced with the same slightly damp, boneless meekness as Kevin after a dose of physick.

They departed the great hall trailing a wake of dogs and servants and children, Lymond supported limply between a bride with worry in her eyes and a brother preoccupied with alternating visions of poison and a fatal decline. Between these staunch bulwarks, Lymond himself swayed with each achingly slow step like an overladen carrack caught in a crosswind, his head drooping, his feet dragging, and the blood ebbing and flowing fitfully beneath the fine skin of his face. Progress ground to an irresolute halt, however, at the foot of the tower stair, when the tangle of onlookers proved too great for the width of the passage. Richard, momentarily distracted by the demands of a small child in petticoats and jam stains, loosed his grip upon his brother, and Lymond, staggering between the competing forces buffeting him within and without, slipped his anchor completely, and fell hard into the window embrasure, dragging Philippa with him and sending a majolica statue of dubious artistic value shattering to the floor.

Silence fell like a cloudburst around them and even the dogs and the children quieted as the last glazed splinter shuddered to rest. Sprawling crook-legged against the bruising stonework with Philippa’s fingers laced in the disordered silk of his hair, Francis Crawford looked up at the Dowager with beseeching blue eyes. ‘Mea culpa, mother, mea maxima culpa…’

‘It’s only poor Leda and her appalling swan, darling.’ Sibylla, who had found herself relegated rather unceremoniously to the back of the Crawford gaggle, moved forward with brisk decisiveness that belied her age. ‘I never understood what Gavin saw in the wretched thing and I can’t imagine anyone will miss it. I’ve been hoping that the cats would dispose of the thing these past five years, but they will do as they wish, no matter how much one asks.’

She made to place her hand on his forehead, but he wrenched away with an effort that nearly tumbled him to the floor, and she realised that he did not quite see her and that whatever the shockingly blue eyes beheld was no comfort to him. ‘I’ll keep my promise, mother. I swear, I’ll keep my promise, whatever you ask of me. Mea culpa…’

Sibylla recoiled in horror and saw Philippa fingers clench reflexively in the golden hair. Gathering her composure about her like the thinnest of veils, she smiled down at the dazed face of her youngest living child. ‘No need for promises now, Francis, I’m sure. Just rest and sleep, my darling.’ But the tears were standing in her eyes and she could move neither forwards nor back, leaning instead into Mariotta’s comforting embrace as Richard once again scooped up his younger brother and, stooping a little to avoid the concussive potential of the winding stair, began to climb. It was not, all told, the most graceful progress that the Earl of Culter and the Comte of Lymond and Sevigny ever made together, accompanied as it was by a ceaseless volley of bruises and glancing blows on walls and stair as Lymond fought again and again to regain some control of limbs as leaden and unresponsive as cold pudding. Nor would he release Philippa’s hand, even as his sweating fingers slipped against hers. Once, as they took the turn to the final landing and Philippa sidled to avoid an elbow to the eye, her hand slipped completely free of his and a low sound of utter despair escaped his bloodless lips.

‘My dear, my dear.’ Philippa caught up his hand again and pressed it to her lips. ‘I am here.’ They stood, the three of them braced together and breathing hard, while the rain lashed at the windows and a half-muffled sob died in Lymond’s throat.

The last steps to the tower room were the worst, for Philippa dared not release Francis’s hand, and the moved together like some many-legged creature from a bestiary of nightmare. Nor was the clammy and uncooperative figure of Francis Crawford, deposited at last on the high bed, a helpful partner in his own divestiture. The boots presented little enough of a problem, but anxiously twisting fingers tangled themselves in points and lacings and the prone figure exhibited the distressing tendency to flinch at any but the lightest touch. The strings fastening the neat ruff tangled in the golden hair and had to be cut; silk and linen clung damply to sweating skin; paned hose tore under the force of injudicious tugging; and every inch of skin seemed blotched with fresh bruises or burning with fever. Richard, working methodically to unlace his brother’s tight cuffs, froze, looking down at the limp hand laid gently in his own, at the livid scar that bisected the pale flesh of his brother’s wrist. With shaking fingers, he unlaced the other cuff and laid bare the matching scar. Philippa, hearing a change in his breathing, glanced up, and caught the look of incandescent horror burning in his eyes. ‘When?’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘Jerott told me but I didn’t know this…’ A helpless gesture at the jagged, slowly healing flesh that his brother had once laid open in the depths of despair, while he himself had been so far away and unknowing.

‘In Lyon, when he was blind,’ Philippa said, in a calm, quiet voice, but the bones of her hand, resting on the warm, tensile flesh over her husband’s heart, shone yellow-white through the skin.

‘And if he is blind now?’ Richard gave voice to the fear that had been growing within, that Francis had bought a scant few months of health with the blow at Dourlans, that it was starting again, the blindness and the despair, and, for all who loved Francis in Scotland and beyond, the helpless, unending loss.

Philippa’s dark eyes snapped with sudden fire and when she spoke it was in a tone that rang with decision. ‘He won’t be blind; this is no megrim.’

Unreassured, Richard felt no unkind impulse to disillusion the brown-haired girl whom his brother had married. Together, they stripped Francis and bundled him between blankets and quilt, and drooped, exhausted and speechless, in the chairs that stood sentinel beside his bed.

*****************************************

The guttering candlelight lying on Philippa's hair like hoarfrost, trembling in the jewels set at wrist and ear and neck, was the first thing that Francis Crawford saw when he woke, muzzy and unpleasantly clammy, in the great bed. There was little else to see in the confined circle of light, and the ache behind his eyes only hardened into bands of ringing steel when he tried. Taking swift catalogue of his body - or as swift as his numbed and muzzy thoughts would permit - provided little reassurance. His head screamed, his throat burned, and his chest was ringed with Aeolian fire; every limb felt as it was trying with all its might to disjoint itself from the next. What little in his body did not pain him felt stuffed with buckram and sawdust, and when he answered the question in Philippa's eyes, he heard his own voice as if from a great distance.

'So sair the magryme dois me menyie,

Perseing my brow as ony ganyie,

That scant I luik may on the lich.'

He broke off, coughing, and did not speak again until Philippa had lifted a cup of water to his lips and he was sweating profusely, his face the colour of fresh-dyed cramoisie. 'I thought it was a return of the old malady, yunitsa.' And was afraid to contemplate it went unspoken.

'And the cough? And the fever? Did you think that they were some novel aspect of your megrims?' Philippa enquired tartly, but there was real fear glittering in her brown eyes.

'The cough?' Another voice. Richard's. His brother's somber doublet and hose had concealed him against the dark panelling beyond the candlelight, but now he sat forward, his elbows braced on his knees. Tiredness bracketed his serious grey eyes, and something that looked horribly like grief. 'What cough, Francis?'

'The cough that kept him awake half last night,' Philippa said, fixing a stern and unbending glare on her lord and master. 'Francis thinks that I am quite deaf. I should imagine that he has been wheezing like the bellows of Hephaestus all day, every time you left him alone.'

Francis contrived to look sheepish, even as the runnels of sweat crept through the tangles of his hair like worms and his vision swam with a sudden surge of appalling heat.

'Francis!' Richard expostulated, looking so confounded that his brother would have laughed if he could. But the fever that had come upon Francis in dizzying waves as he sat at table was worsening now. He could not concentrate, nor could be find the words to reassure Richard, but could only clasp Philippa's hand and mumble something contrite into the pillow. And when sleep came once more, he was glad to escape for a while the prison and confine of his body.

*****************************************

It was not, of course, a restful sleep.  In the carmine darkness between the world of sleep and the waking world, the hydra-headed horrors of past and future writhed together before a transfixed mind that could neither blink nor flinch. As so often before, the serried ranks of his dead rose before Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny like dragon's teeth in the green grass of summer. The ghastly parade of grim, dear faces loured before him as he sweated and twisted in the entangling sheets - Will, Christian, Strozzi, Oonagh, Eloise, Khaireddin, always Khaireddin... Then the living and dead twined together, hopelessly entangled, each with the other, until he could not tell who was living and who dead and the scent of the grave and the poppy rose up around him in a cloud of heat. Philippa fled from him through the traboules of Lyon, horror engraved in every line of her face and the soft, brown eyes huge and cold, and when he looked down at himself, he saw that he wore the heavy, reeking clothing of Leonard Bailey and there was a sword in his hand.

Graham Reid Mallett raged at him, dressed in the robes of a lord of the court of session and so close that he could not avoid the touch of his breath upon his face, and became the Cardinal of Lorraine and Margaret Douglas and Ivan of Russia with eagle's wings rising behind him. A tide of blood swelled around him, flowing like the four rivers of paradise from the wounds of the slain and the lost, from Salablanca and Güzel, from Will’s lost arm and Marthe’s shattered face beneath the ruined cap of amber hair. He screamed and cursed and begged as he had not in waking life, until every breath he forced through his wrecked and bleeding throat was an agony of effort and despair.

Philippa had gone; she could not stay; she must not stay, or the fire would consume her and the mutes would smother her and his arrow would pierce her through and through. Again and again, she turned from him and he knew that this was fitting and proper, even as the Russian winter burnt in his bones and the very marrow of his being sang with pain.

Reaching for his sword, fumbling for boots and spurs, he felt soft, firm hands press him down and something cool and wet against his brow. The trickling of iced water followed him once more into sleep, and he was drowning, drowning in the roads outside Calais as Richard and Sibylla and Diccon Chancellor gasped and flailed in the roiling sea beside him. Again, he reached for his sword, and again was pushed back against the sheets that tried to swallow him whole. This time there were hard hands marked by sword calluses, hands that drew his mind back and back to childhood, weeping in the tower over some childhood sorrow while his brother held him against a worn jerkin that smelt of sweat and horses. And then he struggled through mire in the house on the rue de la Cerisaye, and his horse foundered under him, and an eagle screamed and a child whispered, 'Say goodnight to the dark' in a voice that made him cry out in horror.

Throughout it all, he knew that if only he could get up, if only he could finish this, then he could make amends, could save Philippa and Will, Joleta and Christian, Eloise and Oonagh, Robin Stewart and Turkey Mat, could save his son, his only son. If only the sick heat and chill would leave him; if only he could breathe properly without sawing pain in his throat and nose; if only he could settle and finally sleep.

At some point - although he could not say whether it was deep night or the wan light of the winter's day - Francis Crawford felt Philippa's hand slip from his own, and knew that she was gone forever, although he could not have said why. The bright tears pressed at his eyelids, but he could not let them fall, surrendering instead to the desert dryness that filled his mouth and the raging torrent running through him like the falls of Engedi - my beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi - and let the fever sweep him away from the clammy, suffering body set amidst the damp, twisted sheets like a jewel of no price.

*****************************************

Philippa woke with her head resting on the edge of the high bed, her neck a jangle of nerves and stretched muscles and her nose pressed crookedly into the goose down. The lute had half slipped from her lap and hung precariously from the stiff fingers curled around its neck. Her toes were cold in their embroidered slippers and her head radiantly hot where it had been veiled like an idol in the bedcovers. Stretching, she settled the lute more firmly in her lap and ignored the percussive click in her aching neck, but her hands remained still on the strings, too tired even for music. A quick glance at the occupant of the bed revealed that he was sleeping, breathing in great, fretful gasps but not crying out as he had when the delirium had shaken him like a ragged poppet of flesh and blood and he had not seemed able to bear even the touch of her hand against his flesh. Throughout the long watches, night and day commixed in noxious alchemy and every sense reduced to this man, she had sat here, listening and watching, hoping only for the fever to pass and the brief moments of lucidity to return.

The dowager, banished to fretful safety, had reappeared again and again with a pottle of chicken broth or a peck of willowbark and a child or a cat or a viol in tow. Relieved of her burdens, Sibylla was swiftly repelled by Richard, who said that Francis was quite enough of a handful as an invalid and that the Crawford family had no need of a second. Richard himself would scarcely leave even to sleep and Philippa could not be moved even by the wildest of imprecations. Looking across at Richard now, Philippa could see her own weariness and fear graven in his face and she tried again. ‘You don’t need to stay here, Richard. Go and sleep and I’ll wake you when the fever breaks.’

‘No.’ He turned away. ‘I cannot…’ He trailed off, but Philippa knew the thought the he could not speak aloud: that he could not sleep in case Francis did not wake; that fever had killed enough men in Europe this year who had not endured all that Francis had endured; that, although vitality had returned in full measure, Francis was not yet as strong as he had once been. And that, once again, he had driven his body beyond the limits of endurance, a tool to be used until it bent or broke. ‘I should have seen that he was ill. I should not have expected him so soon. I knew the state that he was in at Amiens…’

Philippa flinched, an almost imperceptible flicker, but said briskly. ‘Nonsense. Francis is like a cat with a sore foot when he’s ill, and we all know it.’ She paused, glancing down and letting one finger tap against the lute’s strings until they hummed softly. ‘And he was so glad to come here again – at last.’

Even in the scarce light, Philippa could see the high colour climb in Richard’s cheeks and he smiled a sweet smile so like Francis’s that she could have cried. ‘Well then,’ Richard said in a voice marked by strong emotion. ‘If neither you nor I will sleep and Francis will not wake, at least permit me a turn with the lute.’

Philippa blinked and, surprised, yielded up the instrument without the least hint of resistance. The strong, brown swordsman’s hands gripped the lute, perhaps not with Francis’s innate grace, but with a skill and dexterity that had no shame in it, and he began to play, slowly and quietly, a rollicking, filthy drinking song from the stews of Glasgow.

And, sometime in the grizzled half-light between day and night, the fever ebbed like the long, broken sigh of sea on shingle, and, although still wracked by a cough like the voice of the cù-sìth and assailed by an excess of phlegm, Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny settled into a dreamless sleep.

*****************************************

Philippa, in a fresh kirtle miraculously free of both creases and the stale odour of the sickroom, smothered a yawn against the back of her hand and nudged the door of the tower chamber open with her hip, a brimming bowl of chicken broth balanced in her other hand.

‘Washe them with his owne broth till whit he become,’ she sang out cheerfully. ‘Hepsibah’s recipe, although sadly lacking in cumin, I’m afraid… Francis?’

Through the part-drawn curtains of the bed and the scented steam curling up from the bowl, Philippa looked in alarm at the huddled figure of her husband. Far from the content and sleepy invalid that she had left to wash and dress herself, propped up on an extravagant mound of pillows with the Decameron at hand, an embroidered cap tugged primly over yellow hair and a fresh nightshirt tied with a neat knot at the hollow of his throat, the figure of the bed was coiled snail-like around his bent knees. His head had been buried in the crook of his arm beneath a tangle of sheets; at the sound of her voice, he raised it with aching slowness. The pallid afternoon light revealed blue lips set in pale face whose only other spots of colour were shadowed eyes and a reddened nose like a beacon in fresh snow. The book lay discarded on the floor, pages spraddled and bent, half-hidden under the slide of the richly embroidered coverlet, mute testament to a patient who was rather more ill than she had imagined.

‘Like the common escargot unshelled,’ Francis said, in a voice like something living at the bottom of a well, and essayed a faint smile.

With exaggerated care, Philippa set the bowl of broth aside and settled herself on the high bed by Francis’s shoulder. ‘Francis, my dear, what’s happened?’ She brushed the tangled hair back from his face, and felt the deep, waxen chill of his skin.

The smile took on a rueful tilt that did nothing to assuage the worry gathering in a hard lump behind Philippa’s breastbone. ‘Like the men of Vardø, I seem to dwell in eternal winter.’

‘Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let us see if we may banish the winter perpetual.’ With her mother’s customary brisk competence and no small measure of forced cheer, Philippa set to, stirring the fire up to a roaring blaze, procuring hot bricks and caudle from her brother-in-law’s hurrying servants, chivvying the cat from Francis’s discarded nightcap, and unearthing blankets and woolly socks from kist and wardrobe. In the heat of the room, the sweat soon began to prickle at the nape of her neck and dampen the loose strands of hair straying from her braid, but even as she worked and chattered, tucking the bricks snugly at the foot of the bed and rearranging blankets and pillows, Francis’s replies grew softer and more abrupt. Nor did the shivers that wracked him abate, and, as the flow of inconsequential nonsense dried up, she could hear his teeth chattering in the stillness of the room.

Her heart beating a fast counterpart to the crackle of the fire, Philippa arranged herself cross-legged on the bed, a spare featherbed overflowing her lap, and looked down at Francis’s prone form from under severely lowered brows.

‘Francis, what’s the matter? Should I find Richard?’ She availed herself of one long-fingered, beautiful hand, the nail beds still cold and grey-blue, her thumbs stroking the sensitive flesh of his palm. ‘You’re still like a block of ice, and if I put any more bricks in the bed you’ll have all the castle cats in there with you.’

‘Her hat and ceald hwilum mencgað.’ Francis made to withdraw his hand, but she would not release it. ‘I shall be well again presently. You need not concern yourself.’

Once, perhaps, that would have been sufficient to make her recoil as he intended, to shut the gates of her mind against him, but that had been before Sevigny and before these last glorious weeks at Flaw Valleys and here at Midculter. She clasped his hand more tightly, tracing her fingers over the thin, faded lines of the old scars, and saw the shudder of tension run through him. ‘There is nothing about you that does not concern me, Francis, my dear. And when my husband looks as though he has been wandering through a Russian snowstorm, I find myself very concerned indeed, will it or no. What do you need? If you will not tell me, I will find all the dogs in the castle and they can bounce it out of you, or I will tell your mother.’

For a long moment, Francis did not answer, merely sat looking at their clasped hands. When at last he spoke, he did not raise his eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on the gentle movements of her fingers. The fall of his hair, less clean than was its wont beneath the linen of the cap, nonetheless shone dully against the line of cheek and brow, and his voice was very quiet.

‘Disordinat desiryng for to kissen and embrace,’ he said in a voice that was almost soundless, and, looking up at last, saw the flash of surprise and relief in her face. ‘A cold is upon me whose only cure lies in the compass your arms, but I should not ask it of you. In the fever… in the fever, you fled from me and I lost you beyond recall; I am content that you are here in the waking world. That is a sufficiency beyond price.’

Philippa felt her face crumple with an excess of emotion and schooled it into a tremulous smile. ‘Why should you not ask what may be gladly be given? There can be neither debt nor sufficiency here, for I will never grow weary in this touch.’ Watching his face carefully, she saw the startled joy flare in his blue eyes, suddenly wide and shy and very young in the face of the man who had been Voivoida of Russia and Marshal of France. Laying his hand down on the coverlet, she arranged the spare featherbed over him, tucking in the edges until he was safely nested like a cat in a basket of fresh linen. Toeing off her slippers, she slid in facing him, her kirtle rucked up and her stockinged legs twining around his. For a moment, he was still and silent as some ancient monument in her arms, but then he melted into the warmth of her touch, his head resting on her shoulder and a sound that was almost a sigh escaping him as his arms drew her close in turn. He was very cold, still, but as she held him, the shivers faded and the face so close to her own grew flushed and rosy and his breaths deepened on the edge of sleep. Remembering his fears, she let the quiet words flow from her, words of love and desire and longing, of loss and discovery, and of her joy in his presence.

‘Douce playsence est d’amer loyalment,

Quar autrement ne porroit bonement

Amans suffrir cele dolour ardant,

Qui d’amors naist.’

The sleep that finally claimed him was shallow but content; Philippa held him close, his skin warm against her own and a smile lingering on his lips, and it was enough and more than enough.

*****************************************

Francis Crawford lying in the grip of a burning fever had been a figure of anguish and of pity. Francis Crawford, recovering little by little his former strength, was a menace, so said Philippa his wife, and they would all go and live in the byre with the kine if this went on much longer.

The yellow hair had emerged first, spiked and streaked by dry sweat into a head of pure thistledown. The bleared blue eyes set in heavy lids. The fine, pale skin, blotched and reddened by illness. For as much as a day and a half, he had been content to lie ensconced in his cocoon of blankets, sneezing into a square of linen like a mappa mundi and listening to the strains of soft music, his gaze resting upon Philippa's face with a look of new wonder that made her blush and drop her eyes.

But, a querulous and a restless invalid, unused to yielding to the demands of his own body, Lymond could not sustain such a languorous state, even as sleep washed over him in great waves of exhaustion. The linens, he announced in a carrying and acerbic voice, should be transplanted to the pigsty if the pigs would lower themselves that far, and he must bathe to rid himself of their reek, regardless of the ice growing in cracking sheets at the well head. Bathed, he would dress and see his lady mother, and was only prevented from doing so when he fell asleep in the midst of a cutting riposte to Richard's curt denial. He summoned his brother's secretary, and was affronted when no such individual appeared. He could not countenance that a mere fever had achieved what swords and shipwreck had not, and was found, collapsed and sweating profusely in a huddle of brocaded silk and embroidered vine leaves, and carried back to bed by Richard, swearing at every step. If Philippa was not near, he grew anxious and fretful, his hands plucking restively at the covers until she returned. If she stayed, he grew ashamed of the weakness that kept him confined to the bed.

He must correspond with all the great men of Scotland and of France, even though his hand shook too much to hold the pen steady and Philippa removed the ink pot to prevent oakgall disaster overtaking the fresh sheets. He wished to read, but no book pleased him and the close-printed text pained his eyes, although he would not admit it. The rebec should be consigned to the fires of Tartarus; the lute was a monstrous, ill-tuned thing and he would defenestrate it forthwith.

At this last, Philippa, who suspected that Francis's headache had more to do with his refusal to sleep than the poor, maligned instrument, lost her temper, and removed herself and the lute both to her mother-in-law's warm parlour, where she devoured a piece of cheese the size of a man's fist, slept for twenty minutes, and, waking, vented her wrath on a well-thumbed copy of Chrétien de Troyes. Embarking on a long catalogue of Arthurian follies with a cat in her lap and her hair falling in disarray around her shining, pink face, she only broke off when she saw Sibylla's gentian eyes grow wide and round.  Swivelling to stare over her shoulder, much to the cat's displeasure, she saw Richard's broad frame filling the doorway and, draped over him like a bundle of limp and unsavoury Yule greenery, Francis, swaddled in a sheet and with an entirely incongruous stocking cap on his head.

Richard met his mother's eyes and shrugged wryly. 'There was no help for it. It was me or the dog cart.'

'And that would make a horrid mess of the stairs,' Sibylla finished for him. 'Oh dear.'

One shaking hand, white-knuckled, clutched the linen at Francis's throat. Above it, his face was waxen and sweat-sheened, but the open blue eyes beneath the bruised lids were, for once, quite guileless, and fixed on Philippa's face. 'I've got the temper of Cerberus today,' he said at last, 'but at least I've only got the one head to bark with. I'm sorry, yunitsa.'

Philippa sniffed inelegantly. 'Well, poor Richard certainly doesn't deserve to carry you upstairs again.' And, giving way without warning to the strain of the last days, burst into a storm of weeping that thoroughly embarrassed her. Somehow, without either of them unbalancing or Francis losing control of the straying sheet, he and Philippa ended up tucked together on the day-bed, his damp cheek lying against the fall of her hair and their hands tangled together, while Sibylla sat enthroned in the great chair like Zeus in glory and Richard perched on a low stool, his long legs thrust out before him and a look of deep and abiding satisfaction on his face.

When the hiccuping subsided, Philippa read Boccaccio aloud, doing all the voices, until Francis fell asleep. And when she, too, drifted into a light doze, Richard retrieved the sliding book from her lax hands and read on in the warmth and contentment of the winter's afternoon.

*****************************************

‘Douce playsence est d’amer loyalment...’:  ‘It’s a sweet pleasure to love loyally, / For in no other way a lover truly could bear / That burning pain / Which is born from love’ - from a motet by Philippe de Vitry.

‘Her hat and ceald hwilum mencgað’: ‘Here heat and cold sometimes mingle’ - from the description of Hell in Christ and Satan.

I will try to post the sources of the other quotes and references as well when I have a moment.

In case other people are lucky enough not to have experienced this, I can promise you that it is entirely possible to cough until your throat bleeds; it’s alarming but not usually as serious as it looks.

[sol-korolevas]

[until the earth dies with the sun]; part i of ii

pairing: v x reader

warning(s): angst angst angst, slightly spicy hot stuff but not much 

tagging: @malanoches @kyarymell @pointedly-foolish

you don’t believe loving someone is a choice. your affection for v never blossomed from a free will. some may call it fate, that fickle little aspect of life, that compelled you to fall in love with v. others, the hopeless romantics, called it destiny. 

but what separated fate from destiny?

if you asked yourself this a few months prior, you would have shrugged your shoulders and said: “i don’t know.” 

because right now, all you could remember were the high-pitched squeals of cancerous demons and the trail of bloodshed they created.

most horrifying of all was the world reshaped into this dizzying mosaic of blood and gore—a twisted version of eden.

just moments ago, griffon came to you, urging you to follow him. 

but suddenly something ripped out from the ground, a creature wrapped in chains and locks, sending the bird soaring down the path you came from. though it was characteristic of him to run, you knew that he was providing a distraction, too. 

you couldn’t curse these monsters to hell when you were in a version of it. sore and tired, you walked through the twisted path, full of decaying flowers and twisted roots. fleshy dirt gave away as your feet sank in, heralding nightmarish groans from deep below. shivering, you wrapped your bare arms around your body and tilted your head, hoping griffon would be coming soon.

you hoped everyone was alright.

you knew dante and nero would be fine because they were strong. even nico had her own fortitude and luck; that van she drove was a weapon itself. 

the person you worried the most about was v, who despite his fair share of powers and his ability to summon demons, was crumbling.

your heart pounded as you started climbing a steep red slope that reminded you of half-dried clay. the sudden break from cacophonous noises to serenity thrust your mind into a false sense of peace. 

the serenity beckoned you to slow down and sag to the ground with a heavy exhale. suddenly, you began thinking about the past—about your home and about him. 

life was so much simpler beyond the demons and the fighting. you remembered the days where v collapsed into your arms, tired but full of affection. his head would dip into the crook of your neck, a muffled groan slipping out of his lips as he traced patterns against your skin. 

poetry suddenly became romantic and quintessential in your life. just like v’s presence and the sudden blossoming love you gave him and he for you. 

you couldn’t deny that you had first fallen for him for his appearance alone. unlike nero and dante, v was always fragile, with an air of mystery surrounding him. wherein he lacked in strength, he was skilled with grace and finesse. 

while you admired him for his beauty and intelligence, you also felt intimidated by him. so when the truth spilled that v liked you despite your normalcy and humanity, you were both ecstatic and terrified.

how could such a creature as refined and alluring as him came to love you, a simple human? how could he choose you, a person who never loved anyone before?

for a long time, you knew not his reason behind falling in love with you. perhaps there was no reason as, after all, love wasn’t a choice.

slowly afterwards, v moved in with you and in return, you learned more about him–but not all of him. 

he was always prone to bouts of lethargy after a fight. you held him as you basked in his warmth, loving the way he nuzzled against you. your hands wandered through his locks of black hair, feeling him quiver with pleasure.

“for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek and he is mild. he became a little child.” v’s soothing voice spilled out, drawing invisible marks on your skin as he brushed his lips against it. he shifted and you took the moment to lean your back to the wall while your legs stretched forward.

he followed, drawn to your body with a gaze unrelenting and firm. for a moment, you felt your heart stop and then reignite with a thunderous chorus of beats as he cupped your cheeks and drew in for a kiss. 

the motion was slow and unhurried. he tasted like night and the earthy sweetness of a flourishing garden. it should’ve made you wonder why his kisses always felt strangely hypnotic but it didn’t. instead, you felt restless, every kiss from him peeling open another layer of yourself for him to see. never had you felt so naked but so alive and powerful. 

in return, you wanted to encapsulate him into an embrace until nobody knew where you began and where he ended. 

you don’t speak as he pulled away, only because you don’t see the need to break this moment full of grace and love that v was weaving. 

a smile adorned your face until you notice something on his cheek: a scar. yet it was similar to a porcelain vase or the cracks of a dry landscape; his skin looked like it may scatter into the air. “v your fa-” you stopped, a gasp tearing out from you before v placed one slender finger upon your lips. 

“your line should be: little lamb, god bless thee,” he told you calmly. beneath the darkness of his green eyes, you could see the warmth. you could also see something else, just a feeble glint of it, but it was deafening to you. v knew, of course, he knew of his state. but he didn’t care to show it. 

instead of pursuing the matter, you decided to relent and change the subject. setting your hands on your lap, you straightened your back.

“do you think of me as...god?” your voice was tentative, almost meek. if you were any other person, you might have felt pride, if not a bit odd. for this powerful man who commanded demons thought of you with such awe and worship. but you weren’t anyone else, you were uncertainty in love, a confused creation in love, lust, and loss for words. 

(v once commented that you were a poem yourself. too strange and unfathomable for the poets, dead or living, to describe.) 

“if you would like that,” he answered. “if god is kind and gentle, then it must be you.” a soft smile curled onto his features. then you felt him take your hand in his. “as for me, i am but a lamb, humbled under your touch,” he paused, lifting up your hand to press a kiss upon your knuckles. “or i could be the tiger. i can destroy and ruin for you, if you so much as ask.” his voice drifted off, just as his teeth skimmed the tender skin of your hand. there was a lilt in his last words, delicately teasing a promise he could fulfill so long as you uttered a word.

gulping, you felt heat blossom upon your face. dark and warm, a sweetness that dripped into tight coils within your stomach as you watched him. for a moment, all concern vanished into an electric sensation that jolted your limbs into movement. you tugged him close into a dizzying kiss. v was always pliant when you kissed him first but this time he melted into it. 

he felt so soft, so unlike that of a battle-weary soldier. as for you, you felt strengthened to layer as much of your love onto him as possible. there were no boundaries tonight, only the desire for him. 

in one split second, v cradled your cheek, tilting it up to lick at the bottom of your lip. “how would you want me tonight, dear (name)?” he asked with a sultry purr. 

you felt his knee scrape against your inner thigh, before settling where you wanted him the most. but no, that wasn’t enough; you wanted more, more, more of him. so you drew your lips toward the shell of his ear, one hand curling around the lapels of his jacket. 

“i want you like the day you were born,” you told him in a heated whisper. “naked and desperate for touch.” 

you were awoken from your memory by a distant rumble. each passing tremor was felt underneath your fingers as you looked around. then you remembered why you were here so you stood up, gaze trailing up the steep path covered in red. 

with the phantom remnants of the memory still clinging onto you, your body felt heated and it trembled. the sliver of sweet coil persisted in your stomach, up until you heard a faraway growl that signified a demon’s presence. all loving memories and the feeling they gave birth to disappeared as your mind came into reality. 

you needed to get out of here. 

the last time you saw v felt so long ago. he had something to accomplish: to see to a certain demon’s end, that was what he said. v had always been driven by his hatred of evil and his mission to eradicate all evils from this world. but that time you noticed the flicker of something in his eyes. there was determination, but a sense of letting go, too. that time, you wished you never knew him so well like that, because v was always honest with his emotions and desires. as for you, you had the irritating ability to truly know others. 

“all evil must be purged, they–” before he could finish he almost lost his balance, body swaying as if ready to fall. you were quick by his side, clothes sticking to your body by a mixture of blood and demonic body fluids. 

you winced as you saw his skin crumbling like dust as you touched him. at first, you debated on sitting him down, but v was quick to notice as he brought your body towards his. 

he pressed himself into you and you held one arm around him. you couldn’t look at him anymore so you settled on some distant sight. “you need rest v,” you told him. you never wanted to scold him but your voice came out as such, intermingled with worry. 

at first, you thought he may refuse. but then v looked at you, his quiet eyes beholding everything that would blossom when they gazed into your eyes. he nodded, a movement that you almost missed. 

“one last time, for the both of us,” he said softly, yet desperately. “help me take these off, i-i want you to hold me without obstruction.” 

his request was responded by a weak whimper from you, fueled by an overwhelming spell of confusion and love. still, you obliged if only to spend more time with him. somewhere in the distance, griffon trilled for the first time. you could have felt warmth in you but instead, you felt a growing coldness and despair. you knew something was wrong the moment you reached for his jacket and peeled it back. 

he had always been thin, but when you shed his clothing you noticed the bruises and scars that accentuated his physique. watching his body covered in not only bruises and scratch marks but also cracks made you want to drag him out of this battle. even still, you knew that he wouldn’t let you and that the best you could do was offer him affection in this trying time. 

there was something poignantly tragic about v’s existence, you realized. that maybe he was only put here, in this world, to accomplish a certain task. even v knew that his chapter in this story may be coming to an end. perhaps that was why he took this moment to be near you. he was so close to you when you started removing his clothing. he was so close you could see every littlest scar and crack, and every bumps and ridge on his skin. 

when his upper clothing were all discarded onto the muddy earth, he took you into his embrace. v was always odd when it came to physical affection; he much preferred feeling you with his naked body, and if it was in your room, you would be naked too. 

he held you tightly as if he wanted to imprint your body into his memory. you too wrapped your arms around him, hoping in some way that this moment would last forever. 

“come back to me v, don’t go,” you said quietly, sighing against his skin. v visibly tensed and for a moment, you did as well. 

then he forced himself to relax as he pressed a chaste kiss to the shell of your ear. “i love that you love me and i, too, love you (name).”

there was a finality to his words, but you forced yourself to listen quietly. closing your eyes, you laid your chin upon his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. 

(what separated fate and destiny, you realized, was a tragedy.)

and then, with a heavy burden upon him, v bid you farwell, calling for griffon to escort you somewhere safe. but you knew that regardless of where this safe place was, only v was the safest for you. this was a memory bitter and sweet for you to remember, but it satisfied the silence that was your trek upwards. 

your body shivered as the temperature dropped sharply. though you were cold and alone, you still hoped that you could see v again. nero and dante had several near-death experiences before, you thought, so v will be okay. 

you could almost hear his silky voice nearby you, a note on the passing wind. briefly, you stopped, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the air. it’s close now, with only a few more steps to take. quivering, you stumble forward until you finally reached solid ground. the first in what felt like hours, just as your body gave away. distinct noises of wings lured your wavering stare into the sky. the dark shape of griffon hung in the air, watching you with emotionless eyes. 

“hey, hey you wi’ me there?” he asked, voice penetratingly loud and clear. you smelled fetid stench clinging onto his feathered breast, implying a recent battle with demons. 

you ignored him for a moment, eyes scanning the half-charred battleground. no solid corpses, only the empty husks of human victims drained of their blood. you were too tired to match griffon’s voice in its loudness and clarity, but you willed yourself to demand an answer from him. “where’s v?” 

“he left uh...something t’ attend to,” the bird replied with an angry squawk. 

for a moment, you felt your legs giving down as the thought of moving deeper into the area sent a new wave of terror into you. but then you noticed a movement, two forms that you knew well, but not the ones you wanted to see. 

the black feline and his titanous companion came out of the darkness, but there was no v behind them.

griffon perched himself on top of the towering behemoth, nightmare, before saying, “look we know v wanted us to keep you here but ya gotta know somethin’, somethin’ v wanted to hide from ya. go through this place and make yer way up. don’t worry, no demons will bother ya.” 

fettered by the will to see v again, you wrapped your arms around your body and followed griffon’s words. before you disappeared into yet another unknown, you threw a glance to the three demons. 

“don’t worry about us, we got somethin’ to do. now go!” 

griffon’s words were firm, a far cry from his usual quips and mocking jokes. something was clawing at the back of your neck, urging you to ask more questions. instead, you relented and made your way forward, wondering what you will see. 

so you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment just as you saw a distant shape of light ahead. while you desperately wanted your prying thought to be false, a part of you had already accepted it. 

the trek felt longer than it looked. by then, your legs were boiling with an aching need to rest, but so too was the rest of you. from time to time you threw your head back, hoping griffon and the rest were going to appear. a sinking thought occurred to you that that may have been the last you would ever see of them. it wasn’t a good thought, but you still needed to move forward. 

when you finally stepped out into the open field, you saw something that turned your insides into ice. 

v stabbing his cane into the body of a fallen demon. 

dante running towards him just as a ray of light enveloped v and the creature. 

and then, as you attempted to make your way to the light, it vanished and in the exact same spot stood someone else. 

not v. 

not the demon.

but a man. 

“great things are done when men and mountain meet.”

v’s soothing voice seems to drift into your mind as you watched the stranger. in that moment, you didn’t know why you remembered those words, but v had recited them the last time he was in your house. clutching at your chest, you attempted to move forward, only for your feet to get caught in a raised root. 

“don’t move, hide.” again, you heard v but you couldn’t see him. panicking, you looked around hoping that some part of him was still here–lest you were becoming mad. 

you quickly ducked behind a gnarled root, body pressed against grimy substances as you clasped your hands to your mouth. your chest rose and fell in heavy motions just as your mind replayed the scene over and over. 

v was gone. he was gone and he was, he was–

for a while, you didn’t notice the way your body carried you away. there was a disconnect between your physical and mental self that numbed you. an invisible hand strangled you, taking root within your brain. 

shock had you in a chokehold as you stopped, one hand planted on the wall of a dilapidated building drowned in alien plants and dried blood. while you could return and watch the aftermath, a part of you just knew. 

that v was no longer in existence.

[silverxblade]

One day, you were crying because you had a nightmare that felt way too real. Elesis was passing by your door and heard your sniffing; then she came in to comfort you. After talking, she ends up sleeping with you with your head on her lap (she was caressing your hair). You're awake. Do you stay as you are and enjoy her warmth or do you get up and take her to her room? Also, how do you feel about having her caressing you?

「  Drabble 」

                              ⚔  ▸▸ Sins are forever STAINED upon the soul.

            It ached and twisted, tugging at your life like playing a dirge tune of despair. It burns on the conscious, screaming at his mind like a screeching harpy. Never letting restful sleep to comfort weary body, as it continuously ravages him, in the form of nightmares. Faceless phantoms, angry eyes. Harsh and hurtful words flung as those fingers accusingly points at him. Rightfully they are; he was G U I LT Y as the blood stains on his hands. Lament and despair at the fate and destiny dealt with him, in misfortune cards. Hands that never could win.

                    But only embrace and endure…

                                  And endure… and endure… until it B R E A K S him.

               Into tiny little pieces of shattered glass. The fragility of the human heart, it aches in multiples of ways, it was suffocating to breathe. In the end. Lass Isolet always finds himself retreating to his wrong, face full of tears, hidden from his companion… in a silent cry. To end this misery bestow upon him. It was so  U N F A I R . Screaming at himself why must this happen. The cold, and rigid personality adopted to push away the hurt, emotions only made him weak and hinder his performance of redemption. Pangs of pain ravage his heart, and eyes continue to gaze at him with morbid scrutiny. Knowing too well what they thought of him.

                          「 “Traitor. Dirty little traitor. TRAITOR TO HUMANITY!”」

                                                                    ‘Murderer! Monster! Freak! Just die!’

               Cover his eyes, look away. Hide the shame. All futility in an attempt to keep up a brave bravado, to water through the hatred and anger. Atonement was what’s left to do. Asking for forgiveness is what he can do… can ask for. At the cost of his life… no matter how pathetic and worthless he is. Powerless and  W E A K, with strife to stand up… even if his strength is waning. Lass does try. And kept trying. But it’ll never cover the hurt. Tonight like any other night, a nightmarish hateful gaze of the very people he swore an oath to protect, the haunting of soulless innocents he’d slaughtered clawing at his dreams. Lass could never win. Only to hold himself, before falling apart at the seams. Hidden from others, in the dark of loneliness…

                  Tears seeping through the cracks of his fingers.

                                   It was useless to cry, such as the fragility of being a human.

                 Lass H A T E D it. Incapable of containing his emotions. So he let out the tears, the dam broke. Let out the hurt he’d held in for so long, suppressed it as far as he could. Pretend he was okay, playoff cool as possible. Until he broke again, weeping his eyes out until there are no more tears left. Men aren’t allowed to cry, a soldier has no business with emotions, but to fight and die for their cause. As long as no one sees… he’s A L L O W E D. If only… prying his face from the shadows, warm and soft hands, callous from gripping a weapon for so long. Pull up to stare into compassionate red eyes. The salvation to his pain, the soothing to his hurt. in a gentle voice, comforting him.

                     「 “Lass, you know you are allowed to cry.” 」

                                         Tender caress was the soothing aloe to his burn.

                 Can he be selfish? Please, pitiful begging, feeling like that small child once more… reaching out toward the fading shadows of his brother’s tailcoat… to help him from this place. Only to have hope shattered and C R U S H E D  without mercy. Lass hides his face into her neck, tears falling drenching her night pajamas with patches of wetness. He held her, loving the tender and care caresses being graced to his wounded soul. Let him be selfish… and hold her for the night, holding her for dear life. She is his world, his savior, his salvation… the guidance of the light, with the burning fire through the darkness.

             「  “I cried too, we’re only human.”」 He didn’t let her go for the night.

                                                  …it was then, he’d come to a startling conclusion.

                  Lass Isolet was in love with Elesis Sieghart. Unfortunately… it was impossible for them. There will be nothing will blossom from this feeling. It was D O O M E D before it could start. That was when he was fifteen. Since he’d joined the cause and Elesis Sieghart became his savior and light. The one person, he would die for… and follow through Hell and back. Lass would only admire afar, be beautiful in his dreams.. and cherished every moment he has with her. And memorized her warm smiles and burning ablaze passion… because she’ll never know, how he truly felt, it was best it remains this way. No matter how many decades later, he’ll still love her, she is… his world. Thus his feelings would be buried…

                           …Nothing would come out of it, he’s just.. an abomination.

[goolagola]

YAGHAZ’ BOND—in a long nutshell | #review

Originally posted on FB February 8, 2018.

Ever since they crossed paths for the very first time, when the seemingly innocuous van carrying the Egemen men hit a random rain puddle and splashed the murky water onto the unsuspecting Camkiran women, the story of two distinct and contrastive individuals began, caught in such manner:

Unawares they were destined to belong in each other’s lives.

And as that foul puddle that had offended Hazan Camkiran, so had the judgment that Yagiz Egemen passed upon her. Both UNAWARE of what the real truth to each other was—that they were not the people they were initially convinced of concerning one and the other. As murky as that muddy puddle—a mixture of clear rainwater and nasty filth—was the mirror they held to one another, believing it to display the truth. But it was not a true reflection. As certainly as Hazan was not the harlot that Yagiz saw—but only through the LENS of lies cast by his immature man-child brother (Lawd, forgive me, wanted to whiplash this guy all the way to Earth-2 Gorilla City so many times 😑)—Yagiz was not the dishonorable man who had shamed her in that fateful hotel room. The man lacking integrity and honor that night was not him. It was his younger brother, whom Hazan was seeing through a murky lens of her own, one that obscures the bases of reality of what a person’s character truly was—the lens of infatuation. It was lies that had made Yagiz and Hazan enemies of each other. And it will be truth that will connect them in a bond so strong yet so seamless, both would again, be UNAWARE, that they shared such connection for how natural it was.

Until one of them realized it… and it changed everything. But that’s for another time and another discussion 😉.

This bond between them, so special and singular, that saw Hazan leaning on Yagiz for strength on what could be the most humiliating night of her life; when her state of being shamed was disgracefully exposed before family, friends, and strangers through a cruel and calculating video presentation, during what should’ve been a joyous and celebratory moment. But a dreadful and violating nightmare it was turning out. In that momentous instant, mark that it was Yagiz she pled not to leave her side when he instinctively moved to set things in order, not her “beloved" Sinan, “Or I will fall,” she had said. She said nothing of the sort when Sinan was about to leave her side to address the crowd. What a significant statement that was that the Writers subtly injected, of how deep the bond between Yagiz and Hazan ran—deeper, and so much so, than whatever bond Hazan shared with her “beloved”. What had her sister ask her just days prior after she was reunited with Sinan again in a “love” relationship?

Do you actually TRUST Sinan?

Well, on a fragile but revelatory moment, when Hazan was most vulnerable before the inquisitive eyes of hundreds of strangers, there was one man she could not afford to leave her side lest she collapse into further shame before the crowd—and that man was NOT her “beloved”.

It was Yagiz.

For Hazan, this bond was INSTINCTUAL—when trauma hits and reason and logic fail, it kicks in. It was beyond comprehension. She may say that Sinan is her “beloved”, but Yagiz is her ROCK. Her anchor. The man she instinctively TRUSTS.

And it was similar with Yagiz.

For this independent and aloof man, his hero has always been his father, Hazim Egemen. His father has been his true love anchor, as a son loves his dad, and Yagiz’ loyalty for him is to a fault—for whom Yagiz dared to commit a sacrilegious act just to defend his honor so his children can remember him in a better light, by digging up his grave and in doing so, violating his OWN honor. Whose approval and affirmation he seeks, that as a vulnerable twelve year old boy he didn’t let slip what would’ve been a valid complaint, but obeyed when his father sent him to live in a strange land amidst strangers whose tongue he did not speak. That when this hero of his fell from grace by marrying a teenager who was younger than his own teenage daughter, it so shook him that he’d rather go back to that foreign land that he’d once felt abandoned in than deal with that reality. But that reality wasn’t worse one yet—losing his father to a demented state that he even forgot his children and his own self was yet more grievous. And one night back in Yagiz’ apartment with Hazan and his oblivious, sleeping brother after his spoiled plan to leave Istanbul, and discovering that their older brother had betrayed them all by keeping his dad’s condition secret, Yagiz found himself in that dark, devastating place where he, who in so many ways has been the rock of his family, could not keep faith that his father, his hero, his anchor, would be okay again.

But who then became a voice of hope in that moment of hopeless despair; one, that he had allowed to witness this weary and vulnerable state of his, a privilege that once belonged to his mother only; one, who had once told him to not be the “older brother”, but instead the child and grieve, when they thought that they had lost their hero dad; one, from whose strength he was finding the faith again, which later caused him to remain the rock that his family needed to believe that their father was going to pull through…

Hazan.

Because SHE BELIEVED in who Yagiz was, that he was the son of his father, and even if Hazim forgot who he himself was, Yagiz wouldn’t and that’s what mattered. For they could still create new memories. With those words from her lips and her gentle hand on his arm, Yagiz then found his steady footing again. And so with the help of Yagiz’ remarkable devotion and dedicated care, Hazim returned. I don’t know if you noticed, when Hazim was in that demented state, he only ever showed significant reaction and response to Yagiz’ care and presence, and had even told him not to turn off the lights once. Out of the three and Selin, it was Yagiz who truly was most devoted to their father. But Yagiz almost lost heart if not for Hazan’s unwavering belief in him, and if you look at the clip again, it was so easy for her to show her faith in him; instinctual—automatic—for her to do so. They’ve come a long way from where they once were.

Above, are just two examples out of so many (I’d end up writing a thesis if I list them all!), of what Yagiz and Hazan truly are to each other. Sure, they may not be a pair of “lovers”. But witnessing their bond, any unwitting stranger from the outside could’ve mistaken them for one.

O, gracious people, do forgive this long post 😭. And if you’ve made it this far…

Nice to meet ya! 👊😆

[edelwoodsouls]

family (can be a goddess and her alien daughter) - part 1

I have no plan for this story but it was about to be deleted from my notes on ao3 and its 2:30AM and I am Tired so we’ll just have to see where this goes

Tags: Mom!Diana, Genius!Kara, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst

Words: 1,920

Also on Ao3

From the mountain Diana can see the comet the moment it breaks the atmosphere. It's small for a meteor, a strange metallic colour which shines silver in the light of the slowly rising sun. Fire snarls around it, roaring louder and more violently with increasing speed and volume.

It's heading straight for Midvale.

Diana wants to curse. Its only dawn, but the mountain is still crawling with people who want to avoid the intensity of the midday summer sun. A middle-aged couple are ambling up the path only a few metres ahead, discussing the pros and cons of marshmallows as a breakfast food; behind her she can hear the vague chatter of a school group.

The comet is still gaining speed, and now she can make out the glint of glass and metal - it isn't a comet at all. She's never seen anything like it - shaped and sleek, clearly designed for travel over great distances. Such an elegant object should surely move with more grace; instead it spins, tumbling in freefall without any sign of control.

She's still dressed in her civilian clothes, and of course this is the one time she decided to leave her costume in France. It's been two years since she came out of retirement to stop Slipknot, and the world has been as quiet as the world of men can ever be. She's not the only superhero in the world anymore, what with the appearance of that obnoxiously brightly-coloured man in Metropolis and the whispered rumours of a bat man patrolling the streets of Gotham. She's allowed herself to relax, to take a step back, letting the weight of the world rest on younger, less weary shoulders.

The couple disappear around a bend in the tree-clad path, and before she can think better of it Diana launches herself into the air.

She hasn't flown in a long time - hasn't allowed herself to - and the feeling takes her breath away. The wind tugs at her hair, whilstling past her ears like a whisper. At that exact moment the sun crests on the horizon, drowning the world in a dazzling pink-tinged light reflected off the side of every building in the city.

In moments like this, Diana almost feels like she's home.

The crack and roar of fire streaking across the sky breaks the illusion of peace. The ship has reached its terminal velocity, flames streaming out behind it like a tail. She has seconds to intervene before it crashes into the town hall.

In the end she guides it in the direction of the mountain. It groans, as if pushing against her efforts. Fire licks at her arms, but she barely feels the heat, barely notices as the sleeves of her clothes begin to smoke. The descent is entirely out of her control now, and it's all she can do to cling to the metal of the ship as they tumble.

She lets go at the last second, crashing straight into a tree. Cracks echo in her ears like blasts of lightning as the branches snap under her weight, wood scratching at her now-bare arms.

She comes to a stop, finally, hitting the earth with a thud. The breath vanishes from her lungs, a huge branch pinning her chest and impaling her stomach, and for a few seconds all she can do is lie there, desperately trying to regain her senses. She can't recall the last time her body ached quite this much - every limb and joint feels like lead, weighted and unmovable. It takes every ounce of her strength to shove the branch away from her; it goes flying down the hill.

After a few tries she manages to tug the snapped wood from her stomach. The hole left behind is a gaping red chasm that makes her shudder - it hurts to move and breathe - but it will heal quickly. She tears a strip from the bottom of her ruined shirt, tying it tightly around her torso. In seconds the material is soaked, but it will have to suffice; suddenly she can hear screams. They split the air, ringing and weighted with more grief and pain than Diana can bear to listen to.

They're coming from the same direction as the ship.

Diana's heart plunges, her body frozen in shock. This forest is private property, clustered at the bottom of the mountain - there shouldn't be anyone here.

And yet there is.

She makes it to the clearing in a matter of seconds. It's more a crater than a clearing, the mud and earth displaced easily on impact. The trees surrounding it are singed or smouldering, the ones under it flattened and splintered; they didn't stand a chance.

Now that it's stationary Diana can see the clear craftsmanship of the not-meteor. Despite its horrific arrival, and her own attempts to alter its course, the outside is pristine but for a few soot marks. It's shape is streamlined, made of a silver metal Diana can't quite identify. The glass set into the top half of it is fogged up with black, but she can still make out the vague flickering of movement within.

The screaming comes again - from inside the pod.

She jumps into the crater, then hesitates. She has no idea what could reside inside this tiny, inocuous, destructive ship. It is undoubtedly alien, and she has seen enough in the past few years to know that not all who visit this planet come in peace. The thing inside could be dangerous - it could put humanity at risk.

Nothing that dangerous could have a scream so heartbreaking.

Diana curls her fingers into the glass, hooking them around a tendril of metal and wrenching. It takes a tremendous amount of strength, but eventually the metal gives way and snaps. She throws it away behind her.

She doesn't know what she was expecting to find inside. A creature of some kind, with green skin or two heads, maybe. Human pop culture has influenced her more than she would like to admit.

She definitely isn't expecting this.

The girl inside the pod can't be older than thirteen human years. Diana can see the girl's body is thin and malnourished, even obscured as it is by the loose, pristine white dress she's wearing, curled in on herself and shaking with violent sobs. A curtain of straight red hair obscures her face; small hands clutch at her ears in pain.

With no glass between them the screams are infinitely louder, and Diana can feel her heart fracturing with every second.

She kneels, unsure of what else to do, and reaches a hand out to - she's not sure what. Comfort the girl? Let her know she's not alone?

Whatever her intentions are, they don't matter, as the second her fingers make contact with the girl's bare skin she freezes, her head shooting up to look at Diana with piercing blue eyes. There's a chasmic depth to those eyes that makes her want to shiver - eyes she recognises from the mirror every morning, eyes that can't - shouldn't - exist on a girl so young.

"Ta- tanahn rip?" The girl stumbles in her words, sobs still spasming in her lungs, but Diana has enough experience with language to know from the way her mouth forms the syllables, the way they slip off her tongue like water, that this is her native language.

But to Diana they're nothing but sounds.

It throws her momentarily. She's never encountered a language she can't speak; this girl's language is alien to her in more ways than one.

She moves slowly, wary of startling the girl, whose body now shivers with tension as the crying subsides, and puts her hand on her chest. "I am Diana."

The girl blinks, eyes wide and flickering between the hand on Diana's chest and her face. "Die-anna," she says slowly, rolling the syllables slowly. Then she puts her own hand on her chest. "Khap nahn Kara Zor-El."

"Kara?" Diana asks, picking out the one word from the girl's sentence which sounds most like a name and hoping for the best. "That's a beautiful name."

The ship whirrs and beeps suddenly, startling both Diana and the girl, who after a second of hesitation tears her eyes away from Diana to look at the screen in front of her. Symbols flash and fly, strangely shaped characters Diana can't understand.

Her eyes are drawn to the one she does recognise, emblazoned in relief on Kara's chest: the symbol of Metropolis' resident alien superhero, Superman. Shaped like an S inside a diamond, it's hard to forget.

Her thoughts are distracted when the ship starts speaking. "Iwahzrham," the voice is crackling and full of static. "Rth Ehngiuo."

Things begin flashing on the screen again, and Diana realises with a start that they're no longer alien to her - they're English. The information flashes almost faster than she can comprehend, but Kara's eyes flicker back and forth across the screen with incredible speed.

As soon as the stream of information ends, the screens going black with a quick, unhealthy-sounding fizz, Kara blinks, wiping her eyes and sniffing before looking up at Diana. "I... I am Kara Zor-El, of Krypton."

The words are fractured and awkward in her mouth, but they're English. Diana stares at the girl, unable to quite comprehend what has just happened.

"What is Krypton?" she asks, shoving her amazement down so as not to frighten the girl - she knows well enough what it's like to be watched like a freak of nature, a dancing mokey in front of a circus audience.

"My home." Kara says slowly. She begins to stand up, but her legs shake and give way under her. Diana reaches out instinctively, holding the girl up. Lifting her out of the pod, she sets her down gently to sit on its lip.

"Your planet?" Kara nods. "Are you okay?"

Kara cocks her head to the side for a second. "My body is not impaired."

Diana decides not to push - she can easily hear the tremor in Kara's voice, and there's a fragility to her figure, on a knife edge between stability and shattering into a million pieces. "Can I help you?" she asks instead.

"I must find my cousin. I am here to protect him."

"Your cousin?"

"Kal-El."

The name sounds familiar, ringing bells somewhere in Diana's head, the answer just out of reach. Before she can voice her suspicions, however, she hears the tell-tale screech of sirens in the distance, the rhythmic, struggling roar of engines speeding uphill.

Kara flinches, clasping her hands over her ears as she looks wildly around her. "Iovis ulahdh," her voice breaks with pain. "That sound. It's so- loud."

"Come with me." Diana reaches her hand out. "I can take you somewhere safe. We can find your cousin." She's not sure what's possessing her to do this, but this girl is alone and scared. Tragedy and heartbreak seem to be sewn into her very bones; every move is weighted with a grief-filled heaviness, yet at the same time a strange lightness, as if each takes her by surprise. Diana can't simply leave her to fend for herself.

Kara doesn't even hesitate, taking hold of Diana's hand instantly. Her grip is strong, clutching like a lifeline - Diana is pretty sure her bones would be cracking, splintering into shards under the pressure, if she was human.

"Hold on," she warns Kara. Just as the first emergency vehicles crest the lip of the creator, Diana launches the two of them into the air.

[rhoswyn-ffxiv-blog]

[ The Last Wedding - Interlude ]

[ @marcellain; inspiration can be found here ]

Her feet were weary and had carried her through a long day of errands. Swollen from the hug of her boots, there was relief to be found as the still chilled earth reached up to kiss her bare soles. She suffered through the insistent prod of stray twigs until the cold had taken away the feeling in her toes. Even then, she walked. Her left hand drew a path across thirsty tree trunks as Rhoswyn wandered the Shroud, fingers reaching for the woods in the same way that their branches sought the sun. Spring would come soon, she thought.

Patience. Patience.

A lengthy skirt lapped at the remaining wetness of a faded frost and the dew pinned the fabric to her ankles. She hadn’t looked nearly as nice as she’d spent the day peering over wares in the Stalls of Gridania or chatting with the gardeners of the botanist’s guild. How is your father? Your mother told us that you’re… A laugh and a soft hand guided the conversation elsewhere. The price of white sage had gone up since she’d last found herself there hiding behind her mother’s hip. Things were different now.

Her mother had weaved flowers into her hair, letting a heavy braid and loose curls kiss at her daughter’s shoulders. “Practice for the wedding,” Estella had teased. Rhoswyn had smiled and she kissed both of her mother’s cheeks before she had left. She lacked both the time and the words that it would take to thank her mother for all that she had done.

Her purse bounced against her hip as she started to feel fat, fragile rowan berries popping beneath her steps and staining her skin. Inside, the rounded ridge of a wooden mask reminded her of its presence. Despite the layers of leather and fabric and skin and muscle, nothing could keep the mask from Rhoswyn’s mind. She could see its patterns drawn with an old knife into the wood. Her father had taught her the patterns on long, long caravan rides between the Shroud and Thanalan in her youth. A mature hand and seasons of practice had only made them more lovely.

She found a curve in the bark of the rowan and imagined a smile. “S’nice to see you again.”

Evening had poured orange and pink and purple into the sky and its light painted her face and her dress. Shedding her purse and her shawl and dropping her boots down into a curve of the rowan’s roots, she wore only sheer cotton, the blood of the rowan berries, and a crown of iris and crocus buds. The silhouette of her body beneath the fabric moved with the wind, dropping down so that she could sort through her cache. There in the grass, she was something wild and untouched. Her goods grounded her. She removed them one by one.

First came the bread: a fresh loaf whose decadent aroma still lingered in her mother’s kitchen. She laid it out at the base of the tree and pressed kisses into her fingers, tasting the wheat on her skin. Lifted hands sent the kisses into the tree’s leaves and she watched the wind carry them through the branches, smiling.

Grandpapa an’ Gran would have thought you lovely…

She’d lifted one final bottle of wine from the rack of the Chest before it’d all been seized and the cork fought her as she worked it from the glass. Splashes flooded the earth beneath her feet and it gulped it up. Rhoswyn poured until the bottle was empty and her tongue cleaned the neck of the bottle. Nothing more than a trickle and a taste waited for her there. She sheathed it in her purse again, not willing to risk leaving it.

Heavy dark clay found its place in a dip in the soil and Rhoswyn perched the bundle of sage in the middle of the bowl. A quick match strike lit the blossom of paper where she’d closed it all together and she let it burn until it unfurled and the flames caught the sage. A quick, anxious exhale extinguished the fire but the smoke rose up into the air and folded in on itself. It mingled with the breeze and the two became dance partners. She watched and she sighed. The cool air carried the scent of the sage poorly. She had hoped to find some comfort in that but still, she felt empty.

Rhoswyn took up the mask. Her mother had wrapped it in leather and silk and tied it off with the ribbon she’d worn in her hair when she’d married Brenner. Inside, Estella’s handwriting on a torn slip of parchment reminded her daughter, “He loves you. We love you.”

It was difficult to see behind the mask. The world became two distinct outlines through too small holes. Flashes of sunlight blinded her one moment and then revealed the world around her the next. She could feel her breath building heat against her feet. She wished that she could find a way to transfer it to her toes. Her arms were stiff and already tired as she lifted them up in front of her but the smoke and the wind invited her to join them and Rhoswyn accepted with grace. When she danced, her body stopped being her own. The motions had been a game in her childhood. It was how all Gridanian children learned. Now with a woman’s frame, her hands lifted toward the trees like an eager lover. Her feet carried her in circles, over and over and over again until her dizziness reminded her of her first sips of wine. Her head rolled across her shoulders, the flowers in her hair feeling too heavy for her neck to hold any longer. Her spine curved in an unnatural arch, lifting her chest to the sky -- no, to the leaves, and her grasping fingers spoke when her lips could not. Please. Gods, by your strength, please… By your wisdom, please…

Patience. Patience.

The wood trembled against her cheeks. The heat it contained was smothering. Rhoswyn could feel something grasping her wrists and her ankles. Its weight pulled her toward the earth but her dancing feet kicked at it. The blow connected with nothing but she felt freedom around her limb and she shook off the grasp of the woods with her dancing over and over again as it tried to claim her until she was breathless and tired.

The mask was heavy. Her body was heavy. Rhoswyn dropped herself onto her knees and her arms collapsed at her sides. She lifted the dark, dead eyes of the mask toward the sky. It was night now.

The woods no longer reached for her. She was free. She was free.

Her ring throbbed. She couldn’t feel her finger within in. The rest of her left hand was a hive of fried nerves, screaming underneath her skin.

Rhoswyn pulled away the mask. The sage had gone out long ago. Her hair had unraveled and she’d danced atop the flowers that had fallen from it, splattering the crocuses and the irises with the color of bleeding rowan berries. Her mother’s voice called out from a memory. Practice for the wedding…

There was one trial left.

[dolorousedditor]

Untitled Robbaery

(Haven’t posted much writing here lately so here’s a glimpse of a side project that grabbed my attention last summer)

Basic premise follows the SuperTullys. Cat and Edmure do right or fuck up in the best ways possible.

ROBB

He shouldn’t be here.

Standing within a ruined castle, sweltering beneath the midday sun, all of this only deepened his unease.

The yard was overgrown and much of it filled with the crumbled stone of a collapsed keep. Although little save its broken foundations remained intact, the castle’s massive curtain walls still stood, marred only by the unchecked spread of moss and vines, which crept up the stone like tendrils.

There’d be no need for ladders or ropes to scale these walls. Several castles here in the Westerlands had fallen to him after such assaults. Yet Robb could not claim credit for the devastation wrought upon Tarbeck Hall.

The lions did this. House Tarbeck joined with the Reynes of Castamere in rising against Casterly Rock.

And Tywin Lannister destroyed them for it.

Grey Wind stirred at his side, the direwolf answering the grim thoughts with a whine. Unlike his friend, Robb could not afford to let his worries show. Not while his bannermen were near. Galbart Glover, Ser Wendel Manderly, Ser Patrek Mallister, Dacey Mormont, he caught all glancing at him now and again. Looking to their king for guidance, wisdom, strength.

Expecting everything of him.

To be king is more than a title to boast. It is a duty. One judged by deed and how we face the whirlwind.

None stared with the intensity of Lord Rickard Karstark, whose severe features betrayed his impatience. The lord knew as Robb did. That Tywin Lannister had crossed the Red Fork and was at this very moment rushing to drive them from his domains. The lion had taken the bait but few had been in the mood to celebrate. Not with the ironmen ravaging the North.

Karstark was not alone in disdaining how he’d handled Balon Greyjoy’s treachery. The lord’s mood had soured further when, instead of taking the fight to their foes, Robb brought them here.

As he adjusted his crown, he sought the reason for their diversion. The sun had made the circlet of iron swords hot to the touch, yet his lady mother’s face remained cool and impassive as they waited. Lady Catelyn wore a gown of blue and red, the colors of House Tully, as she stood proudly beneath a Stark banner. While it flapped in the gentle breeze, the Lady of Winterfell did not waiver.

Until their eyes met and she raised an eyebrow.

“They will come,” Lady Catelyn said, sensing his thoughts. “We were early after all.”

“No, we were wary. If this is a trap, let them try and spring it with my men dug in and ready.”

He’d led three thousand to Tarbeck Hall. His archers ringed the walls, his cavalry arrayed on a hill to the east, and the Blackfish’s outriders watched all approaches for any sign of treachery.

That gnawed at him. For he was already guilty of considering a betrayal of his own.

“Lord Tyrell and his family have not come so far to act recklessly,” the lady continued. “Were that his intent, we would not hold such esteemed guests.”

The hostages she spoke of were cousins to Lord Mace Tyrell and a son of Lord Mathis Rowan. All members of the escort that accompanied Lady Catelyn to the battlefields of the west.

He’d sent his mother to the Reach to seek an alliance with Renly Baratheon and his southron allies. When word came of Renly’s death and how Stannis was willing to war against his own brother to secure the throne for himself, his hopes were dashed. Hence Robb’s surprise when, while his army raided the lands south of Casterly Rock, their outriders did spot an equal force marching north towards them. Not army of lions, but one of roses.

To find his mother among them came as a shock, yet it paled to that he felt to hear the proposal she carried.

“I cannot marry Margaery Tyrell. I am promised to another,” he would remind her. “A betrothal you arranged for me. One sworn in good faith to Lord Frey.”

“I had not forgotten,” Lady Catelyn did reply. “Nor has it slipped my mind how that betrothal was strangled from us by Late Lord Frey. A man who extorted our family when he should have done his duty by my father. What loyalty is owed to a man who shows none himself?”

“There is the duty I owe myself. To do the honorable thing,” he had said. “Would Mace Tyrell truly want a man so callous to wed his daughter?”

“Renly served well enough. Mace and the Reach lords were willing to aid him in usurping Stannis’s claim and Renly did not prove himself half as worthy as you. No Stark has done what you’ve managed in generations. The realm holds its breath at every move the Young Wolf makes.”

“What are my bannermen to think should I make this move? To abandon a sworn vow?”

“Your men are drunk with victory, Robb. They’ve grown accustomed to it. Now with the North under attack, they’ll hunger for vengeance against the Greyjoys just as they do the Lannisters. A marriage to Margaery Tyrell gives you the strength to sate their bloodlust. Wed this girl and the war is yours to win.”

She need not have said so. He was not so blind as to see the opportunity being handed him. A Frey wife won him four thousand men and a fragile kingdom. A Tyrell bride could deliver twenty times what the Freys had and help him deliver on all he’d promised he would as king. Not only to his men but to his family.

To himself.

His mouth was dry and heart heavy when he gave voice to it all.

“I want to get back to the North. To Bran and Winterfell. To have my sisters returned to us and justice done by father,” Robb had stared deep into his mother’s eyes at that. “But we both know he would be ashamed of me even considering this. Freys have died for me. They’ve fought by my side.”

“And many more may die should you reject this offer out of hand,” Lady Catelyn countered as she wrung her hands. “Your father was not perfect, Robb. He had his faults and, as deeply as I grew to love him, he did dishonor me. Still I loved him. Men served him. And he did all in his power to protect you and your brothers and sisters. Would he be proud of this? No, likely not. But he would understand. He would risk dishonor if it meant doing right by his people. By his blood.”

Robb suspected his mother would have been disappointed at how tempted he was all along. He forced remorse at the prospect of dishonouring the Freys, his mind so clouded with thoughts of the finest knights in the realm at his beck and call. With his memories of leaving Bran and Rickon behind at Winterfell, or watching Sansa and Arya depart for the south. Then came his father and the other dead. Eddard and Torrhen Karstark. Daryn Hornwood.

With Tywin Lannister approaching and the Greyjoys loose in his homeland, more were sure to fall.

Thus he agreed to meet with the Tyrells. To discuss their proposal as well as get their measure.

And to glimpse the lady who offered him both doom and salvation.

Robb’s nerves were so on edge that he nearly started when a call came down from the walls heralding an approaching party.

There were no gates left to Tarbeck Hall so the newcomers entered with ease. The Blackfish led them on, the older leather-clad knight holding the Stark banner high. He and Robb’s other guardsmen looked plain indeed compared to those of the Reach. As finely as the riverlords and westermen dressed Robb was taken aback by how lavish and vibrant the Tyrell party was. Among the many knights and lords two grabbed his attention almost immediately.

The elder of the two was tall and broadly built, with a well-trimmed beard and surcoat bearing two golden roses. His younger companion shared many of his features and even Robb noted the lithe, golden-eyed man to be among the most handsome he’d ever laid eyes upon. All this despite the dark circles beneath his eyes and weary expression he bore.

“Southron flowers,” Lord Rickard grumbled to Galbart. He did so just quietly enough that their guests remained ignorant of the slight. Robb did not altogether disagree, for he much preferred his wools, leathers and furs to silk and satin.

Gods and this is how the men dress, I can only guess at the frill and pomp of the women…

“Your Grace!” His uncle barked from atop his horse. “Allow me to present the sers Garlan and Loras Tyrell. Good knights, before you stands the Young Wolf! King in the North, King of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell! King Robb Stark!”

“Well met, King Robb,” Ser Loras dismounted and bowed. His brother quickly following suit.

“On behalf of our father, the Lord of Highgarden, we congratulate you on your many victories and offer condolences for your terrible losses.”

“I thank you for both, Ser Garlan, Ser Loras,” Robb gestured to his mother. “And for bringing my mother safely back to my side.”

“It was our pleasure. The Seven know our sister found great comfort in her company.”

“Comfort and joy, Garlan!” A melodic voice called his attention back to the gate where more riders were arriving.

He saw her then. Flanked by twin Tyrell guardsmen and riding upon a hickory mare, ca one of the most beautiful women Robb had ever laid eyes upon. Her softly rolling curls of thick brown hair matched her lively eyes and her body was both slender and shapely. His eyes lingered upon it. Unlike the Tyrell brothers, this lady was not dressed in a grandiose fashion. Her gown was a simple green, with golden stitching about the sleeves and bust. Pinned there was a rose wrought in gold, though its loveliness paled to the wearer.

Or the shy smile she offered as Ser Loras helped her dismount. Then it was Ser Garlan’s arm she took to stand before the northern party.

“My son, allow me to introduce the Lady Margaery Tyrell,” Lady Catelyn said. This bid Margaery to curtsy before him, those lovely eyes falling to the ground before seeking his again.

“It is an honor, my king,” the lady stayed low, “may the old gods and the new grant favor upon you and your sword.”

“As I wish for you and your family, my lady,” he said. Still she did not rise so Robb held out his hand to take a hold of hers. Her touch was warm, her fingers lightly running across his to take hold of his hand. Such gentleness felt most welcome after all these months of war.

A memory of Theon at the Crag came back. Of how the Greyjoy heir smiled as young Jeyne Westerling helped tend the wound Theon had taken in storming her castle.

“Well worth that arrow to enjoy such a fine woman’s company,” Theon had jested and sent the young lady blushing from the room.

“You’re ruining your heroic repute,” Robb had replied. “The men are saying you took that arrow to spare me. That couldn’t be so. Not after you cursed me for sending others to treat with Lord Balon rather than his own son.”

Theon’s smirk had faltered then.

“I knew Lady Stark didn’t trust me. Finding out my brother felt the same…”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. Lord Balon has only kept the faith when we hold something he values.”

“You mean when you hold a sword over my head,” Theon had snapped. Rubbing at his bandaged arm he had met Robb’s gaze fiercely.

“There was no blade at my throat when I pushed you from harm today. None when I named you a king. A brother. Would a mere captive do all that?”

“I did as a king must, Theon.”

Those words were likely less comfort to Theon than the soft bed and care Robb left him to at the Crag. The captured castle was meant to be place for Theon to heal yet soon after became his prison, for once word came of the Greyjoy betrayals he sent orders that Theon be held there. Some like Lord Karstark had demanded Theon’s head in response but Robb had defied them.

For the nonce at least, he lamented.

That was another hard decision awaiting him. Like that the Tyrells brought with them to Tarbeck Hall. Though to look upon Margaery Tyrell was to dull its harshness.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Margaery said once he’d released her hand. Suddenly a bereaved expression crossed her face.

“Dear brothers, I must say we have been poorly served in the word we’ve had of our host.”

“Oh?” Ser Garlan raised an eyebrow.

“Among all those testaments to his warrior’s skill and glorious campaigns, I recall no mention of his handsome bearing. If the truth was known most maidens of the Reach would forget his youth and name him the Comely Wolf.”

Dacey Mormont’s snort was nearly covered by Ser Garlan’s chuckling. Robb was bemused by the flattery, which was a rare occurrence in an army of northmen.

“That may give my foes the wrong impression,” he pointed out and brought a mirthful glint to Margaery’s eye.

“Do you imagine they’d expect someone taller?”

[mygreatestflaw]

There is nothing simple about loving the girl with the guarded heart.

She is not convinced by flowers and fancy dinners, nor won over by compliments and praise. In the beginning she is a slow dance, one step toward you, another step back, as she learns to trust the ways of your heart and the strength of your arms. The dance may be slow but it cannot be rushed, for she will sense the impatience of your steps and the way they fall out of time with hers. Dance with her. Follow the measure of her steps and in time, she will soon look to follow yours.

She will not show you her heart all at once, instead offer you a little at a time, unhurried and watchful of the way you hold each fragile piece. She longs for you to understand how much it takes her to show you these pieces; for you to trace your fingers over the scars left behind from others, to feel the whisper of your breath against her neck as you promise to hold her heart with more care than those who came before. There are parts of her heart that remain unreachable, parts she has buried under layers she will never reveal. Love these parts of her, the parts unseen, the shadows of her soul. For even the sky knows without darkness, the stars cannot adorn us with their light.

She will watch you closer than you realise, listen to every word you speak and weigh it against every action, searching for inconsistencies, seeking the truth of your word and the intention of your heart. Not because she can’t trust you, but because she is cautious, alert, wary; the stories of her past still etched upon her mind. She isn’t ready to trust her heart with you. Not yet. Not until she knows you are a man of your word, a man of steadfast hands and unchanging ways.

There is a part of her that will always remain a little detached, ready to run if she thinks her heart will get damaged again. She no longer believes in second chances, having used all of them on those undeserving of such grace. To hurt her means to lose her, for she would sooner be alone than risk losing the life she has fought so damn hard to rebuild with her own wearied hands. She isn’t there because she needs you. She doesn’t need anyone. She’s there because she has chosen you, because she wants you, because she believes you are worth the risk. And all she asks is for you not to prove her wrong in the chance she has taken, for it has cost her more than you know.

She will need more reassurance than most, she will need you to stay present, available, mindful of her scars. She will think too much, talk too little, cry too often, ask too many questions, struggle to rest in your love. She is complex. Complicated. Perplexing. Sometimes difficult.

But beyond her guarded heart lies a soul that contains the wonders of the universe. One that longs to live and love with abandon, that desires connection and intimacy and to be in relationship with someone who sees both her beauty and her scars, and knows how to fall in love with both.

She holds within her a fierce spirit; brave, strong, courageous, unrelenting; yet is also the quiet and the calm, a place to take shelter against the fury of the wind on storm-filled days. She is nurture, she is passion. She is a touch of madness against ordinary skies, a vulnerable heart with a fearless soul, a barefoot warrior who follows no trails but sets her own path.

She is grounded in her truth, accepting of her flaws, far from perfect but closer to real than most. She is wildflowers and ocean currents and meadows that dance upon the breath of summer winds, uncontained in earthly beauty and free in spiritual grace.

Broken, she knows what it means to suffer. But out of the depths of her suffering, she has come to understand love. And her guarded heart waits for the one who understands it too.

No, there may be nothing simple about loving the girl with the guarded heart.

But every day you choose to love her, she’ll prove to you why she’s worth it.