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daycourtofficial · 7 months

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Prophesize Me

Summary: Everyone finds out you and Azriel are mates before the two of you do.

Author’s note: I really love this concept, and I hope you guys do too!! 💕

“I would ask you how my niece is doing, however I have an inkling that she’s doing quite well, and will be better soon.”

Rhysand hated whenever Helion got like this. With all of Helion’s knowledge, occasionally he would like to speak in riddles. After receiving confused looks from Feyre and Rhys, Helion handed them a piece of paper, with the words,

“6 becomes 8,

Shadows dance in his wake,

Cobalt light, night skies,

Golden string ties”

Rhysand and Feyre look at each other, both looking incredibly confused, when Helion chirps in.

“My sister was loved by the Mother and the cauldron. When she had all 7 of her babes, the cauldron blessed each of them with a mate.”

Their eyes go wide, searching for you in the crowd of partygoers, and Feyre’s surprise makes her blurt out, “she has a mate?”

Helion chuckles. “Yes, she and her brothers all do. But none of them know who their mate is. Just that they have one somewhere. They were each blessed with a prophecy denoting the identity of their mate.”

He looks pointedly at the paper in Rhys’s hands.

“I started having suspicions when I visited you in Night a few weeks ago, so I went back and reviewed their prophecies and I think we can take an educated guess as to the subject of hers.”

All three of them look at you and Azriel, the two of you engrossed in conversation with one of your brothers.

“Six becomes eight. Azriel has two brothers, me and Cassian. She has six brothers already.” Rhys says, shock all over his face at knowing his brother, who deserves this so much, is going to get his mate. He’s almost vibrating with happiness.

“Do they know?” Feyre asks Helion.

“No,” Helion sighs, “The curse of the prophecy is that the subjects can’t know. If you talk to them about it, it’ll just sound like you’re speaking nonsense.”

“Could we tell Azriel?”

“My assumption would be if he were her mate, if you tried, it would just sound like nonsense. It could be a way to test the theory.”

Feyre and Rhysand couldn’t stop smiling at each other, speaking mind to mind.

“This is incredible. She’s wonderful, she’s adorable! We’ve known her for a while, we all like her, she’s already part of the family.”

“And we know her family! She’s related to Helion - whom we love dearly.”

“How the hell are we going to keep Azriel’s mate a secret from him?”

“How the hell are we going to keep Azriel’s mate a secret from Cassian?”

Cassian wasn’t a spymaster, but he always had a sixth sense when it came to knowing things about his friends. One look at Feyre and Rhys and he’ll know that they know something.

“Do you know what the golden string ties?” Helion asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

Feyre and Rhys look at each other, trying to recall a golden string. Feyre’s eyes go wide as she remembers, “I saw a box In her room a few days before solstice with a gold ribbon around it, but I never saw it in the pile of gifts.”

Rhys turns to her, “I saw Azriel carrying a tiny box with gold string around it a week ago. He wouldn’t tell me anything,” Rhys thinks for a moment, “and I don’t recall seeing them exchange gifts.”

Helion is interested in this - you confided in your uncle about most things, but your love life was not one of them. Helion loved gossip, but when it came to you, it wasn’t just fun gossip. It was your life.

“Solstice was just yesterday - if the prophecy is directly mentioning something that happened on Solstice, then if they are mates, the bond should snap any day now.”

The three of them continue watching you, Azriel, and one of your brothers converse, when Azriel says something that makes you and your brother howl with laughter.

“It can be hard knowing how things will turn out - prophecies are a deep interest of mine,” Helion says, watching you with a smile on his face, “it’s nice that this one will have a happy ending.”

Feyre and Rhysand kept the secret from Cassian for twelve hours, a brand new record for them. They were all standing in the kitchen of the house of wind, telling him what they knew. They weren’t too concerned with you and Azriel finding them because the two of you stayed behind in the day court for a few extra days.

When they told him, they honestly thought they had short-circuited him. He just kept going “her… and him… and her…” until eventually the biggest grin spread across his face and he lunged and pulled Feyre into a bone-crushing hug.

“I have to get the feelings out and she’s not here for me to do this to so I’m pretending you’re her!” He says, while spinning Feyre around while she giggles.

Once Cassian is done spinning, he sets Feyre down and looks at them and goes, “okay, so what do we do now? Any schemes?”

“Why are we scheming?” Feyre asks, a little wobbly from the spinning.

“Well we could lock them in a room together,” Rhys says, not answering his mate.

“We could send them on a dangerous mission together, and they’ll be so shaken by how close they come to death, BOOM, the bond snaps,” Cassian says animatedly.

Feyre looks at him, assessing him, “Cass, are you reading romance books?”

He stutters a little, “sometimes Nesta reads out loud so I can fall asleep more quickly.”

“Aww reading really is so boring to you it puts you to sleep,” Rhys coos, reaching over to pinch Cassian’s cheeks, “she reads you bedtime stories.”

“Anyway,” Cassian draws out, trying to draw attention back to the matter at hand, “what are we going to do about our little shadowsinger and our little princess of day?”

Cassian was asked to keep his mouth shut and tell no one. So naturally by the time the sun rose the next day, the entire inner circle knew, as did Cassian’s favorite barista and Rita.

“He’s going to be pissed you’re telling all of Velaris his private information, especially before he even knows it,” Rhys tells Cassian, in their war council like meeting.

“He won’t be pissed in the slightest - it’s going to snap any day and we won’t see them for months. Besides, he already struts around town with her, no one was going to be surprised at this,” Cassian says, and Feyre’s shocked his face doesn’t hurt from how hard he’s been smiling since he heard the news.

Cassian did have a point - tons of Velaris citizens had come up to Feyre to ask if the you and the spymaster were together, most feeling disappointed when she said no, none being brave enough to ask the shadowsinger himself.

Mor was buzzing with excitement, her guilt from leading Azriel on has dissipated since you entered their lives, but now even moreso that you’re his mate. She’s especially happy that that means you’ll likely become a more permanent resident in the night court. The inner circle adored you, but they were always afraid you’d eventually just go back to your home in the day court to be with your brothers and Helion.

“I mean, they’re still in day, so maybe the bond did snap, and we just won’t see them again until the spring!” Mor laughs, true excitement coming from her. “Is there a way to know about the bond long distance?”

“I like Cassian’s idea of sending them on a mission, send them to winter so they’ll have to snuggle for warmth,” Lucien, who happened to be one of your oldest friends, speaks up. Elain hits him on the chest, rolling her eyes at her mate.

“Oh oh oh,” Mor pipes in, “we get a male to hit on her, oooh that would really piss off Azriel.”

“He’s already going to be super territorial once the bond snaps, if that happens he genuinely might try to hide her away for years,” Rhys replies, knowing how territorial Azriel already was over you.

“What if we all just disappear for a few days? Leave the two of them here in the townhouse?” Elain says, and Lucien rubs her thigh.

The group considers it - most of them do have their own homes in the city, leaving you and Azriel mostly by yourselves in the townhouse, but the inner circle usually drops by throughout the day. Cassian alone probably comes by five times a day - even more when Nesta’s upset with him.

“None of us visit, and we can’t allow them to come visit us.” Feyre says.

“Just want to point out this was essentially the first idea I had of locking them in a room together,” Rhys grins.

The group continues arguing, with Elain’s idea being the frontrunner.

You and Azriel stayed in the day court for an extra night. You got incredibly drunk at the late solstice party with your family, and you also wanted to show Azriel around the day court palace.

You two spent most of the day in some of your favorite libraries - just the sight of one taking Azriel’s breath away. You two spent hours walking around the libraries, telling him about growing up here. You also showed him around the museums - noting to him one of the paintings that was donated by Feyre. You had joked that of course it featured Helion on his pegasus.

Now you were back in your private chambers, showing him your much less impressive personal library.

“Do you miss living here?” Azriel asks, the question on his mind since you all came to the party, after seeing how happy you were with your family.

“Mm, yes and no. I like spending a few weeks here out of the year, I love coming for holidays or just to visit, but it feels like a distant home, like I’m 9 years old,” you say, turning to face him, “I’ve traveled a good bit around Prythian, and honestly I never felt as at home as I do in Velaris.”

The confession hangs in the air. The unspoken words sitting on your tongue, not being brave enough to utter them - “I never felt at home until you.”

He can’t help the grin on his face as he says, “if I may, night court black suits you very well.”

Your cheeks flame as you reply, “it suits you very well, too.”

The two of you somehow closer than you were, only about a foot apart, when a knock shatters the moment. Azriel swears he hears a tiny groan from you as he steps away from you, looking over the shelves of your books, when one title catches his eye. As your attention is focused on the fae who came in to let you know that dinner is ready, he slips the book into his coat pocket.

The two of you had winnowed back to the townhouse, directly into your private chambers.

“Can I ask you about something?” Azriel looks at you, curiosity all over his face.

“Anything,” you reply, neither of you moving from the tight hold you had on each other while winnowing.

“Why do you own this?” As he says it, he pulls out a book that you received for Solstice from Amren, one you were especially trying to keep hidden, which is exactly why you brought it with you to leave in your library in the day court.

“Ilyrians: Pleasing a Partner with Wings?” He asks, reading the title. Your mouth is wide open, looking like a fish without water.

“There’s an inscription,” you reply, and Azriel can barely hear it. He’s a little concerned his teasing has gone too far, when he opens the inscription to find Amren’s handwriting.

“Sun Girl,

make a move on the shadowboy. Here’s a guide on how.

Lukewarm regards,

Amren”

Azriel was shocked that Amren would get involved in any of their love lives, much less yours. He didn’t even know if Amren liked you, as much as Amren can like anyone.

“Amren gave you a solstice gift?” Azriel asks. You nod, still hiding behind your hands in embarrassment.

“And she wants you to fuck me?”

You choke on air at his bluntness, “well - uh- I mean - yes but maybe like not in a casual way?”

He looks at you, taking in how clearly embarrassed you are at this gift, at his discovery of it.

“So not in a casual way?” He asks, loving how cute you are in this moment.

You look at your hands, you look around your room, for anything, really, when you say, “not um in a casual way, yes.”

“So you would fuck me in a non-casual way?” He asks, clearly enjoying watching you squirm through this conversation.

You pause, and Azriel’s again afraid he’s gone too far, when he hears you say, “yes.”

“Do you.. have feelings… for me?” He asks, none of his own feelings showing on his face.

You look up at him. Now or never, you think.

“Yes,” you say, looking him in the eye, “yes.”

He continues looking at you as he responds, “good.”

“Good,” you say, not sure what he means, but not wanting to ask.

“Good,” he says, and before you can say the same, he pulls your face into his. Kissing him was an experience for your entire body- you could feel his hands on your face, his body pressed against you, when you felt something in your chest go pop!

You stopped kissing him to look at him in shock, when he’s already smiling at you. “You know!” you shout, “you knew!”

He laughs at your reaction, taking a moment before telling you, “it snapped when we exchanged gifts. I uh needed a few days to process it.”

You nod, Azriel was not someone who took change well, and this was a big one. You can understand him taking a few days to tell you.

“Needed time to process it, but do you uh regret it?” You ask, trepidation coating your voice.

“Not at all. I just… never thought I’d have this. I didn’t want to start things off by saying or doing the wrong thing.”

You smiled at his thoughtfulness, feeling the warmth of the bond in his chest.

Rhys was no fool - he knew you two were in day and could return at any minute, so he shielded the room so if either of you came you wouldn’t be able to hear the discussion. He didn’t account for the fact that maybe you were already upstairs, and if you walked by and saw all of your friends gathered not making a noise, it would terrify you.

Which is exactly what happened.

They all heard you scream and turn to see you in the open doorway, Azriel’s shirt hanging off your body. Rhys starts to pull the shield down, wanting to make a crack at you wearing his brother’s clothes, when they’re all hit by the smell. It was so incredibly strong, they all were practically suffocated by it. It smelled like the early morning, when the moon kisses the earth, allowing for night to meet the day.

It all happened so fast, your scream, the shield coming down, Azriel winnowing in a defensive position after hearing your scream from upstairs, all of your friends screaming at the scent of the bond.

Azriel’s in front of you, ready to defend you, only to find Cassian charging at the two of you. He engulfs both you and Azriel in a hug, picking you both up and spinning you. You, in Azriel’s shirt, and Azriel, in his undershorts.

“It’s been like six hours, I thought they wouldn’t know until at least tomorrow,” you muffle into Cassian’s chest at Azriel, who huffs in response.

After what feels like a lifetime of spinning, Cassian sets you down, and you have to brace yourself on your knees to keep from throwing up.

“What are you guys doing here? In a shielded room?” You ask, hands still on your knees, and no one wants to meet your gaze, until Amren speaks.

“They discovered your prophecy, girl.”

Azriel looks to you, confusion on his face. You had honestly forgotten all about the prophecy - you didn’t know the contents, so you didn’t ever let yourself think of it.

You turn to Azriel, “my brothers and I have prophecies about who our mates are, but we can’t hear our own prophecies until they’re fulfilled. I never knew what it stated, just that I had a mate somewhere.”

“And you all heard it?” Azriel asks, looking around the room like everyone was a threat. If the smell didn’t give the bond away, Azriel’s hyper focus on his family as threats certainly did.

“Well,” Cassian interjects, “Helion told Feyre and Rhys, who told the rest of us.”

Nests hits his arm, “they told Cassian and he told the rest of us, big blabbermouth.”

“We just found out last night, and we were meeting to see if there was anything we could do about helping it snap, but it seems like that was a bit pointless.”

You look at Azriel, everything is so new, you have no idea how he would feel about being a pawn in your prophecy, much less about his family knowing something so important with you two being the last ones to know.

The room is still loud, Mor and Cassian found wine bottles and are popping them open. Everyone’s celebrating, while Azriel leans down and whispers to you.

“So, the mother made you for me,” he quirks his mouth into a grin.

“Actually, I’m three days older than you, so I think the mother made you for me,” you retort.

“Oh no, however will I go on? Being made for such a thing of beauty and brains?” He asks. Then he pauses, insecurity taking hold of him for a moment, “are you disappointed? I mean surely growing up knowing you had a mate, you dreamt up imaginary males whisking you away. How do I compare?”

You really take a look at him, a rare moment of vulnerability from him, as you consider a reply. “The males always whisked me away, off to foreign lands.” You look ahead at the chaos of the sheer joy your shared family is experiencing at the news. “You have brought me home.”

You grab his hand, rubbing your thumb across the back of it, hoping that that answer was enough for now. You have centuries to show that the imaginary males are nothing to the real thing.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff

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wlntrsldler · 2 months

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non-canon thoughts, poseidon!reader x luke, oldersister! x percy, suggestive content, death, literally doesnt make sense but i dont care lol

update: blurb 1 about this in the reblogs

thinking about how luke’s favorite place to kiss you is on the flesh right above your right hipbone. he would lay on your stomach, nuzzling into you while you tangled your fingers in his hair. he would sigh in content and kiss you there. after a grueling day of training, your bones would ache and he would pepper kisses across the bruises that littered your skin and place a gentle kiss there before rubbing it with the pad of his thumb. he would look at you, with his eyes blown wide with desire, as he trailed kisses down your body, stopping there to watch your face, before wandering lower.

his hand would be permanently glued there as you walked around camp, greeting the younger campers who squealed at how perfect the two of you are together. he’d give your hip a squeeze before he left you for the day to tend to his duties.

percy would pretend to gag at your displays of affection, but deep down, he was happy that his sister was loved by someone, even if he just met you days prior. you cared about him the way he always wished a sibling would. and he liked luke, he was everything a demi-god should be.

so when word of luke’s betrayal rang across camp, percy raced to find you. he didn’t want to accept that you might’ve known about the plan all along, but he couldn’t be too careful anymore. he once thought of the world of luke. but when he saw you, sitting in the dark of the poseidon cabin, sobs wrecking through your body, percy knew that you hadn’t known.

at first your purpose wasn’t clear. you were not the child of poseidon who shall fulfill the prophecy, that was percy, but as the months went on, it became clear. your purpose was to protect percy at whatever cost.

in your final moments, despite being bestowed with the power of the river styx, you grew tired. percy had learned of your purpose in the prophecy, and he, as the boy who refused to accept fate, wanted to stop it from happening, but you knew, it only delayed the inevitable. you were going to die saving percy.

there you were, under the mercy of luke, the boy you once loved. there was blood dripping out of your mouth, but you managed to crack a smile. you reached to touch luke’s cheeks, memorizing the remnants of him that were left.

luke was fighting, begging kronos to spare you, but it was too late. you wrapped your hand around luke’s and drove the blade into your hipbone.

#luke castellan #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #pjo series #pjo tv show #pjo spoilers #pjo #late night thoughts #clearing out my drafts #frances writes #frances shit posts

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loveindefinitely · 4 months

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༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

03 — MY COMPASS, MY TRANSPORT

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

“I have nothing else to live for.”

It’s a truth. A deep, earnest one – and it’s the only option you have.

Without Graves, without your Shadows, you have nothing. No income, no family, no support. You're left with the clothes on your body and the shoes in which you stand, with no hope of finding your footing.

In the darkness, the only light shines from the headlights of the truck, and the red of the radio. It’s silenced, of course, but it serves as a beacon of something between you all.

“I don’t – I have no other choice,” you say, voice trembling. You would not break in front of them, but you could feel yourself cracking; porcelain underneath a harsh grip. Turning yourself so you’re completely facing the two, your expression turns desperate. “I want to help you both, and I want to save Phi– Graves.”

You correct yourself at the final moment, wary of your slip up.

“Save ‘im? From what? Feckin’ charges for war crimes? Getting his ass handed to ‘im?” Soap chokes out, incredulous, eyes wide where they meet yours. He winces when he moves forward too quick, straining his arm.

“He’s…” You look down at your hands, merely watching for a moment as they close into a fist and open again. Blood crusts underneath your fingernails. “He’s all I have. I’m sure he just needs a wake up call, someone to snap him out of it.”

“He tried to kill us,” Ghost speaks up, matter-of-fact, but quiet. As if at any moment, his words will wake up the entire city. If there were any civilians left in it, you supposed. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“...And I had to kill some of my men.”

It’s a confession of sin. Like poison on your tongue, yet at the same time, an anecdote to an evil in your veins. You’d killed your men. You’d… done that.

You still haven’t quite allowed yourself to realise it, not yet.

But if it’s enough to keep you alive right now, so be it. You hadn’t gotten this far just to give up over something as inconsequential as pride.

“Ye will tell us everything you know about ‘im. And’ll help us until we figure out what to do. We’re our own bosses now, Sweetheart,” Soap commands, that fucking nickname of his seeming to stick. You don’t dispute it – not right now, not when this is quite literally life or death.

“I promise,” you say, resolute and stern. There was no time for self-pity or wallowing, only time for action and conviction – something you had in spades. “I’m yours for as long as you need me.”

You hadn’t known how true those words would be – not then, and not for a good while. But they were a prophecy, if such a thing could at all be possible for a woman like you.

Soap and Ghost share a look; a brief, yet important one, before Ghost gives the Scot a short nod. Soap turns once more to you, his face betraying the answer of their silent agreement.

“...So?” You suggest, impatient considering the consequences of the next few moments.

Bringing a hand up to stroke at his stubbled chin, Soap makes an act of pretending to ponder – and it succeeds in stoking the flames at your core, fury burning through you like a liquor-soaked rope.

“I dunno, lass,” he says on a sigh, his ocean eyes betraying a mischief in their depths. “Yer kinda mean to me.”

You might choke him.

Actually, check that, you will choke him. He’s impossible – an arsehole to the nth degree – somehow worse than Ghost in his… foolishness? Was that the right word? Or just straight frustrating-ness?

Seeming to sense your thinning patience, Soap’s hand falls from his jaw with a mirthful smirk, proud of himself.

“If ye say pretty please, ye can join our lil’ duo.” He finishes the statement off with a wink, and you don’t realise that your hands have curled into fists until the sharp pain of nails digging into your palms force you to resort back to your senses.

You let out a slow, loud breath.

Neither of them move a muscle, except for the twitch of Soap’s dimple. You hate that you recognise such a small movement, but you easily blame it on the fact that it’s a drilled-in mentality.

“...Please,” you acquiesce, however quiet.

Ghost’s eyebrow raises. How you’re aware of that, considering his mask, is a props to him.

“That’s not what he asked for.” His voice is a low, husky thing, and the title of guard dog suddenly doesn’t sound so incorrect.

With your teeth gritted and cheeks straining, you mutter out, “Pretty please.”

Soap’s responding smile is nothing short of beaming, and you almost immediately wish that you could take those words back. Was death really so bad? Would it even be a mercy, compared to deciding to share a threadbare camaraderie with these weirdos?

Too bad time control isn’t exactly a well-researched military weapon.

“Let’s go then,” Ghost slaps his gloved hand against the steering wheel, before looking one last time towards you with purpose, “Sweetheart.”

Soap laughs.

You get out and slam the door in his face.

“Och! You feckin’ bastard, lass,” you hear him screech, before the door opens once more and Soap hops out, fuming.

Turning away, you fall behind Ghost, and quickly take a look around at the vast, empty area that is barren suburbia. Not before responding, however.

“Next time you get shot, I’m not taking care of your ass,” you threaten. “And I’m giving the rest of my sweets to Mr. Melodramatic.”

Soap’s returning mock gasp is, in all fairness, pretty comedic. “You have more sweets? Gimme those and ye lovely bedside manners ‘nd I’ll get a cavity!”

Your returning glare could cut steel. “Keep that up, and you’ll end up with bigger issues than a cavity.”

“I think ye are already the bigger issue,” Soap snaps back, but it’s not inherently malicious. It’s… borderline playful, and that sudden thought has you internally slapping yourself.

“Both of ya – quiet,” Ghost warns.

You both shut up immediately.

With wary steps, the three of you go to step up towards the front door, when Ghost swings out a hand, stopping the lot of you in your tracks. The night doesn’t allow for any of you to see well, but he must’ve picked up something that you hadn’t.

The thought is an immediately terrifying one.

“Pressure plates,” Soap murmurs under his breath, eyeing the square linoleum tile. “Nice catch, Lt.”

Ghost doesn’t respond, instead motioning for you to follow him towards a glassless window. Gravel crunches underneath your light footfalls, easily heard in the deathly quiet, as you move to swing your leg over the access point and drop to the floor inside.

Landing with a soft thud, you go to unfurl from your crouching position, before a loud warning shout from Ghost has you freezing.

Flinching where you stand, your eyes dart to where Ghost has flung one of his daggers, the sharp metal splintering a wooden beam further into the dark room. Realising that Soap sits at your flank, you shift your gaze to spot a red light focused in on his forehead – between his eyes.

“¿Quien esta ahi?” An unfamiliar, accented voice calls out from behind the beam. You could slap yourself for being so careless, in not realising that someone else was in here before Ghost had saved your arses.

“Rodolfo!” Soap calls out, relief flooding his tone as he rights his position, shoulders back.

A man peeks out from behind the wood, eyes wide and slightly panicked, before they soften at the sight of the two men behind you. “Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!”

Stepping out from around the beam, he reaches for Ghost’s dagger, pulling it away from where it had dug into the oak with undeniable ease. His appearance is striking, with a set jaw and gentle features – he’s quite pretty, but not at all in a way that you find yourself attracted to the man.

“Affirmative,” Ghost responds, accepting the knife back when the man – Rodolfo – hands it to him hilt-first.

“Good to see you, amigos,” Rodolfo smiles, before his appraisal sets on you, confusion sparking in his deep brown eyes. He looks to the two men at your side for an explanation, hesitant in the way he does so.

“This is…” Soap trails off, before coming to a realisation. “Feckin’ hell. I never even asked for yer name, Sweetheart.”

Rodolfo blinks. Once, twice, before his eyebrows furrow and his mouth settles into an uncomfortable grimace.

You shoot a glare Soap’s way, before gifting Rodolfo a polite, yet stilted, smile. Extending your hand, you give him your name, and then your official title.

“Colonel? Graves’ colonel?” Rodolfo repeats back, utterly taken aback by such an introduction. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, quickly hissing to Soap in unamused Spanish, “¿Has perdido la cabeza?”

“I saved his life,” you interrupt, before any verbal sparring begins. “And I’m on your team. I don’t agree with what Graves is doing – and I’m sorry for what he’s already done. But I want to help you. I swear.”

Rodolfo regards you for a moment, his internal walls still heavily locked in place. But he seems… softer, now, in a way. More understanding, maybe, less hesitant as he slowly appraises you, inspecting you under his critical analysis.

The silence stretches, before the soldier raises his hands placatingly, the left side of his mouth twitching into a smooth smirk. “No accusations from me, Corazón,” he reassures, the pet name sliding from his full lips like butter over warm toast.

“Aye, none of tha’,” Soap warns, and Rodolfo’s amusement deepens. Whatever the Scot is about to say next is abruptly stopped by Ghost’s booming demand from behind you both.

“Anyone outside of these walls is now considered a hostile – we’re a team now. This happened under my watch, and I’d bloody well do good to fix it.” His posture is stiff, hand unconsciously flexing around the blade strapped to his belt as he delivers the order. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him speak in one shot.

You figure he’s stopped speaking, when suddenly his heavy gaze is on you, any ounce of solidarity snuffed out like a match’s flame. “You fuck up once, Sweetheart, and I won’t hesitate when I shoot ya dead.”

It’s as good of a compromise as you’re going to get from the hulking Lieutenant, but you weren’t made Colonel for your talents in stepping down.

“You forget that I outrank you,” you challenge, chin raised and eyes flinty. “And that I saved your mutt.”

“We don’t have a feckin’ dog,” Soap starts, but when he sees the way Ghost side eyes him, and how you give him an unimpressed look, his jaw drops. “Ye bastard! Shoulda killed ya –”

Rodolfo’s hand wraps around Soap’s forearm, the grumbling man twisting in his hold, but not putting up anything close to a fight. “She’s just stirring you up, hermano,” Rodolfo placates, his large eyes meeting yours with a hint of respect in them. It has you straightening your spine, and your resolve.

“We sort this out as equals,” you state, folding your arms over your chest and bucking your hip. Ghost doesn’t, for a single second, shift your mutual eye contact. “And you will all tell me what the fuck’s going on – and what we’re doing.”

“Alejandro,” Ghost quips, sharp and to the point. Finally, you think, his near-black eyes drift to Rodolfo. “We need him back.”

“He’s the only other lad we can trust out there,” Soap adds, his pout easing slightly. Rodolfo finally drops his hand, clapping it hard against the petulant man’s shoulder with a firm nod.

“Already got a head start, hermanos,” he gestures for the three of you to follow him further into the room, before his calculating eyes glance back at you, “y hermana.”

It’s an unknown, entirely different feeling that erupts inside of your chest at the inclusion. Rodolfo was clearly the most soft spoken man of the three, but he had an intelligence to him that you couldn’t wait to unpack. And he trusted you. Or so you had gathered, anyway.

However.

First things first.

“...Where’s Alejandro? I thought he was Mexican Special Forces?” It was, admittedly, a unique kind of embarrassing – how out of the loop you felt, considering you were a colonel under Graves’ command. You’d heard the man’s name before, but it was usually just paired with barracks gossip and warnings to steer clear. Some joke about how the only one who could kill Alejandro, was the soldier himself.

Moving along with Rodolfo, you’re surprised when it’s Soap who supplies you the answer.

“Your fuckwit of a Commander’s got ‘im,” he curses, the words grating and harsh. Deserved, of course it was deserved, yet it was still odd hearing such disrespect for the man of whom you’d idolised for so long.

Of whom you’d given everything.

Switching a light on, Rodolfo stops in front of a large table, a map laid out across the top of it. Your eyes go wide at the intricacies – focusing as the man leans over and presses a finger towards a highlighted spot, watching the three of you where you stand on the other side. Dust floats near the source of the lamp, and the scent of grime hits you a moment later, a familiar thing.

“Graves is holding him here,” Rodolfo explains, his previously mischievous expression settling into a firm, military-grade frown.

“His own personal black site prison,” Soap scoffs, subconsciously flexing his fingers around the straps of his vest. His focus is utterly devoted to the map in front of him, but his anxiety shows itself through the tiniest of movements.

Rubbing his spare hand down his face, Rodolfo lets out a long, strewn-out sigh. “My men are locked in there, too.”

“Then let’s get them back,” you supply with a small shrug when all eyes shoot your direction.

“That’s obvious, lass,” Soap says, lacking any hint of his previous vitriol when he looks around the room. “How we get ‘em back is the question.”

“By breaking in,” Ghost answers, the retort as simple as breathing.

If you weren’t so receptive to body movements, to the smallest of expressions, you’d’ve missed it. Even then, you doubted that anyone could miss how Soap’s eyes soften when he looks to his Lieutenant, how his breath softly hitches in his throat.

You want to claw out your eyes with a rusty spoon.

By the look on Rodolfo’s face, he feels much the same – until he catches you staring, and then his face twists into something much more cryptic. Like a man trying to solve a puzzle without all of the pieces, being forced to jam spares into spots that just won’t fit.

“We need weapons,” you startle out, the words surprising even yourself. You don’t go back on them, don’t even think to. “If we want to stand a fighting chance – we need firepower.”

“Who said you’re with us?” Ghost questions snarkily, but when you go to reply, you find that Rodolfo’s moved to the corner of the room, switching on even more lights, displaying a wrought iron door.

Sliding it open, you feel like a kid on Christmas morning as you take note of the supplies within.

Rodolfo shrugs, but the small, smug grin on his face doesn’t dispel. “It’s well-stocked. This is Ale we’re talking about.”

The affectionate nickname is something you store away for later. ‘Well-stocked’ is certainly an understatement – guns of all types line the walls within the room, all types of bombs and grenades along with it.

“Alright,” Ghost huffs out, the closest to appreciative that a man like him can get.

Soap is much more upfront about his joy. “My man!” He laughs, his dimples etched into his features like the light spattering of freckles over his upper cheeks and nose bridge. “We’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armoured.”

Digging into his pocket, Rodolfo pulls out a set of keys, tossing them over to Ghost with relaxed shoulders. Turning, shock must be evident on all of you, because Rodolfo lets out a low chuckle. “Your wish is my command, hermanos y hermana.”

To the far end of the room, within the adjoined stables, is a fully-armoured forward drive of some sort – sleek and black and fucking perfect.

“Alejandro thought of everything,” Ghost admires, and when you look to him, you swear that you can see a hint of hope shining in his darkened eyes. Your heart skips a beat on its own accord, and you’re absorbed by the all-consuming want to pull it out of your chest with your bare hands, just so it never does such a thing again.

“Yeah, he did,” Soap whistles, before turning back around to face your small band of misfits. With a determined grin, he says as if it’s an afterthought, “Let’s go get ‘im.”

With a stern resolve and an even sterner disposition, you walk alongside your newfound teammates, and get ready for the most difficult mission of your military career.

When you’d, stupidly, recklessly, decided to play good guy and helps out the 141 and Los Vaqueros, you hadn’t taken into account how you’d be at the bottom of the totem pole.

While the three men you were working alongside were all considerably close, you were an outsider. At that, an outsider who had, only a few hours ago, decided to swap sides from enemy to ally.

Being paired with Ghost is, arguably, the most gut-wrenching job in your life. By the time that Rodolfo finds Alejandro through the CCTV system, you’re nearly entirely covered in dried blood, and your head thumps with a headache.

Not a headache from war – a headache from the fucking twat with a shitty DIY job for a military get-up.

“You’re seriously the worst,” you grit out, wiping off a bit of Shadow blood that’s been sprayed on your cheek. “I seriously can’t fucking believe that any one of your mates can tolerate you.”

“Who needs ‘mates’ when I have my boys?” Ghost quips back, wiping off his bloody dagger onto his vest, before slotting it back into its rightful position on his belt. His ability to blend into the night, even with the prison lights on, is uncanny – the only tell the white of his stitched-in skull.

You mock a disgusted sound, sticking out your tongue. “You sound like a fuckboy.”

“A what?” And, although it sounds nothing like a choke, you’re sure that it’s an instinctual question.

The sound of a helicopter up ahead has the two of you pausing in your tracks, feud coming to a quick halt. Looking up, you struggle to see the vehicle in the black of night, but you manage to spot the slowly circling heli above the prison.

“Ghost, Sweetheart, what’s yer status?” Soap’s voice trickles in through your comms. Ghost glances at you, before he answers on your behalf, ever the control-freak.

“Comin’ your way.”

Falling into step side-by-side, you focus on the wet gravel underneath your feet, avoiding making any communication with the man to your right.

“Copy. We’re on the move,” Soap replies, before Rodolfo cuts in.

“Heads up on the helo,” he warns. You find that you much prefer him over the other two – in fact, under any other circumstance, you could see the two of you becoming good friends. Maybe, if everything goes well, that could be a possibility – a positive in your world of negatives.

“Don’t think we’re in his line of sight,” you respond, double-checking your route and the helicopter's position in the sky. Rodolfo had warned you all, debriefing in the drive here, that helicopters would likely show up at some point.

Minutes pass, with small comms between the lot of you, when you finally spot the familiar figures belonging to the other half of your precarious team.

Soap and Rodolfo stand at the entrance, before the two turn at the sound of your and Ghost’s footsteps. They both seem to visibly loosen their stiff shoulders, seeing you both uninjured – and if you do the same, you pray that no one notices.

“The door’s locked,” Soap informs you all, gesturing to the steel entrance5.

With a small hum, Rodolfo reaches for the pack on his vest. “We’ll need to breach it,” he explains, but before he can grab a charger, Ghost raises a hand to stop him.

“No, Rudy –” And that is a nickname that you’ll be using later, “Knock.”

Rodolfo seems apprehensive, but he agrees anyway, giving all three of you separate glances. “On me…”

All of you getting into readying positions, Rodolfo knocks on the door, the sound echoing loud enough to have your blood pounding in your ears.

A moment later, a Shadow – one you don’t recall having met – pushes open the door and moves to step outside. However, Rodolfo and Ghost are quick to neutralise him, softly dropping his body to the floor.

Pushing through the entrance, everyone except for you shoot a Shadow dead – clearing the room in less than twenty seconds. It’s impressive, how smoothly run the operation is, considering the lack of proper authority or guidance.

You’re the first to spot some more Shadows moving your way, down the stairs – calling it out. “More Shadows from the second floor – watch out!”

This time, you find yourself the cause of two men falling to the ground, blood pooling underneath their lifeless bodies. Your team doesn't give you time to second guess, to mourn, before they’re encouraging you to follow them up the stairs.

“Ale’s up here, let’s go!” Rodolfo urges, his voice bordering on a kind of desperation reminiscent of a boy enlisting for the first time.

Like expected, Alejandro’s cell is down the hall, sat to the far right. Two Shadows guard the steel door, but Soap and Rodolfo are quick to light them up, successfully clearing the entire two floors. You’re ashamed of how relieved you feel, being gifted the small mercies of not having to kill your previous subordinates, unless necessary.

You feel, more than see, Ghost’s heavy gaze on you. When you look back up from the gun in your hands, however, he’s turned completely away – and if you were a less accurate person, you’d have thought you were imagining things.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.” Stopping at the steel door, Rodolfo adjusts his grip on the gun, before giving you an encouraging jerk of his head. “Open it up, me and Soap will cover you.”

Another small mercy, you think, as Ghost reaches into his backpack and pulls out a set of bolt cutters, regarding you stiffly. “When I pop this lock, you push in,” he directs you curtly, and you bite back a retort. You knew the process like the back of your hand – you had no need for an explanation.

The ‘especially from him’ goes unsaid.

With precise, practised movements, Ghost positions the bolt cutters, and pushes open the door.

As soon as you take one step into the cell, a large hand wraps around the back of your neck, slamming your face into the concrete wall, a blinding pain shooting through your retinas. Letting out a small yelp, your chest rattles as your hands wildly raise in an imitation of surrender.

“Alejandro! Let go of ‘er! It’s us!” Soap calls out, and you swallow unhealthy amounts of air. That hit had taken more out of you than you’d expected – and your harsh breaths were making that incredibly apparent.

The grip on the scruff of your neck slackens when Rodolfo shoots off in quickfire Spanish, “Coronel, relájate, cabron, somos nosotros.”

Your cheek aches and your head pounds as the hand removes itself entirely, allowing for you to take in lungfuls of oxygen.

“Soap, Ghost!” Alejandro bursts out, and as you rise to your feet unsteadily, you watch as he thumps both of them on the back of their shoulders, before turning to Rodolfo with an expression that could only be described as longing. “...Rudy.”

“Didn’t think we’d leave ya, did ye?” Soap chuckles, oblivious to the thread of tension between the two men.

Whatever silent conversation had occured between the two enforcers is quickly cut as Alejandro accepts the shake of Soap’s hand, a feral grin wide on his features. “What took you so long, pendejos?”

“A traitor with an attitude is what,” Ghost inputs, and really, how much self control can a Lieutenant lack? Wiping at your cheek, you let your hand fall once more to your side as you meet Alejandro’s inquisitive gaze head-on.

“I’m Graves’ previous colonel,” you extend your hand, “And I’m your best bet at getting your base back.”

You expect suspicion, uproar, maybe – or at least questioning, similar to that of Rodolfo’s.

Instead, all you’re met with is Alejandro’s manic smile sharpening, and a slap on the back of your own. Ruffling your hair, he uses his free hand to accept the gun Rodolfo’s extending towards him, shooting you a knowing glance.

“Sounds good, hermana. Welcome to how real men fight.”

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starlingflight · 12 days

Text

loml

Written for @corneliaavenue-ao3 TTPD Several Sunlit Daylights challenge.

Read on AO3 or below:

I. lesson of my life

Every illusion Ginny has ever had is shattered over the course of a single night.

She doesn't go into the chamber willingly. She claws, and scratches and fights against Tom's commands with all her might. She cries, and she struggles, but in the end it makes no difference. She isn't strong enough. As the darkness swallows her up, her final childish hope is for a rescue she knows isn't coming.

When she opens her eyes again it doesn't feel like a miracle. The cold from the stone floor has seeped through her skin, a chill has settled deep in her bones and she knows, with absolute certainty, it will never fully go away.

Of course Harry is there, holding a mighty sword, a dead monster behind him. The very image of the conquering hero she's always fantasised about, but this isn't like one of Ginny's fantasies. He's covered in blood, and his eyes are wide with the same terror that's taken root deep within her soul. There's no triumph in this moment, only horror.

This isn't a dream. It's a nightmare. One that Ginny won't fully wake up from for a very long time.

She learns many lessons that night, but the most important one will come later. After she's spent weeks, months, years putting herself back together, because Harry might have rescued her from the chamber, but, as Ginny will come to realise, the only person who can really save you is yourself.

II. light of my life

Harry's never known a darkness like this. It starts when he watches Sirius fall through the veil, tiny tendrils of black slowly leaking out from his heart, unfurling with increasing urgency until he's overwhelmed by a cold, empty abyss that he's sure nothing will ever penetrate again. How can it when Sirius is never coming back?

He doesn't even notice the first ray of light. It happens so quickly. He's in the hospital wing, trying very hard to let Hermione's commentary on the latest news from The Prophet distract him from the aching chasm in his chest, and the unbearable weight of the prophecy, when it happens.

Luna says something completely ridiculous about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks – whatever they are – Harry can feel Hermione's exasperation from across the small gap that separates her bed from Ron's. Ginny's chocolate eyes meet his, and something happens that he'd assumed would never happen again.

Harry smiles.

It's fleeting, lasting less than a second. There's very little time to dwell on it before they're looking away from one another, and the grief washes over him again, a tidal wave that steals the air from his lungs.

That's just the beginning though… or maybe the beginning had been years ago. Maybe the blush he'd once thought of as the setting sun had actually been the opposite; Ginny's light rising, her warm, rosy glow beginning its ascent into his life.

She continues to rise that summer, forcing the darkness back with her sheer brightness. Her smile turns black to grey; her laugh is powder pinks and bright oranges; the jokes she coaxes from him are pure, cloudless blue.

When she runs at him across the common room months later, she's blazing, burning red. When she reaches him, when Harry finally kisses Ginny, the sun reaches its apex and his whole life is awash with bright, brilliant gold.

For a few shining weeks there are only sunlit days.

III. loss of my life

Fittingly, they're at a funeral when it happens. Ginny always knew he had great comedic timing. She's not laughing, however, as Harry lays out all his stupid, noble reasons why they can't be together. She's not crying either, though; that feels like a small mercy. The only one she's going to get for a while.

She does cry when she finally makes it home. It's silly, she knows. Silly, foolish, naive Ginny Weasley, a familiar, cold voice whispers through her mind. For once, she doesn't try to argue with it, but she doesn't try to stop either.

Instead, she buries her face into her pillow and lets herself sob until her eyes run dry. Her tears aren't just for her broken heart, but for everything Ginny's already had to sacrifice; her childhood, her innocence.

It isn't until weeks later that she realises the true magnitude of what she stands to lose.

“And then what does she think's going to happen? Someone else will kill off Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?”

The fork Ginny is holding almost slips from her grasp. Her heart falters in her chest. Harry playing his flippant comment off a joke does nothing to return it to a steady rhythm.

It plays round and round in her mind that night. Her knuckles are ghostly white where they grip her bedsheet. Vaguely, she'd known what he'd planned to do, but vague notions and knowing with absolute certainty are two very different things. The task Harry brought up so nonchalantly in the kitchen is nothing short of a suicide mission. It hits Ginny with the force of a barrage of stunning spells, knocking the air from her lungs; Harry might not come back to her.

Two days later, when she kisses him in her bedroom, it doesn't feel like she's saying happy birthday, it feels like she's saying goodbye.

When Harry follows Ron out of her bedroom door, he takes a piece of Ginny with him, one she prays she hasn't lost forever.

IV. longing of my life

She haunts him like a ghost. What was once screaming colour and pure unfiltered brightness is now just a memory, a pale imitation permanently stuck on repeat in his mind.

Harry moves stoically from one hiding place to another and, though they're separated by miles, Ginny follows him to every single one.

He can hear her laugh in the wind that shakes the canvas sides of the tent. He can see her smile in the sunlight that penetrates the thick canopy of the forests they move between. At night, when he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend the sheet brushing against his skin is her fingertips.

It's worse when he has the locket on. Then, he's tormented with visions like the one he'd imagined on his birthday; of her moving on. Finding someone else. Living a life that can never be his.

Horcrux or no, he can't stop himself thinking about her. Aching for her. Longing for her.

He clings to memories of Ginny like scraps of driftwood, the only thing keeping Harry afloat when he's been set adrift.

V. lament of my life

It's like the chamber all over again. Ginny's whole world is flipped upside down in the space of a single night.

She doesn't see Fred go. She doesn't know the last time she sees her big brother that it's the last time.

“Take care of yourself,” he'd shouted over his shoulder as Ginny had gone hurtling down a corridor in pursuit of a Death Eater.

“Don't I always?’ she'd called back.

What if she'd told him to do the same? Would he have listened? Would he still be there?

There's very little time to dwell on such questions in the middle of a battle. Especially not when every passing second brings another devastating loss.

Lupin. Tonks. Colin.

Ginny's heart shatters into a million little pieces until it doesn't exist at all. Or so she thinks, until she sees Harry's body cradled in Hagrid’s arms.

Then she knows she still has a heart, because it's in unbearable agony. She doubles over from the pain of it. His name escapes her lips on a scream, as though she might be able to call him back to life through sheer desperation.

Tom Riddle talks; for the second time in Ginny's life, she's unable to hear him, but this isn't like the Chamber at all. This time Ginny wishes she was dead.

When the battle resumes, she jumps straight into it with wild abandon. Ginny's lamentation is not filled with tears, or wailing. It's fire and rage for everything that's been taken from her. Tom Riddle already stole her past. Now he's taken her future. She will take everything she can from him, or die trying.

VI. lowest of my life

He's never truly let himself imagine what it might be like to actually defeat Voldemort. If he had, Harry doubts he would have pictured it like this.

If it's a win, why is there so much loss?

He doesn't know whether the grief or the hope is more overwhelming. They mingle together, like waves in the ocean, swelling and breaking, threatening to pull Harry under.

He can feel it crash over him as he stands in the great hall the day after the battle. The bodies are still there; all the people who don't get the second chance Harry does are laid out in front of him. Lifeless eyes staring, unseeing, up at the enchanted ceiling.

The guilt and the pain sweep through him like ice water, filling his lungs; rising up in Harry's throat until there's no possible room for air. He takes a step back, desperate to flee somewhere he can sink down into the cold, lonely depths.

Before he can, a hand, small and warm, slips into his, pulling Harry back to the surface. He releases one, long, deep breath before looking at her.

Ginny's attempt at a smile is tinged with sadness, sunlight peeking through dark grey clouds.

Only hours ago, he'd contemplated all the things he needed to say to her, but now no words are exchanged at all. Only a look. It's all they need. All they've ever needed. Everything has changed. But he's still Harry, and she's still Ginny.

Instinctively his arm comes around her. Ginny buries her face in his chest, sagging slightly against him, as though she was waiting for this moment to let herself rest. Like she needs him as much as he needs her.

Harry's head rests against hers, the floral scent of her shampoo is faint, lingering beneath everything that's happened. It makes his heart falter anyway. He holds her tightly to him, something he never thought he'd get the chance to do again. As he's come to expect, time seems to stop for her. They stay like that for what might only be seconds, or possibly an entire lifetime passes.

Eventually, Ginny pulls out of his grasp. It takes less than a second for her hand to find his again, fingers entwining. She pulls gently, silently commanding him to follow her. Harry almost asks where they're going, but he doesn't really need to. He's free to go wherever he pleases now. He'll follow her anywhere.

Ginny looks up at him as they walk towards the double doors. He can still see the embers of her blazing light smouldering in the dark depths of her eyes. He was right, there will be hours, days, and years in which to talk, but he doesn't need her to say a word now to know where she's taking him. He lets her pull him forward, lets her light guide him to a future he's still not sure he deserves to have.

VII. loser of my life

For a while, Ginny thinks she'll never recover from the loss, from the grief and the heartache. It's not the first time she's felt this way, but this time she doesn't have to face it alone. Once she has Harry back, he doesn't leave her side again.

They fall back together naturally. They stitch themselves back together slowly until one day, years later, the sun is blazing brightly in the sky, the pleasant summer breeze is ruffling the grass beneath her feet, and Ginny feels whole again.

“Ready?” Her father asks, holding out his arm out to her.

“Ready,” Ginny agrees, threading her hand through the crook of his elbow. Holding her colourful bouquet of wildflowers in front of her with her free hand.

There have been times, in her darkest moments, when she wished she was someone else. A girl who hasn't dwelt in a darkness that most people don't ever see even in their worst nightmares; a witch who hasn't looked into the eyes of evil and refused to bend, refused to break; a woman who hasn't lost things that can never ever be replaced.

Now, as soft music begins to swell in the summer air, and her gaze locks on Harry, waiting for her at the end of the makeshift aisle formed by the rows of chairs that have been put out in her parent's orchard, Ginny doesn't regret any of it. Everything she's lost is a step she's taken towards this.

She can feel dozens of heads turn towards her, but Ginny only has eyes for Harry, and he, it appears, only has eyes for her. His smile makes the sun look dim in comparison. Still, the corner of his mouth trembles; even from a distance, Ginny can see emotion well up behind his glasses.

‘Don't you dare,' she mouths, feeling her throat tighten as she does. Her arm stretches out, lifting her bouquet like it's a wand, miming hexing him. She's closer now. She can hear the tremor in his laugh as he puts his arms up in mock surrender.

It's too late; the laughter she's coaxed from him doesn't stop the tear that slips down his cheek. Of course, one of her own escapes only a half a second later.

“We look like such losers,” Ginny informs him, shaking her head, as her fingers slip from her father's arm into Harry's awaiting hand.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, quietly enough for only her to hear. He's still smiling as another tear slides unconcernedly down his face. His free hand reaches up, his thumb swipes away the ones that are currently leaking traitorously from Ginny's eyes. “But you're my loser.”

It takes her a moment to regain her breath. A fleeting second in which she can't quite believe they're here; that they made it. Then she smiles even wider than before. “Not officially – not until we get through this ceremony.”

Harry's gaze holds hers. Ginny almost forgets they have an audience. The world reduces down to just the two of them, grinning madly at one another. Harry's fingers squeeze her hand. “We'd best get on with it then.

VIII. legacy of my life

Books are filled with what many consider to be his finest achievements. Tales of thrilling battles, speculations on unsurvivable curses, and records of great victories are inked across the pages of history.

As are the many titles thrust upon Harry; The Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, Saviour. To him, they're little more than noise, assumptions from people who don't really know him, and never will.

When he slips the wedding ring onto Ginny's finger, Harry gets the first title he's ever chosen for himself: husband. Her husband.

Not long after, he gains another one, this one unplanned, but no less momentous. James, tiny, and so precious, is placed into his arms, and Harry becomes a father.

His real legacy begins there. It's not just his, it's hers too. Their legacy.

It's recorded in baby books and photo albums rather than history books. It's memorialised in finger paintings and handmade Christmas ornaments (made under Ginny's expert supervision) instead of plaques and statues. It's hundreds of little memories of their family that will never see the inside of a newspaper, but that doesn't make them any less noteworthy, not to Harry, who'd never dared to imagine that this life could be his one day.

IX. love of my life

“Dinner!” Her mother calls from the back door of The Burrow, her voice ringing out across the garden.

The sun is setting, dipping below the topmost branches of the orchard. The sky is a tapestry of pinks, purples and golds, stretching out for miles above them.

“What do you think?” Ginny asks as her feet meet the ground, dismounting from her broom. “Could I make it as a pro?”

Harry lands beside her. His eyes sweep appraisingly over her. Ginny's stomach swoops like she's still in the air. “I don't know,” he says thoughtfully. “The League is brutal. It requires rigorous training.”

Ginny shrugs unconcernedly, hoisting her broom onto her shoulder as she does. “Do you know any Quidditch captains who might be interested in helping me with such an undertaking?”

“I know one who might be able to make some time for you this summer,” Harry says as he falls into step beside her. He inclines his head towards her broom.“I can take it for you?”

Ginny's eyes narrow, prepared to tell him she's perfectly capable of carrying her own broom, but, when she turns, the way he's looking at her makes her heart race, and the words die on her tongue. without her permission, her expression transforms into a grin. “Very chivalrous of you.”

A weight is lifted from her as Harry settles her broom beside his on his shoulder. “That's kind of what I'm known for.”

“Only ‘kind of’?” Ginny's eyes wander to the quickly darkening sky above them as she laughs. “In that case, I'll be sure to let people know of this latest act of heroism – personally, I don't think you get enough attention.”

“Well, if that's how you feel, you could always give me more.”

Ginny stops midstep. Her head turns sharply back to Harry. She should keep walking, the words that are on the tip of her tongue will lead to something that neither of them planned for on this particular summer evening.

Harry's eyebrows rise upwards; even in the dusk, Ginny can see the challenge sparking in his eyes. Unbidden, she takes a step towards him. “Are you flirting with me, Potter?”

He doesn't back down, but he doesn't make a move towards her either. The brooms he's holding clatter together as he shrugs with just a bit too much tension in his shoulders to be truly nonchalant. “I might be.”

Ginny's blood thrums in her veins as she takes another step towards him. “Need I remind you that I'm spoken for?”

“How could I forget?” Harry's head lowers despite her reminder, until he's so close Ginny can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. “I suppose he's deeply in love with you?”

“Yes,” she nods with absolute certainty. “And I feel the same about him.”

Harry's head dips lower, the determination in his eyes making his intention clear. Ginny rises on her tiptoes, unable to fight the pull that always inevitably beckons her to him.

Barely an inch of space remains between them. Her heart flutters wildly–

“Oi!” The loud, obnoxious shout comes from the far end of the orchard, making Ginny jump. She turns towards it and finds a lanky figure glaring at them from where he leans against the fence. “When you're done being disgusting, Nanna says to hurry up – dinner’s ready and the rest of us aren't allowed to start without you.”

James doesn't wait for a response before turning on his heel and marching back towards the house.

Ginny rolls her eyes at her son's retreating back. Her hand slips into Harry's, the most contact they're getting, at least until after dinner. “Remind me again why we had children?”

Harry sighs, allowing her to lead him towards the gate James has just departed from. “You said they'd be cute.”

“Well, they used to be,” she says fairly as she pushes the gate open with her free hand. “I wasn't thinking as far as them becoming teenagers.”

Harry nods seriously. “Really, who could've predicted such an unforeseeable outcome.”

Ginny looks up at him as he follows her through the gate. Brown eyes meet green through the burgeoning twilight. Two identical smiles bloom like flowers in spring.

“Certainly not you, judging by your appalling Divination grades.”

#several sunlit daylights #hinny #harry x ginny #TTPD

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cowyolks · 1 year

Text

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Chapter Seven. I See You

Prev. Chapter Six Masterlist

Pairing: God! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader

Prompt: A prophecy written long ago stated of a human that would become the God’s wife and live in his domain for the rest of eternity.

A/n: Sorry this took eons to write. This chapter is longer than my others because I felt bad lol. Please enjoy!

It had been nearly a week since Simon had left in an angry flap of wings. At least you thought it was a week—time was hard to tell in the Underworld.

You spent your days in the large library of the palace, drinking in words as if they would sweep you away from your current situation. If you read the text with enough concentration you could pretend that you weren’t in danger, let alone with such beings of high power.

In this week, it had given you a lot of time to think. To reflect that you were just shaken, and Simon had been the one to protect you against your mother, Shepherd, and any other threat you’ve encountered. It wouldn’t make sense for him to kill you, specifically since he had been so passionate in proclaiming you as his promised.

You thought, and you thought hard.

Maybe being his wife would result in safety, in undying gratitude that he’s shown you already. Perhaps, loving a God could make you feel immortal.

A page flipping startled your thinking, making you pull your eyes away from the passage you were blankly staring at.

Keegan had been your role protector in the last few days, only changing shifts with the furies when you bathed and first thing in the morning when he had conferences.

While his black robes and sharp appearance stood out like a sore thumb in the massive library, he made it clear he was a man of literature. He’s introduced you to the book you were skimming upon now.

“You’re thinking awfully hard to just be reading.” His deep voice was very similar to Simon’s, but unlike your betrothed, Keegan’s voice teased and slithered playfully.

Like a friend you’ve known of centuries.

“I’m worried about Simon. Has he contacted you, lately?” You chewed your lip, bookmarking your page and setting it in your lap. You felt ashamed for sitting idly and reading while Simon was cleaning up your own mess. With the artificial sun dimming into oranges and pinks you knew it would be another day without him.

“No, but don’t worry, flos. Simon can take care of himself.” Keegan spoke in blunt honesty, something you appreciated, but didn’t stop your stomach from twisting.

You glanced down to your ankle, no longer hidden by your long dress. Instead you wore a summer dress of lilac, the material smooth against your skin. The mark had healed slightly, only red blemishes remained, instead of the painful burnt char that was there before.

“Hey…” Keegan spoke up, nudging your shoulder slightly, “all this worrying is only going to give you grief, come let’s take a walk before it gets too dark.”

The lethal man stood, stretching on his heels and flexing his spine, almost similar to a large predatory cat. His white eyes turned to you, upon noticing that you haven’t moved an inch, your eyebrows still furrowed together.

“Up… I’ve got something that will lift your spirits.” Keegan commanded, offering you his hand, calloused from holding his scythe.

You took it, surprised to find the flesh warm and comforting. He hauled you up, releasing you before nodding his head to the doors that led outside.

You followed close by, something Keegan insisted upon so he could watch your every move. In a way you were relieved to have such protection from the demon, but annoyance tickled your mind since you enjoyed solitude on occasion. That wasn’t an option now.

A solid thwack to your back made you stumble slightly, your eyes going wide as you nearly fell upon the stone path. Keegan’s deep chuckle mocked you as he flapped his wings playfully. You narrowed your eyes, a small smile gracing your lips at his amused expression.

“That hurt, you oversized chicken.” You let the insult slip your tongue with a teasing lit, though it didn’t halt Keegan’s gloating nature.

“Chicken… No one has ever called Death a chicken.” He teased, his smile broke open, revealing a set of sharp canines. “Wipe that grin off your face, mighty one.” You found yourself quipping again, truly thankful to Thanatos for halting your fears and doubts. It was comforting to know you’ve made a friend, regardless of him being the literal vessel of Death.

“I wanted to show you a place of peace. It’s Simon’s favorite spot to be when he isn’t working.” Keegan crossed his arms behind his back, retracting his wings as he marched like a dutiful soldier.

He led you to an area of seclusion, hidden by waves of ivy and vines. With large hands he pushed the plants back, gesturing for you to step through the cavern and into a very familiar garden.

The garden from your nightmare.

Your steps halted, gaze falling upon the stone path that lead to your own demise. Keegan took notice, his palm coming to rest upon your shoulder in comfort.

You attempted to anchor yourself to him, forcing your eyes away from the sight from your potential death. Yet, the God seemed to read you enough for a knowing look to creep on his face. “Whatever you dreamt of, it will not happen.” He spoke so firmly you immediately felt the heavy weight fall from your shoulders.

“It just felt so real. I died over there.” You pointed, Keegan followed your gaze before pushing you forward. “I know when all deaths will happen, flos. The demon was tricking you.”

This made you uneasy, but you began to creep forward to the path anyways. “So you know when and how I’ll die?” You questioned, taking in the truly magnificent details of the garden.

His lips quirked up, his youthful appearance did little to hide his actual age. You supposed death was as old as time itself, because even the stars died before mortals walked the earth.

“Yes, I suppose I know how everyone will die, but tis bad luck to tell.”

You dropped the subject, feeling as if you already had enough bad luck for the century. With a shake of your head, you began to walk the path, knowing that Keegan would be there to protect you. Maybe, if you faced your fear, you could finally get rid of the cloud of doubt forming. It was only two weeks until the effects of the pomegranate wore off. Two weeks you had to decide if you would marry a God.

The path broke off into a split, the union breaking to give way to a simply gorgeous pond of the clearest waters you’ve ever seen. It was full of life, tadpoles swam in little circles, among with an occasional swan. Frogs bobbed above the surface, and koi fish gently preened the green vegetation on the bottom.

It was simply beautiful, and it made you feel more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time.

“I gave this to Hades after word was told of a union between him and his betrothed.” A voice said from behind you, making you yelp and jump back near Keegan.

Keegan gripped his scythe tight, but made no effort to use his weapon.

Your eyes found purchase of a woman, her hair like spun gold and face as beautiful as it was dangerous. She was dressed in white, her dress accented with what looked to be feathers. She floated above the water, hovering just enough to not touch the wet surface.

“Hera.” Keegan greeted with a bow, a small slap to your back told you that you needed to repeat his gesture. Softly, you curtseyed, eyes curious as you took in her glowing aura.

“Thanatos, may I borrow the girl for a moment?”

Keegan’s lips pursed, obviously not pleased with the question. “I don’t like the idea of her leaving my side, Queen Mother. Forgive me, but I was told to watch her by orders of Hades himself.”

Hera smiled slightly, her skin glowing like a warm pearl in the artificial sunlight. She stepped closer, now firmly on the stone path. “Yes, I was told in council of his protection notice. Ghost is very fond of you, mortal.” She turned to you, a glimmer in her knowledgeable eyes.

You couldn’t help the nervousness eating away at you. “Is he alright?” You found yourself asking, cursing yourself with how much concern you had actually voiced. A knowing smile fell upon the woman’s face.

“As far as I know he is well. Hades left with Artemis earlier this week, she’s our best tracker. If they find word of Makarov we shall know.” Hera informed with her lips pressed together. She now ascended in front of you and Keegan, the God pushing you behind him slightly in protective vigor.

“Makarov?” You voiced, attempting to ignore the shiver that traveled up your spine. Was this the name of the demon that had sent you into such a fright?

Hera stood in front of Thanatos, both of their auras contrasting each other in a clash of dark and light “Let me speak with the girl. We shall stay in your sight, and no harm will come to her, I swear upon the River Styx.”

Keegan huffed, still slightly displeased, but whatever vow she had insisted was enough for him to shake her hand in agreement. “Come with me, mortal. We have much to discuss.” Hera turned to you with periwinkle eyes.

You found yourself stepping around Keegan, his stare burning into your back as you followed after Hera, attempting to keep up with her long stride amongst the stone path. She snapped her fingers, producing two sitting cushions against the soft grass.

Hesitantly you sat against a cushion, the woman falling next to you. Keegan watched from across the pond, arms crossed as he waited.

“You must be unsurprised of us Gods and Godesses appearing before you. But I am Hera, Queen of the Olympians and Goddess of Bonds and Women. But you may call me Kate.”

“You’re Zeus’ Queen?”

Hera smiled softly, a little chuckle falling from her petal lips. “I suppose so. When the atoms formed us and the titans, Zeus and I decided to rein together, but we do not hold a romantic connection, no.”

“I apologize.” You hoped to not offend such a powerful being, despite her vow to keep you safe in this short time.

“It is a common thing to ask, especially since you did not know any better. Most of us Gods do not have the satisfaction of finding a partner.” Kate tutted, her graceful hand swishing across the grass.

“Yet, Simon had found me.” You murmured, eyes falling to the pond that symbolized your betrothal.

“You know, I’m the Queen of Marriage. It was I that the Fates consulted to draw your match.” Hera spoke up, just as the water began to brighten slightly. As if her words echoed into the wet surface.

“So you must know about this prophecy.” You questioned, hoping to possibly get some answers about what the Olympian’s kept mentioning. Yet, you were left dissatisfied, for the Queen of the Heavens pursed her lips. “I do know of the prophecy, but I do not know it word for word. It would be wise to consult in Gaz at your wedding.”

“Gaz is another God?” You questioned, attempting to ignore how sure Hera was that you’d accept Hades’ marriage proposal. “Yes, Apollo is his name, he’s the God of Prophecy and the Sun.”

“There are many of you, it’s hard to imagine you have any enemies at all.”

Kate’s face turned grim, her eyes swirling in a look of caution. “Makarov was always locked away in prison in the underworld. It frightens me that he was able to slither his way into your chambers so easily.”

“How could he have escaped?”

Hera’s lips pursed, “I don’t think he truly has. What you saw was merely a figment of him. Makarov is Tartarus, pure chaos. He wouldn’t have let you live if he was in his true form.”

“He said he wanted everything from me.” Your voice came out confused, what would literal chaos want with a mortal?

“We will keep you safe. Besides, times will be happier.” Hera stood from her position, seemingly satisfied with the little chat.

“Wait…” you called out, suddenly feeling your cheeks redden as you bit your lip in thought. “You said you fortified our marital bond. Will I be happy? Will he?”

Hera let a soft grin spread across her lips.

“For Eternity.”

You stood in front of the mirror, taking time to glance at yourself before making the descent to your chamber. The moon reflected against the glass, as well as Kleo’s watching eyes.

It wasn’t ideal for her to watch your every move, especially such simple actions like bathing or dressing. But it did ease your mind and made your thoughts run clearer.

“Almost ready?” Kleo asked from against the wall, her hand resting upon the hilt of her sword, as if anything would happen in the slightest second.

With a final glance in the mirror, your eyes traveled to the soft ivy green of your nightdress, before shifting up to the soft blemish of your neck, still visible and showcasing.

“Yes, thank you for waiting.” You made sure to show appreciation to all of your guards, knowing they likely had so much better things to do.

It was a short walk to your chambers, the room was lit by a series of candles. Something you found to be lit at all times, despite the waste of wax. The thought of being alone in the darkness was now too much for you to bare, despite being guarded.

You never wanted to see those red eyes again.

Before you could even sit down on your furs, a loud commotion made you jump, coming just from down the hall. Kleo drew her sword, placing you behind her quickly.

“Your Grace, please. You’re injured!” A small voice called out into the hallway, just as footsteps grew louder towards your chambers. “Move.” His deep voice growled close to your door, making you bite your cheek in worry and in happiness that he was back.

The God of the Dead bursted through your door, not bothering to knock or even unfold his wings to make his way through the door. Instead, he stood still, his wild eyes falling to you.

Kleo lowered her weapon, still staying close.

“Are you hurt?” He asked rapidly, you didn’t hesitate to shake your head, not knowing what would happen if you so much as said you had a paper cut.

His shoulders sagged in relief, and it was then that you could see he let his fatigue and injuries get the best of him. Your God was covered in slashing wounds, all the color of his blood of liquid gold.

He took a step closer, and another, until he stumbled slightly, a large gash on his torso making him gasp. It was strange seeing someone of such high power be in pain. Almost instantly you reached out, running on your own instinct as you lowered him down to your furs.

“Why hasn’t he been tended to?” You asked to the man in white robes, likely a medic to Simon. He gulped, extending a variety of bandages and salves out for you to see. “I was trying, he insisted upon seeing you first, my lady.”

Your gaze traveled down to Simon, who was covering a particular long gash on his chest, his eyes adverted almost as if he was scared of your reaction.

With a huff, you moved to take the supplies into your own hands. “I’ve got this, I was my village’s healer. Besides the two of us need to talk.”

The medic nodded, hastily bowing with relief before shuffling out of the room. Kleo held your stare for a moment, before following out of the room.

“What happened to you?” Worry dripped from your tone like falling rain. Gently, you set the bandages upon your bed, right across from Simon. His wings twitched behind his back, just as his black eyes glanced up.

“We found him—the demon. He was stronger than I thought. Artemis and I hardly escaped. But I believe he’s licking his wounds somewhere far away.” His legs spread wider against your bed, his torso leant back and stretching. He jerked, letting out a loud hiss. Even with the mask upon his face you could see the wincing in pain.

“Stop, stop moving you’ll make it hurt worse.” You fussed, bringing up a bottle of salve to your eyes.

“Already hurts pretty bad, darling.”

Your heart fluttered at the name, still you attempted to hide your shaking fingers as your eyes trailed down to his mauled torso. Silently, you bit down upon your lip. Who could destroy a God so easily?

“I need you to take off your shirt.” You ordered, feeling some sense of professionalism leak through your command—Perks of years of healing in your village.

Simon did as told with little fuss, lifting his arms to pull his robes over his head, but as he tugged upon the swirling fabric his wound gushed more liquid gold, making you hastily reach out to him.

“Stop! I’ll do it, you’ll injure yourself more.” Simon dropped his arms back down, looking to be in relief as his skin constricted normally again. He said nothing as you pried his clothing from his torso. Even though it was your second time seeing his rippling chest and stomach, you still found yourself inhaling slightly harder as you examined him.

Snapping out of your stupor, you reached near your nightstand, taking a rag from the pile and dipping it into a wash basin you had previously used to wash your face. The water was still warm to the touch.

You made work of dabbing the multiple wounds with the water, surprised that Simon didn’t even flinch when the rag hit his wounds. You wondered then how many battles he was truly in.

His eyes pierced against your face, making you heavily aware of his stare as you dabbed salve upon the already closing wounds. With nimble hands you began to wrap up his chest.

“You’re staring…” you muttered, eyebrow furrowed in concentration as you attempted to ignore his stare. His hand reached up, latching to your own as he squeezed lightly.

“Makarov, he gets into people’s heads, he managed to get the best of me, slashed clean through my cheek. I thought I had lost you, it seemed so real.” His words rumbled deep within his chest, sincerity dripping from his tone.

“I’m right here.” You assured.

His eyes blew out in adoration, something you were beginning to grow used to. How he adored the air because it was what you breathed, how he envied the sun and rain because they got to touch your skin. How he planted flowers in your name because you had once picked the stems.

“I know.” He whispered.

It was silent for a moment, until you thought back to what he previously said. You sucked in a breath, “you said Makarov cut your face, you need to treat it. I can leave if it brings you comfort?”

His hand gripped your wrist tighter, silence over taking you for a moment before he attempted to sit up straighter.

“Stay.” He requested, a silent plea that spoke volumes. This was huge, at long last you would see his face. His fingers dropped your hand, instead reaching up to the skull helm he proudly wore.

You gulped as he peeled it from his skin.

Air escaped every crevice of your lungs when you looked to him. The real him.

He was every bit a God. His hair cropped and a color of sweet honey. His skin was rich and pale, previous smile lines etched against his eyes, amongst with dark circles hidden underneath his black irises. His nose was large, that fit well against his high cheekbones and lengthy cheeks. Stubble grazed over his sharp jaw, and a singular white scar ran through the bottom of his chin to a set of petal pink lips.

Without thinking, you brought your palm to his cheek that was free of any injuries, reveling in the warmth of his skin and prick of his stubble. He was real, despite how beautiful he was. He was yours.

“You’re staring.” He repeated you from earlier, a small smile peeking from his lips, you decided it was breathtaking.

“You’re insufferable…” you teased back, hand still cradling his cheek. His eyes locked with yours intensely—an intensity that wasn’t there when he was wearing a mask.

“And you’re simply exquisite, Sponsa Mea.” Simon slightly turned his head, his lips falling upon your open palm in a gentle searing kiss.

Your face flushed at the kiss, something that made you yearn for it to be his lips on yours instead of just your palm.

“I’ve had some time to think about our betrothal.” You murmured, suddenly feeling just how close you were to him. How his eyes fluttered shut at the sound of your voice, as if he was intoxicated just on you.

He hummed, the dark wings behind his back extending to your waist, only touching you enough to tickle against your sides. You weren’t sure if he was truly aware of what he was doing, his face still locked against your touch.

“I’ll stay. I’ll marry you.”

Tags: @soapyghost @queenqu33f @blueoorchid @lethalchiralium @eclipse-darling @galagcica @dead-noodles @agspgrwasb @toobsessedsstuff @mooniesyubi @cookielovesbook-akie @vile-villain6661 @peachlcve @soldier-lass @ghostslittlegf @rebel-soldat @erintaro @ghost-with-a-teacup @fante-di-denari @sollucifer @embers-of-alluring @icepancakes @queen-ilmaree @ahmya-4 @msecho19 @the-abyss-of-fandoms @madysonavery @angstyjellybean @trashboat-the-raccoon @multitargaryen @kdkj122920 @montenegroisr @lilacsourgirl @thisperspective @random0lover @pasta-m1lk @badpvn @sweetybuzz25z25 @stupendoustyrantstranger @4ndjelij4 @bootlegroach @brainstormbby @yehet-moi-ohoratrat @lilpothoscuttings

#cod #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #simon riley #modern warfare #simon ghost riley x reader

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prozac · 1 month

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December 27th, 2008 is the day Anik Pillai was left behind. Trying to find his family, he travels the East Coast with his new friends, avoiding the bloodthirsty monsters created by a world-ending virus. ⠀⠀⠀🌹

⠀⠀

⠀

🌹 Season 1: 5 months (Jan-May)

⠀Anik Pillai, separated from his sister, makes friendly with multiple people in the chaos of the collapse of society. In this chaos, Anik raises a little boy who was also separated from his family.

⠀

🌹 Season 2: 1 month (June)

⠀Anik and his friends try to escape the city before it is bombed by the remnants of the United States’ government.

⠀

🌹 Season 3: 2 months (July-August)

⠀Still unable to find his sister & parents, Anik and friends meet a capable married couple, and head to a safe settlement called Wheatville.

⠀

🌹 Season 4: 1 month (September)

⠀The main group learn more about the state of society and science after the fall.

⠀

🌹 Season 5: 3 months (October-December)

⠀The main group learn more about the virus that has made the world implode.

⠀

🌹 Season 6: 1 year (January-December)

⠀Those who remain stay at the first major rebuilt faction: a settlement called Libertytown.

⠀

🌹 Season 7: 4 months (January-April)

⠀While the group is forcibly split, Anik and those with him travel to the city formerly known as Atlanta, which hosts another rebuilt faction: Center for Safety.

⠀

🌹 Season 8: 1 yr (May-May)

⠀A period of rest. However, the surface of calm begins to bubble…

⠀

🌹 Season 9: 2 months (June-July)

⠀Anik learns more about the state of the world outside of the embrace of the powerful settlements.

⠀

🌹 Season 10: 1 month (August)

⠀THE MEAT FACTORY.

⠀

🌹 Season 11: 11 months (September-July)

⠀Anik is alone.

⠀

🌹 Season 12: 6 months (August-January)

⠀Valentino King, hungry ruler of the Kingdom faction, strikes a deal with the mourning Anik Pillai. Anik takes that deal.

⠀

🌹 Season 13: 1 year 4 months (Feburary x2-June)

⠀With society on the coast all forming alliances, the new faction Home begins to become a place of respite.

⠀

🌹 Season 14: ~3 days (July)

The war begins to end.

⠀

🌹 Season 15: 6 months (July-December)

⠀Anik Pillai finishes what was started.

⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 🥀

#DAIL #DAIL Summaries #❤️💚💙🧡

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dailyadventureprompts · 10 months

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Adventure: Dead Certian

It was all going to end like this, one day or another

Hooks:

It starts out as a simple enough job, some noble or other has acquired some potentially profitable land but learned too late that it rests within the hunting grounds of some dangerous monsters lairing in a ruin in the nearby mountains. After being hired by an agent of the noble with a sizable upfront payment and the promise of more to come, the party find themselves hiking up into the foothills towards an abandoned abbey. It's your standard monster hunt... aside from the mostly devoured bodies indicating the party are not the first ones to be sent up the mountain.... or the rambling immortal corpse chained up for what seems like decades in a secret cell in the abbey's foundations.

It's a week or so later that the visions start... only rumours at first, people having bad dreams about a hateful red sun in a black sky, horrifying shapes moving about a blasted and ashen countryside... but then one of the heroes "awakens" in the burnt out ruins of the in they went to sleep in last night and are forced to fight for their life against various monstrosities before gasping awake. These visions are unpredictable and intermittent, and as speculation mounts of what they might mean further tales come creeping in about people dying in thier sleep or even rising from their beds to go on a mindless rampage after falling under the influence of whatever it is they're seeing.

Some time later the party is approached again by the noble's agent... though this time they're dishevelled, paranoid, and have obviously been running for their life for some days. They explain that their employer is up to something wicked, they don't know what, but its got something to do with the old abbey and the visions and its only going to get worse if they're not stopped.

Setup: Consigned to the dustbin of history nearly a century ago, the soothsayer Tirman Houndstongue was known in his day for producing prophecies as cryptic as they were accurate. The "Houndstongue Harkenings" were required readings for mystics of the day, until the new writings suddenly stopped as most presumed that the diviner had simply dropped dead in one of his famously fevered writing sessions. One by one the events hinted at by Tirman's writings were divined and came to pass, and the once famous fortuneteller fell into obscurity.

The truth is far stranger than what is remembered: After years of seeminly innocuous prophecies Houndstongue started predicting the end of the world, and in fear of his widely circulated ramblings causing a panic the church censored his writings and imprisoned him in an isolated monestary that only a select few knew about. For the rest of his life Tirman rambled on about all the horrors that would befall the world during the end times.. and then kept on rambling after he died, seeminly animated by the NEED to keep pronouncing the end of days, pausing only to talk about the terrible fates that would befal his captors and how their actions were all for not. Less than a decade later an outbreak of plague struck the monestary, leaving the corpse forgotten in its cell.

Forgotten, except for a certain noble by the name of Vandermyr , who's family's rise to prominence came about as party of Tirman's prophecies. Though born generations after the oracle's apparent death, Vandermyr developed an obsession with Houndstongue's writings thinking that they didn't just apply to specific events but spoke of underlying patterns in fate. After lucking into increasingly successive business ventures, Vandermyr bent his family's resources to discovering lost scraps of Tirman lore, eventually stumbling into the truth of his abduction, and his eventual resting place, buying the estate nearby.

Sending multiple groups to seek out scraps of unpublished prophecy under the guise of monsterhunting, Vandermyr was DELIGHTED to encounter the recitating cadaver of his idol once the party reported back, going so far as to visit the monastery himself before commanding servants to drag Tirman's remains back to his manor. In long hours spent listening at the corpse's feet comes to a revelation: that the apocalyptic ravings are just cryptic metaphor, misunderstood by the narrow minded churchfolk, and that surely they would lead him, and the Vandermyr family to rise to even greater heights.

Further Adventures:

Vandermyr is an idiot and he's kickstarted the end of days, which makes the party atleast partially culpable. It might take them a while to connect the auspicious signs to clues left in the dungeon, but once they figure it out they'll need to break into Vandemyr's manor for answers. Thankfully they're not alone in this task, as despite being a mouthpiece for otherworldy forces and stone dead for well over a hundred years, Tirman's been trying to prophecy AROUND the death of the world, it'll just take the party a bit of champion level bullshit decoding to figure out how.

Unbenknownsed to anyone including him, Tirman's prophecies were delivered by an extradimensional horror with power over predestination known as the Nigh-Tyrant. From its home amid the carcasses of devoured worlds this pisonic predator would weave itself into the causality of a realm it wished to devour, influencing events to allow it to travel between realms and rampage as it pleased. The problem with fighting this entity is that its consciousness is made up in-part of all the guilt and madness wracked oracles it used in the past, meaning its ability to predict the party's actions is manifold. Whats more, it commands those lesser nightmares that have come to dwell in the aftermath of its apocalypse, and can dispatch them to the party's world through various hidden means.

You can't go around subverting fate and not expect the gods to get involved. Istusis or other fate-warping gods are a lightly choice for late-game party benefactors, and the heroes may find their journey altered at several points to steer them in the needed direction before actual intervention takes place.

If you need to further up the stakes, consider having the belayed end of days get the attention of the outergod with dominon over failed apocalypses who senses the titan's death like a vulture on the wind

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#villain #dungeon delve #undead #dream #prophecy #oracle #fate #disaster #high level #end without rest #end game #villain cult #villain psionic #psionics #villain noble

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untitledmemes · 2 months

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Dune: Part One Prompts

Part I An assortment of prompts taken from the movie Dune: Part One (2021). Adjust as necessary to fit pronoun and/or descriptor. In case of Multimuse, don't forget to specify which one/s. Reblog, please do not repost or add.

“ Dreams are messages from the deep. ”

“ Their cruelty to my people is all I've known. ”

“ Who will our next oppressors be? ”

“ It's good you're up early. ”

“ Why do we have to go through all of this when it's already decided? ”

“ If you want it, make me give it to you. ”

“ There is no call we do not answer, there is no faith we betray. ”

“ I'd like you to take me with you. ”

“ Can I trust you with something? ”

“ It felt like if I had been there, you'd be alive. ”

“ You're not taking me seriously. ”

“ Dreams make good stories, but everything important happens when you're awake because that's when we make everything happen. ”

“ I've been training my whole life. What is the point if I can't face an actual risk? ”

“ I need you by my side. ”

“ I told my father I didn't want this either. ”

“ A great man doesn't seek to lead. He's called to it, and he answers. ”

“ I found my own way to it. Maybe you'll find yours. ”

“ Don't stand with your back to the door. ”

“ The slow blade penetrates the shield. ”

“ You fight when the necessity arises, no matter the mood. ”

“ I see you found the mood. ”

“ You don't understand the grave nature of what's happening to us. ”

“ Don't be too sure it's an act of love. ”

“ When if a gift not a gift? ”

“ Defiance in the eyes. Like his father. ”

“ An animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to escape. What will you do? ”

“ I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little death that brings obliteration. I'll face my fear and I'll permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn to the inner eye and see its path. And where the fear is gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain. ”

“ If you had been unable to control your impulses, like an animal, we could not let you live. ”

“ You inherit too much power. ”

“ Do you often dream things that happen just as you dreamed them? ”

“ Did you have to go that far? ”

“ Do you see so little hope? ”

“ How does it feel to walk on a new world? ”

“ Don't be fooled by the welcome. ”

“ Let's get you out of the sun. The heat can kill in this place. ”

“ They see what they've been told to see. ”

“ If you mean to harm me, I must warn you that whatever you're hiding, it won't be enough. ”

“ When you have lived with a prophecy this long, the moment of revelation is a shock. ”

“ Sire, I failed you today. There's no excuse. ”

“ It must never be known. ”

“ Thanks for the humiliation, old man. ”

“ I have never come so close to dying. ”

“ I respect the personal dignity of anyone that respects mine. ”

“ I believe your people and mine have much to offer one another. ”

“ Name what you want. If it's in my power to grant, I'll give it and ask for nothing. ”

“ Honor requires that I be elsewhere. ”

“ You have good eyes. ”

“ If we take one step out there, we're as good as dead. ”

“ I recognize your footsteps, old man. ”

“ Everything they left us is in shambles. We've been set up to fail. ”

“ I had a vision. My eyes were wide open. ”

“ You can't know that. I barely know that. ”

“ I trusted you completely. Even when you walked in shadows. ”

“ Why are you having these thoughts? This is not you. ”

“ I thought we'd have more time. ”

“ Why don't we just cut their throats? ”

“ Don't! You are not ready. ”

“ For hundreds of years, we've run blood for blood. But no more. ”

“ Here I am. Here I remain. ”

“ I am commanded to say nothing. To see nothing. ”

“ Tell me, please. What do you fear? ”

“ Somebody help me, please. ”

“ You know who you are. ”

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aurumacadicus · 4 months

Text

I tagged this and the other post with 'minotaur steve' so you guys can find them together lol.

"So, there's this prophecy," Tony begins, rolling his ball of twine up as he walks away from the hidden labyrinth entrance. "I don't remember it exactly because I was too busy killing a guy trying to chop down one of my heart woods, but the gist is something like 'The bull-headed son of the Rogers clan is the only one who can save the Stark Forest.' So let's get going and--hey? Are you listening to me?!" He turns, scowling because the Rogers minotaur hasn't followed him.

His rant dies on his tongue the moment he sees the minotaur. The man's ovine head is tipped up, eyes closed, nose to the sun. Tony can see his nostrils flare as he sucks in deep lungfuls of air. He looks... somehow smaller, his curved, sharp horns no longer scraping the stone ceilings. The wind ruffles through his golden brown fur. He looks at peace. Tony suddenly remembers that all the minotaurs are kept locked in the labyrinth. They never get to see the sky.

He reminds himself that only this one has any modicum of intelligence suited for the outside world. The other minotaurs had proved that by grabbing for him when they saw him searching their halls, hungry and boorish. He's still not sure whether they hungered for food or for want of a cow, and he doesn't wish to know, either. Still, he wishes he could have rescued this one under better circumstances, even though he knows he simply wouldn't have left his forest unless he had to.

"...What should I call you?" he finally asks, more gently than he means to.

The minotaur reluctantly draws his head down, eyes fluttering open so human and blue that it makes Tony's breath catch in his chest. "...My," he begins, slow, as if not used to making human syllables. "Ma. She called me... Steve."

"Steve," Tony repeats quietly. He holds out his hand. "I'm sorry, Steve. The humans we meet will not be kind to you. You'll have to stick with me."

"No one has been kind to me but Ma," Steve says, and his fingers rub over the circled star scarred onto his hip before he reaches out to take Tony's hand.

Tony swallows thickly. Steve's hand dwarfs his, and he can see the muscles in it twitching, careful not to crush his own with his grip. He's scary, part of him acknowledges. Steve is at least seven feet tall not including the horns, maybe taller. Tony's bad with heights if there are no trees nearby. He's built like the stone walls they'd walked through in the labyrinth, wide and sturdy, muscles visible through his fur and skin. He'd watched Steve's hooves shatter the brick as he'd warned away another minotaur as they passed through its territory to leave.

But Steve has gentle eyes, and he's so careful where he's holding Tony's hand. He must have gotten practice, holding his mother and protecting her from the other minotaurs wandering the labyrinth. She had obviously instilled in him a gentleness that the other beasts had never known.

"Once I've done what the gods say needs doing... must I go back?" Steve asks, eyes sad.

Tony doesn't remember that part of the prophecy either, but he knows, suddenly and with certainty, that he'd burn his own forest temples to the gods down before he'd force Steve to go back into the labyrinth. "No. You can stay with me. I'll protect you from anyone who says you need to go back."

Steve smiles, and something about him softens further. "Lead the way."

Tony turns, mind already racing with routes to take that would keep Steve safest. Humans always want to take on monsters for glory. Steve might be the only one who can save his forest, but they need to make it back there in one piece. He still needs to take them to the tiny isle of Brookslynne to retrieve the Rogers weapon, so it will be a long journey. He doesn't want to travel at night, but maybe--

"...About your payment for my help," Steve says slowly, reluctantly. "You don't... look like you have the right parts."

"The gods don't really care about a person's parts when it comes to a bargain," Tony mutters. If Steve's only seen male minotaurs and human women, he's not going to give him the birds and the bees talk.

"The gods don't really care about a person in general," Steve agrees darkly, and Tony bites back the questions he has about how it must have been like to grow up in the labyrinth, seemingly the only truly intelligent one of his kind. It's none of his business, anyway. He just needs Steve to save his forest.

#ideas #stony #minotaur steve

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libraryofmoths · 8 months

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Moth of the Week

African Death’s-Head Hawkmoth

Acherontia atropos

The African death's-head hawkmoth is part of the family Sphingidae and is the most widely recognized of the three species of Death’s-Head Hawkmoth. The species was described in 1758 by Carl Linnaeus. Its common name comes from the skull shape on the back of its thorax. It’s binomial name: comes from the river Acheron in Greece, which was believed to lead to the Underworld, and the Greek goddess Atropos respectively.

Description The forewings are black/brown with mottled shades of brown while the hindwings are buff orange with two black/brown stripes that curve with the edge of the hindwing. The head and thorax are the same black/brown color as the forewings interrupted by the brown skull on the back of the thorax. The abdomen is the same buff color as the hindwings with similar stripes of the same color. There is also a single stripe down the center of the abdomen called the “dorsal stripe.”

Average Wingspan: 13 cm (5 in)

Females are large than males with a rounded abdomen tip and larger, thicker antennae

Males have a pointed abdomen tip

Diet and Habitat Larva of this species mainly eat the leaves of potato plants which have alkaloids. The larva accumulate these toxins to become unpalatable to predators. Adults eat the nectar of flowers and stolen honey from the beehives of the Western Honey Bee. They are able to mimic the scent of bees and steal the honey undetected. They use their proboscis, a tube used to drink nectar and honey, to break the honey comb.

Their ranges stretches from the Middle East, as far south as the southern tip of Africa, as far north as southern Great Britain, as far east as India and western Saudi Arabia, and as far west as the Canary Islands and Azores. It is known to move into western Eurasia, but a majority do not survive the winter.

Mating This moth has multiple generations per year. In Africa, the broods are continuous. In the northern range, the larva overwinter in the pupal stage. Eggs are laid singly on the underside of species in mainly Solanaceae but also Physalis, Verbenaceae, Cannabaceae, Oleaceae, Pedaliaceae and others.

Predators This moth can emit a special squeak noise by sucking in air to vibrate a flap in its mouth and throat. The purpose of this squeak is unclear, but the two hypotheses are it is to scare away predators or to mimic the sound of a queen bee makes for the workers to stop moving to easier raid beehives for honey. They are also immune to bee venom and can mimic the scent of bees.

Fun Fact This moth has appeared many times in pop culture as symbols of death and evil:

It appeared in The Hireling Shepherd, Bram Stoker's Dracula, Un Chien Andalou, the promotional marquee posters for The Silence of the Lambs, in the music video to Massive Attack's single, "Butterfly Caught,” and on the American edition's cover of José Saramago's novel Death with Interruptions.

It is mentioned in Susan Hill's Gothic horror novel I'm the King of the Castle and John Keats’s "Ode to Melancholy.”

It is referred to in The Mothman Prophecies.

Finally, the moth is used as a calling card by the serial killer Buffalo Bill. However, in the movie script they are referred to under a different species of death’s-head hawkmoths.

(Source: Wikipedia, Simple English Wikipedia)

#libraryofmoths #animals #bugs #facts #insects #moth #mothoftheweek #lepidoptera #Sphingidae #African death’s-head hawkmoth #Acherontia atropos

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tw1l1te · 2 months

Text

The Final Promise₊˚✩⊹

Chapter 7

Linked Universe x reader

Warnings: traumatic flashbacks, angstangstangst, obsessive thoughts if you squint

This chapter is heavier in terms of angst and trauma

₊˚✩⊹

Sky wasn’t sure what was happening with him. Its been a few days since… that moment, but neither of you had brought it up to each other. You didn’t seem angry or upset at him, but yet you barely said a word to him in the past week or so. He didn’t like it. Especially after seeing Time follow you outside and then both of you coming back flushed? He was getting worried.

Did he weird her out?

Did he say or do something to make you act this way?

He was hoping both of you would share a room tonight so you could talk about it, but of course you got paired with Wild and Twilight. It’s not like he didn’t trust them, he trusted them with his life, it was more so jealousy anxiousness about your lack of attention on him.

He lay on his back, squeezed between Hyrule and Wind, both of who were splayed out on the bed, leaving him scrunched up. He couldn’t sleep, which never happened.

He sat up, rubbing his hands on his face in frustration, either because of lack of sleep or conflicting feelings toward you.

Ever since he was young, he was told he was destined to be with Zelda, with Sun. She was perfect in every manner, and he genuinely believed it for years. After his quest, however, he started having doubts.

He felt like he was used to fulfilling this prophecy that he didn’t have a choice in. He had to save her and fight Demise, whether he wanted to or not. He knew it wasn’t Zelda’s fault but… he didn’t feel what he once did for her. He doesn’t know if he genuinely loved her before. He convinced himself he did… because he felt like he had to. It was constricting, the inability to truly love someone without the expectation of destiny.

But that’s when you came along.

Almost instantly, he knew it was you. You guided him the entire time. Your faint voice, always gentle and comforting, regardless of the situation he was in.

And when you joined the group? He fell faster than when he fell from Skyloft.

The group all assumed he loved Zelda, but that was far from the truth. He regarded her as a friend, childhood friend at best. You, on the other hand, were so much more.

And that was the problem.

He didn't know what to do or say. Being the chosen one and all, he wasn’t supposed to feel this way toward you, yet you kept pulling him toward you, harder each time. You were addicting.

Your aura, your voice, your eyes. Everything about you was so different and heavenly compared to everyone else. Even to her. He needed you.

He sighed. He’s definitely not going to be able to sleep now.

You wake up in black. You can’t see. Your eyes are wide open, but you can’t make out anything.

You try to move, but you seem to be… held in place. Not tied up or gagged, but contained. Contained within an invisible barrier.

“What the-”

“It’s an imprisonment spell. It won’t do you any harm, unless you struggle of course. But you knew that, didn’t you, Y/n?” Somebody asks. A man you presume by the deep tone, but you can’t make out much else.

“Who are you? Where am I? What am I doing-” “Easy, guide. Easy. We just needed to contact you, see what you were up to. You’re trying to go home, is that right? Not Hyrule, no, but a different realm. A completely disconnected dimension.”

“How did you…” you start, but no words follow.

The book, of course. You should’ve known this wouldn’t have been easy.

“If this is about that book of yours, I’ll give it back, I just want to go home.” you pleaded, shifting slightly in your suspension.

The voice chuckles, malice intertwined in its tone.

“I wish it was that easy, guide, but the whole point of me contacting you was for you to… guide us. Funny, isn’t it?”

You stay silent, waiting.

“Shame you haven’t got many answers at the moment, would’ve been beneficial for both of us.”

A breath hits your face.

“We’ll see you soon, Y/n.”

You awake with a gasp, body shooting up from the bed. You place your hand on your chest, feeling the pit in your chest.

Fucking hell, that was horrifying.

The sun’s rays were shining into the room, shining into your eyes. Squinting, you look away, noticing that Wild and Twilight were long gone, just cold spaces in place.

Why do they always do that?

Shaking your head, you get out of the bed, heading towards the mirror to fix yourself up for the day. You look at yourself in the mirror. Bright, red angry markings carved into your flesh, wounds fresh and streaming blood down your face.

You scream.

A second passes before you hear barreling footsteps and panicked voices running up the stairs, and trampling into the room, wooden door rattling on its old hinges. Everyone is talking, panicked voices asking you questions, frustrated voices arguing on how to help you, erratic moving and breathing and-

“Stop! Fucking STOP. STOP.” you yell, placing your hands on your ears, sinking to the floor. You couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in on you. The voices were getting too loud.

StopstopstopstopstopstopSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP-

You see someone kneel in front of you, voice quiet, asking you something.

“Y/n, hey hey, you’re ok. You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re ok.” Hyrule mumbles, not touching you, giving you physical space.

“Am I allowed to touch you, Y/n? I just wanna clean up those wounds before they get infected or hurt you more.” he says, voice soft.

You nod slowly. Your eyes are still glued to the mirror, too scared to look at anyone or anything.

As Hyrule is patching you up, no one says a word. At some point, Time ushers Malon downstairs, not wanting to overwhelm her with the gore and trauma. You barely blink as you look at yourself, dried blood caking the slashes across your face.

“...Y/n? Can you remember anything?” Wild asks, not hearing when he crouched next to you. Your throat closes up again. You kept getting flashes from your nightmare, on repeat.

Taking a shaky breath, “A voice, a man I presume from how deep it was. I think it might be the group I read about. Said they’ll see me soon.” you answer, short fragments as the flashes come back to you.

Wars was deep in thought, staring at the floor.

“Was there anything notable about their voice? Could you see anything? A motive maybe?”

“I-I didn’t recognize them… I don’t think, at least. It was pitch dark, and I couldn't see an inch in front of me. They might be trying to access different realities or interdimensional travel, at least that’s what he implied.” you mumbled, not particularly keen on discussing this further.

Time places a hand on Warriors’ shoulder, “Let’s let them get patched up, we don’t want to overwhelm them more.”

Time looks at you, giving you a worried glance. You were too worn out to say anything else.

“Does anything else hurt, Sugarplum?” Hyrule asks you.

You think for a second trying to feel your body, but your back beats you to it, causing you to hiss out in pain.

“Got it, let’s see that back of yours. Do you mind lifting up your shirt? Wild will get you a towel to cover yourself.” Wild nodded, quickly coming back with a clean towel. He helped you slip off your tunic, wrapping the towel around your front.

“Holy Hylia, Y/n…. What happened to you?” Hyrule rasped. It sounded bad.

“What? What is it. What's going on, Rulie.” you ramble, frustrated by the fact no one is responding. You hated when everyone got silent, leaving you in anticipation. It was killing you.

“Rulie. What. Is it.” Hyrule intakes a sharp breath.

“It’s pretty bad, Y/n. I’m surprised they haven't gotten infected. You might need some stitches, but I’ll try to avoid them by using some potions and magic…Twi, hand me my pack, would you?”

You zoned out the pacing of everyone, only being brought back to reality when Hyrule was making you take a healing potion. The thick, gooey substance was revolting, but you didn’t have much of a choice.

Sky held you as Hyrule focused on you, blue light shining onto your back. It was so painful. It felt like a searing hot iron was placed on your back, melting away your flesh.

You screamed into Sky’s chest, tears streaming down your face. It hurt. So, so much. Nothing like you’ve ever felt before. You held onto Sky for dear life, begging it to end.

“Shh, I got you Songbird. I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, you’re almost done. You’re being so so strong, It’ll be over soon ok? You can rest soon.” Sky consoled you, but you felt part of it was to console him too.

Finally, the pain subsided. The blue light faded away, Hyrule pulling his hands away from you slowly. You were still leaned into Sky while Hyrule bandaged you up, too out of it to care whether or not anyone saw your bare chest. Hyrule had to lightly tug the gauze to make sure it soaked the blood, but not tight to the point of constricting airflow or causing extreme pain.

As you came back to your senses, you noticed a few of the other’s had gone, most likely to give you privacy and not overwhelm you. Wars and Sky were still here, Hyrule still behind you, adjusting your bandages.

“Bring her back to bed, make sure to not put any pressure on her back. She’s gonna be really sore for a few days.” Hyrule says, putting away the supplies thrown about the floor. Wars just leaned against the wall, watching as Sky carefully tucked you into bed, mumbling something into your hair that he couldn’t hear.

Hyrule turns to Warriors “Let’s leave her be, she needs rest. We’ll take turns watching her, Sky will go first.”

Reluctantly, Wars follows Hyrule out of the bedroom, but not before giving you a worried look, pursing his lips together. He heads out and softly shuts the door, footsteps fading away.

₊˚✩⊹

#yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe x reader #link x reader #linked universe au

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etoilesombre · 5 months

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Hey, do you guys want to hear a story? Let me tell you about the romance between Lancelot and Guinevere, as recounted in Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur.

So, I thought I knew the basics. I grew up reading modern versions of Arthurian legend that focused on other aspects, but had a general knowledge of the Arthur-Guinever-Lancelot love triangle. It didn't show up too much, but I assumed it was subtext in some other versions. What I picked up was that it was sort of pure, almost an ot3, and not the cause of a lot of problems.

My friends. In this version it is NOT SUBTEXT, it DEFINITELY CAUSED PROBLEMS, and it is WILD. It is a true will-they-won't-they drama fest soap opera romance, and I need to share. So please, come on this journey with me.

[I’m looking at you, Black Sails fandom people. I need you to know that Flint canonically would have read this. He would almost certainly have also grown up hearing these stories. I’m not saying he’s Lancelot coded, but I am saying it's interesting that he would have been aware that was something it was possible to be.]

A couple notes, before we dive in. I am very much just summarizing what happened in the book. The thing is, the book is a million pages long and also in Middle English, and this is just one of many plots, which I think is why it's not more widely known. I will show some excerpts so you can get a feel for the text, but you don’t need to read them to understand the story. I'm referring to a version that is as close to the manuscript as I can find, though with spelling regularized. For real fun, see what the original looked like. Malory purports to be translating part of the French Vulgate cycle, which likely is where the character of Lancelot originates, but in fact he is doing much more than translating, and compiles other stories as well. Point being, when he says “so the French book sayeth” etc, that is the “book” to which he is referring. Because of my lack of knowledge about the language and cultural context, this lecture series from Mythgard Academy was absolutely invaluable to my understanding. I cannot recommend it highly enough. Inevitably, some of the opinions of the prof are reflected here. I do not have it in me to compare the scholarship of various medievalists right now, I just want to tell you about this DRAMA.

Let’s start with a prophecy. When Arthur decides he wishes to marry Guinevere, Merlin advises him to take someone else, because if he takes her, she will betray him with Lancelot and it will destroy his kingdom. All of this is foretold, not only to us, but to Arthur himself. Of course he takes her anyway, and all is doomed from the start.

As we begin the main arc of this story (several books after the prophecy), Lancelot is widely acknowledged to be the best and most renowned knight of Arthur’s court. He is plainly and hopelessly in love with Guinevere, and she loves him in return. Arthur doesn’t have a problem with this - who wouldn’t love Guinevere? This sort of love is socially acceptable, so long as they do not sleep together, which would be treason. Arthur in fact seems to support their love, because it means that Lancelot will be Guinevere’s champion should she need one. This is a role Arthur himself legally cannot fill because he is the king, and so would have to be the judge. Lancelot is indeed a good champion for her, and fights for her when she is wrongly accused of murder.

Lancelot is deeply chivalrous, in a way that seems sincere. This is a great place for a first excerpt, a conversation with a Random Damsel Lancelot has been helping:

‘Now, damosel,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘will ye any more service of me?’ ‘Nay, sir,’ she said, ‘at this time, but almighty Jesu preserve you wheresoever ye ride or go, for the most courteous knight thou art and meekest unto all ladies and gentlewomen that now liveth. But one thing, sir knight, me thinks ye lack, ye that are a knight wifeless, that ye will not love some maiden or gentlewoman. For I could never hear say that ever ye loved any of no manner of degree, and that is great pity. But it is noised that ye love Queen Guenivere, and that she hath ordained by enchantment that ye shall never love no other but her, nor no other damosel nor lady shall rejoice you; wherefore there be many in this land of high estate and low that make great sorrow.’ ‘Fair damosel,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘I may not warn* people to speak of me what it pleaseth them; but for to be a wedded man, I think it not; for then I must couch with her, and leave arms and tournaments, battles and adventures. And as for to say to take my pleasance with paramours, that will I refuse, in principal for dread of God. For knights that be adventurous should not be adulterers nor lecherous, for then they be not happy nor fortunate unto the wars; for either they shall be overcome with a simpler knight than they be themselves, or else they shall slay by unhap and their cursedness better men than they be themselves. And so who that useth paramours shall be unhappy, and all thing unhappy that is about them.’

So after doing his Knightly Deeds for this damsel, Lancelot asks if she needs anything else. She says no, but you are lacking one thing, which is the love of a woman. It is rumored that is because Guinevere has through sorcery made you love only her, and that causes all of the women great sorrow. In reply Lancelot makes this speech about how he cannot have a wife or paramour and be a good knight, but everyone thinks it is at least in part because his love is reserved for Guinevere.

Now, throughout the book his chastity DOES notably cause all of the women great sorrow. Everyone wants to sleep with Lancelot. Literally he is kidnapped by the four most beautiful queens other than Guinevere, and they say he has to choose one of them as a lover (not even a wife, a lover) or else die. He says he would rather die, though in the end he escapes. This is just an example, truly it is a recurring problem for him. He is, at one point, tricked into sleeping with a woman with whom he conceives his son Galahad (as was prophesied, it's a long story and the romance is only part of it. It is worth mentioning that something similar happens to Arthur, which is how Mordred is sired.) When Guinevere learns that Lancelot has been with someone else, she is angry and banishes him from the court. They still love each other and eventually reconcile.

So, Lancelot goes on the quest for the holy grail. But he fails, specifically because while he is outwardly dedicated to God, in his private heart he is still dedicated to Guinevere. And so he makes a vow to renounce his love for her, acknowledging that it is beyond measure (beyond what is right, even if they have not technically done anything wrong.) However when he returns to Camelot, he cannot keep this vow, as we see.

Then, as the book saith, Sir Lancelot began to resort unto Queen Guenivere again, and forgot the promise and the perfection that he made in the quest. For, as the book saith, had not Sir Lancelot been in his privy thoughts and in his mind so set inwardly to the Queen as he was in seeming outward to God, there had no knight passed him in the quest of the Sangrail, but ever his thoughts were privily on the Queen. And so they loved together more hotter than they did beforehand, and had many such privy draughts together that many in the court spoke of it, and in especial Sir Agravain, Sir Gawain’s brother, for he was ever open-mouthed. So it befell that Sir Lancelot had many resorts of ladies and damosels that daily resorted unto him to be their champion: in all such matters of right Sir Lancelot applied him daily to do for the pleasure of Our Lord Jesu Christ. And ever as much as he might he withdrew him from the company of Queen Guenivere for to eschew the slander and noise, wherefore the Queen waxed wroth with Sir Lancelot.

He and Guinevere start spending a lot of time alone together, and so there are rumors circulating about them in court. In order to put a stop to the rumors, Lancelot starts paying other women attention and doing more good knightly deeds for them. Guinevere is terribly jealous, but he tells her it's for their own good, and also tells her about the vow he made, and his concern that their love is beyond what is appropriate. She is devastated, and weeping banishes him from the court (again).

Lancelot then rides in a tournament, disguised. (Why? Because this is simply a thing knights do.) To make it an effective disguise he takes the token of a woman, the sleeve of the fair maid of Astolat to wear on his helm. When she discovers that he was only using it for the disguise, and he does not indeed love her, she is so heartbroken that she says if he will not marry her or be her lover, she will die. He refuses, on the grounds that love must not be constrained and should arise from the heart, and offers her a thousand pounds a year instead if she marries anyone else. Properly insulted by this, she does indeed die. She has her body sent in a boat to Camelot, with a letter in her hand, saying that she died of her love for him, that he would not return.

Seeing this, Guinevere reconciles with Lancelot, presumably reassured by the fact that he would let this very beautiful much younger woman die of her love rather than being with her. She insists that from now on he will not fight in disguise, and will openly bear her token.

Then Queen Guenivere sent for Sir Lancelot, and said thus: ‘I warn you that ye ride no more in no jousts nor tournaments but that your kinsmen may know you; and at these jousts that shall be ye shall have of me a sleeve of gold. And I pray you for my sake to force* yourself there, that men may speak you worship. But I charge you as ye will have my love, that ye warn your kinsmen that ye will bear that day the sleeve of gold upon your helmet.’ ‘Madam,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘it shall be done.’ And either made great joy of other.

It is important to keep in mind that, to this point, there is no textual evidence that they were sleeping together, and a great deal of evidence that it was important to Lancelot that they not cross that line. There is much less evidence that this is important to Guinevere.

So then one fateful day in May, Guinevere goes picnicing with an entourage of knights. They are captured by someone else who is in love with Guinevere, and taken back to his castle, but she manages to send a message to Lancelot. At the castle, she insists that her knights sleep in her bedchamber on the grounds that they were wounded in the battle when she was captured and need tending, but truly she wants them there to keep her captor from raping her.

Lancelot arrives to rescue her, and the person who kidnapped her agrees to give her back in the morning. She tells Lancelot to visit her room in the night. He climbs up to her window, which is barred. They have a heartfelt reunion and she says she wishes he could come in to her. He acquiesces and breaks the bars to get into her room, cutting his hand to the bone to do so. Despite the profusely bleeding wound and the ten other men sleeping in the room, they at last do sleep together, in this passionate blood covered consummation. He sneaks back out and replaces the bars.

In the morning, the man who kidnapped Guinevere comes in and sees blood all over the bed. He accuses her of being unfaithful to the king, saying she lay with one of the knights who had been sleeping in her room. She denies it, but it is very clear that she did sleep with someone who was bleeding.

Lancelot says he will fight to defend her from this accusation, which is right and proper because he is her champion. In this story people take trial by combat and oaths before God very seriously, especially Lancelot. He really does try. So he swears an oath that he will prove with his life that Guinevere did not sleep with one of the wounded knights who lay in her room. This of course is TRUE, but only on a technicality. Lancelot, having slept with her himself the night before, is also the one who defends her honor after. I love this story so much.

Instead of fighting him, the kidnapper takes Lancelot captive. In captivity he encounters ANOTHER damsel who insists that sleep with her in order for her to help him. He refuses, still faithful in his heart to Guinevere. Eventually she settles for him holding and kissing her, which is not across the line of appropriateness apparently, giving us some idea of where that line is drawn. Anyway, Lancelot gets out, fights for Guinevere and wins. There are indications that he feels like he barely dodged a devine bullet.

Guinevere and Lancelot return to Camelot. Finally the rumors about them are true, the deed has been done, but of course nothing appears particularly different as there were already rumors about them. Two knights, Mordred and Agravaine, who have been intriguing against Arthur already, go and tell Arthur that Guinevere is being untrue to him. Here is his response:

‘If it be so,’ said the King, ‘wit you well, he is none other; but I would be loath to begin such a thing but I might have proofs of it. For Sir Lancelot is a hardy knight, and all ye know that he is the best knight among us all; and but if he be taken with the deed he will fight with him that bringeth up the noise, and I know no knight that is able to match him. Therefore, and it be sooth as ye say, I would that he were taken with the deed.’ For as the French book saith, the King was full loath that such a noise should be upon Sir Lancelot and his queen. For the King had a deeming of it; but he would not hear thereof, for Sir Lancelot had done so much for him and for the Queen so many times that, wit you well, the King loved him passingly well.

Arthur says he will not hear of this without proof, because if Lancelot is accused and allowed to fight he would beat anyone. And, it is said that Arthur had some idea of the affair, but would not credit it because Lancelot had done so much for him and Guinevere, and he loved Lancelot greatly.

So, one night when the king is away hunting, the two accusers contrive to catch them in the act, with a group of twelve armed knights. They do find Lancelot in Guinevere’s chamber, but the text is notably, pointedly vague about whether they are actually in bed. In any case, Lancelot asks for a trial. The knights say no, they have caught him and so may kill him. He is Lancelot, so he kills all of them instead, save one (Mordred) whom he leaves wounded. Lancelot flees, intending to return to rescue Guinevere and take her to his own castle to protect her from Arthur’s wrath. He maintains her innocence, and still intends that they will all reconcile.

Guinevere is to be burned at the stake (normal in this situation). Lancelot rescues her from the burning at the last moment, killing a number of knights of the round table. Arthur seems to blame the accusers more than Guinevere and Lancelot (for good reason; keep in mind that the romance is a subplot, there is a great deal of political intrigue going on.) Now a war will begin, whether anyone wants it or not, because of the people Lancelot killed. Lancelot takes Guinevere to his own castle. Battle lines are drawn, and Lancelot and Arthur confront each other in the fighting:

And ever was King Arthur about Sir Lancelot to have slain him, and ever Sir Lancelot suffered him and would not strike again. So Sir Bors encountered with King Arthur; and Sir Bors smote him, and so he alit and drew his sword and said to Sir Lancelot, ‘Sir, shall I make an end of this war?’—for he meant to have slain him. ‘Not so hardy,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘upon pain of thy head, that thou touch him no more! For I will never see that most noble king that made me knight neither slain nor shamed.’ And therewith Sir Lancelot alit off his horse and took up the King and horsed him again, and said thus: ‘My lord the king, for God’s love, stint this strife, for ye get here no worship and I would do my utterance. But always I forbear you, and ye nor none of yours forbear not me. And therefore, my lord, I pray you remember what I have done in many places, and now am I evil rewarded.’ So when King Arthur was on horseback he looked on Sir Lancelot; then the tears burst out of his eyes, thinking of the great courtesy that was in Sir Lancelot more than in any other man. And therewith the King rode his way and might no longer behold him, saying to himself, ‘Alas, alas, that yet this war began!’

So Arthur tries to slay Lancelot, but Lancelot, the better fighter, refuses to slay him and indeed when Arthur is unhorsed Lancelot forbids that he be slain, and gives him his own horse. Arthur weeps for the honor that is in Lancelot, and laments that the war began.

The pope intervenes and tries to negotiate an end. Lancelot confirms that he is willing to return Guinevere to Arthur, and says he has always been willing to do this and will still defend her honor, but that he does not feel he can do so because Arthur has listened to liars and been misled, and he had more reason to take her away than the accusation of adultery - he does not trust she can be safe in that court, with things as they are.

Eventually they do make a deal, with some assurances, and he surrenders Guinevere to the king. He kisses her openly, says that he will leave, but should she be in danger or ever again accused of being untrue, he will fight for her as he always has. He departs the court forever, to much great sorrow, and returns to his own lands.

The war continues - eventually Mordred seizes the throne, Arthur kills him in battle but is mortally wounded himself and passes to Avalon. Following the king’s death, although her love would no longer be adulterous, Guinevere retires to a convent rather than reuniting with Lancelot. He seeks her out, and this is her reaction:

Sir Lancelot was brought before her; then the Queen said to all those ladies, ‘Through this same man and me hath all this war been wrought, and the death of the most noblest knights of the world; for through our love that we have loved together is my most noble lord slain. Therefore, Sir Lancelot, wit thou well I am set in such a plight to get my soul health; and yet I trust through God’s grace and through His Passion of His wounds wide, that after my death I may have a sight of the blessed face of Christ Jesu, and at Doomsday to sit on His right side;* for as sinful as ever I was, now are saints in heaven. And therefore, Sir Lancelot, I require thee and beseech thee heartily, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou never see me no more in the visage. And I command thee, on God’s behalf, that thou forsake my company; and to thy kingdom look thou turn again, and keep well thy realm from war and wrack. For as well as I have loved thee heretofore, my heart will not serve now to see thee, for through thee and me is the flower of kings and knights destroyed. And therefore go thou to thy realm, and there take ye a wife and live with her with joy and bliss. And I pray thee heartily to pray for me to the everlasting Lord that I may amend my misliving.’ ‘Now, my sweet madam,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘would ye that I should turn again unto my country, and there to wed a lady? Nay, madam, wit you well, that shall I never do, for I shall never be so false unto you of that I have promised. But the self* destiny that ye have taken you to, I will take me to, for the pleasure of Jesu; and ever for you I cast me specially to pray.

Rather than rejoicing in Lancelot’s presence, Guinevere laments that their love brought about the downfall of the Arthurian court, and the deaths of the knights of the round table and King Arthur. She calls upon Lancelot, by all the love that was ever between them to leave her presence, telling him to marry someone else if he wishes and see her no more. Lancelot replies that he wants no one else, and that he will respect her wishes, but will also renounce the world and join a religious order. He asks Guinevere for a final parting kiss, which she denies him.

When Guinevere lies dying of illness, Lancelot sets out to go to her, having had a vision. She knows of his coming, and prays to die before she sees him, because she cannot bear it. She dies a half hour before he arrives, leaving instruction that he is to tend to her body, and then lay it to rest beside that of her lord King Arthur. Lancelot does this with great sorrow, and after ceases to eat or drink, and within weeks is dead himself.

And there you have it, the love affair that doomed Camelot.

HUGE DISCLAIMER: Any and all mistakes or misinterpretations are my own. This is what I gathered, but I am not a medievalist. I am barely an interested layperson. I’m just a random fic writer who got obsessed with research for a story, and had to share this tragic mess.

#i have a million thoughts about this #and there is a great deal of context that would be helpful #but i this doesnt need to be more than 4k words long so #i may do a followup post if there is interest #but black sails folks #i'm writing a lot of flintmadi convos right now #and vaguely planned to have them talk about this book #as a way to discuss their own situation and values #but i had not actually read it #and it is WAY MORE than i expected #anyway they are going to refer back to it #so i figured i should write it down so i can point at it if readers want to know wtf they are talking about #is there an #arthurian legend #tag?#i purposefully haven't looked i don't go here if there is a here to go #but fuck it that was a lot of work might as well see #anyway there are so many things to dig into here #arthur's role or lack thereof #(the rest of the book has a lot more to do with him)#the treatment of fate and prophesy #the courtly love tradition #how this fits into the arthurian tradition as a whole #and the clear french influence #vs the old celtic stories #also so many fun things about language in general #did you know that paramour is derived basically the same way as paramilitary?#'para' as 'beyond that which is regular'#also in middle english negatives are additive rather than canceling each out out!#fun facts

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intoxicated-chan · 8 days

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ༻ 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

(A/n) ➳ I have written this over three times as an attempt to get Daemon’s personality correct and I butchered his character... P.S, I used a High Valyrain translator. I’m not sure how correct it is but you can find it HERE.

Word Count ➳ 1.8k

Content Warnings ➳ 3rd P.O.V, alcohol use, theft, threats of violence, mentions of murder, mentions of death, mentions of war...

AWOIAF Masterlist

Daemon stepped into the Prancing Pony, slipping off his waterlogged hood to reveal his platinum blonde hair and violet eyes. It was a candlelit inn, a seemingly calm one for the night. He observed the inn a couple of hours before entering, he wanted to make sure few eyes were on him.

But his observation of the inn did him nothing, everyone stared at him, gaining all kinds of attention. Good or bad. He kept his arm rested on his sword, making his weapon known so no one would dare.

He approached the bar, setting his pouch of coin he stole off a drunk bystander. “A pint of strong ale.”

The bartender eyed him before pouring his drink. Daemon handed the man the coin, taking the wooden mug in return.

His nose scrunched at the heavy and bitter taste of the ale. Daemon could certainly hold his own when it came to drinking but this was different. He took the mug as he left the bar and made himself comfortable in a corner with a man.

It was his contact from the last lead that led him to the Prancing Pony. “I was right to say you are not from these parts.” The man started. “You are causing trouble, drawing eyes from people you do not want to start a war with.”

Daemon scoffed, laughing to himself. “These people are the least of my worries. I only care of the dragon people speak of.”

But the man started to laugh, too loud for Daemon’s taste. “The dragon they only hear of is Smaug.” Yet his eyes became wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. “I’ve seen another, not as big but just as fearsome.” He murmured.

Daemon breathed deeply, his jaw clenched as his grip tightened around his mug. “And you dare hold the information from me?”

The man rolled his eyes. He sat back in his chair, throwing his leg over the table. “Go East of the Misty Mountains, you will find Mirkwood.” The man ignored his questions and pointed at his hair. “You will find its rider, a woman with strands of hair that match yours.”

“Now you give me this information? At no cost?”

“You cannot scare me, Daemon Targaryen. There are many things worse than dragon fire.”

Daemon rushed out of the inn feeling frustrated, he was played like a fool. Another reason to despise this place.

He pulled his hood over his head as the rain poured heavily down on him.

He always knew his older brother was obsessed with omens and prophecies, but Daemon was able to believe in one of Visery’s dreams. a Targaryen had found their own path to safety, escaping the calamity that took their home.

“The Targaryen dynasty will rule beyond Westeros.”

He was stuck in his mind for hours, keeping himself busy until he found Caraxes still deep in his slumber. Daemon took a breath before he spoke softly in High Valyrian, running his hand over his long and slender neck.

“Vēzot, Caraxes.”

Daemon flew to the East of the Misty Mountains, it was a trip of two days, three before he found Mirkwood. A kingdom surrounded by woods, isolated from the rest of the world.

Caraxes landed just feet away from the narrow bridge, but his neck was long enough to reach the gates where two guards stood.

They remained still as they felt Caraxes’s hot breath and saw him bare his teeth.

Daemon sat up tall in his saddle, he relaxed one wrist over the other. “I demand an audience with your lord!” He exclaimed. “Step aside and you shall live to go home to your families.”

Caraxes grumbled when the guards did not move or say a word. Daemon clicked his tongue after another minute of silence. He wanted to take his brother’s words into consideration. How he must learn to control his anger, how this world was unlike Westeros.

Talking was getting Daemon nowhere since he was met with silence. “It is a simple request that I am sure you can fulfill, I have no need to burn your kingdom but turn me away and I will.”

But it was a failure.

Yes, they reacted, drawing their bows, and shouting in their tongues. It was not the reaction he was hoping for...

“You have chosen your own fates.” Caraxes pulled back and opened his jaws. “Drac-”

Suddenly, the gates creaked open, another Legolas stood at the entrance, walking forward with his bow in hand.

“You seek and audience with our King.” Legolas stated, looking up at Daemon with a stern expression. “But first, you must hand over your weapons. I shall not let you approach the King armed.”

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his hand itching to draw Dark Sister and so he declared.

“We must obey by their rules, it’s their land but it won’t be for long.”

Dameon gave a curt nod and huffed. He dismounted Caraxes to stand before Legolas. He drew his sword along with its scabbard.

Legolas shouted orders the guards to come forward, his eyes glued on Daemon. They came forward, taking everything out of his hands, Dark Sister, and his cloak.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew it gained him access to Mirkwood.

Legolas was sure there were no more weapons on him. “The King awaits.” He turned his back, walking back into the kingdom with Daemon behind him.

He took one final glance, watching Caraxes whistle again until the gates shut.

Daemon did not hide his amazement at the inside of Mirkwood, he made his expressions clear and kept his composure but remained carefree. He was surrounded by guards, but he walked like he owned the place as his head stayed high.

Then, it was just Legolas walking with him, and it was not long before he was brought in front of the king.

Thranduil sat on his throne, one leg over the other. His finger tapped the arm rest as he looked at Daemon with a lack of concern.

“My Lord.” Daemon addressed. “It seems you’ve been expecting me.”

Legolas took his place by Tauriel’s side. She whispered in his ear, something making him huff in anger and shaking his head.

Thranduil stood from his throne, his hands clasped together. “Of course I have, you made yourself quite known.” He stepped down the steps. “I received word from an acquaintance, he said your dragon was like a serpent. I wondered what they called your dragon back in Westeros.”

“You’re aware?”

“I’m quite aware.” Thranduil responded. “You’re home called Valyria, dragons that you ride, and you Targaryens... I’m only aware of the name after her relative stepped foot on Middle-Earth with a clutch of eggs and managed to sire many offsprings.”

“Where are they?”

“All of them killed each other, it’s difficult to say what happened but (Y/n) appeared with said egg hatched.” Thranduil slowly circled Daemon. “I cannot speak to what happened to the rest of the clutch but now she’s here and you’re here for her.”

“I intend to bring her home.”

Thranduil stopped at his left side, shaking his head. “You will not take her home. She knows no other home than here, Mirkwood.”

Daemon wanted to punch him, stab him, have him burned to death. But he knew better than to do anything disorderly. “She does not belong here. She belongs with her family, with the rest of the Targaryens.”

Thranduil’s eyes flashed with anger as he got in his face. “I have raised her since she was a babe, she is my ward, my own. I will not allow you to disturb her home and peace.” He took a couple steps back before waving Daemon away.

Tauriel attempted to grab his arm, but Daemon shrugged her off. “She has no place here!” He shouted. “Where is she?!”

Thranduil walked back up to his throne, sneering at Daemon. “You have no right to demand anything for me.” He gestured for Tauriel to proceed, ignoring the threats and curses coming from Daemon, it clearly had no effect on him.

Tauriel summoned the guards. “Hold him.” She readied her bow.

Daemon kicked the elf in the chest, pushing him back. He twisted the other’s arm, grabbing his dagger only for Tauriel to shoot it out of his hands.

“If you wish to keep your hands, you will come.” She held no room for argument. “īlon līs ȳzaldrīzes mērī.” He nearly froze in place and Tauriel could see her words confusing him. But the guards grabbed hold of his arms and Tauriel pushed him to walk.

“We must talk alone.”

Caraxes awoke, he was curled up near the entrance, grumbling when he caught sight of Daemon surrounded. He shoved their hands off him. “My effects?” Tauriel took them from one and handed them to him.

Tauriel nodded at the guards, dismissing them. “How did you get here?” She questioned, eyeing his armor and then his dragon.

His dragon had a saddle too, but it was wrapped around his chest with a three headed dragon.

“I’d care to explain but I do not.” Daemon threw on his cloak. “Yet I only care to learn where did you hear those words.”

“There is a Targaryen here.” She confirmed in a hushed voice. “And I fear that darker things may be her future.”

Daemon's brow furrowed. “Yet why help me?” He questioned, staring down at her.

Tauriel’s expression softened, sadness forming on her face. “I care for (Y/n), deeply.” She confessed, her voice barely audible. “But I fear the path she is on will lead to tragedy. If there is a chance to changer her fate, I must take it.”

“Where is she?”

“I cannot tell you exactly where she is.” She explained. “I received word that she had left the kingdom once again without the King’s permission. But there is a nest, past the Enchanted River. (Y/n) is known to frequent that area.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies. Tauriel watched as Caraxes flew for a couple moments then descended.

“The King will not be pleased if he learned you gave out (Y/n)’s location.” Legolas appeared, looking disappointed. “He could kill her.”

“He will not.” Tauriel sharply retorted.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I would rather (Y/n) perish happily than see her and her dragon fall on the battlefield.”

(Y/n) drew her sword as Caraxes landed in front of her. Aegar’s upper body hovered over her as he growled at the sight of the two, stretching his wings, ready to defend her.

Daemon dismounted Caraxes, approaching (Y/n) but stayed at a safe distance. “Nyke emagon daor māzigon naejot vīlībagon.” He said.

“I have not come to fight.”

Her breath hitched as her heart quickened. She continued to look back and forth, between Daemon and Caraxes. She kept a tight grip on her sword. “Who are you and why have you come?” She ordered loudly.

“I am Daemon Targaryen.” Daemon replied. “And I have come to take you home.”

Taglist ➳ @mrsdurin , @marsmallow433 , @oneiratxxia10 , @sassybutclassy96 ,

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bee-ina-boat · 7 months

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hello gay people. i mentioned awhile back about a possible concept for a tma au but its mixed with mythology/religion based stuff. i have since finished this chunk of concept/reference art of the Ceaseless Watcher for this au!!!

im dubbing it: The Magnus Mythos!! please talk to me about it i am insane

putting my rambling au nonsense under the readmore!!!!!

edit!!!: new mythos post just dropped :3

alright- bare with me because my thoughts are everywhere lol

random various au information:

the fear entites are instead more general gods, much like those from various mythologies (greek, norse, egyption, etc.) like the eye, rather than an entity that feeds on the fear of being watched, is rather the god of knowledge and sight!

all of the gods have influence over the world, some mortals will devote themselves to one specific god entirely, others will become devout to multiple, and some will simply be neutral among all 14 and live life out as they please.

avatars are mortals who have been blessed with power by the gods while creatures (like mr spider, the not them, etc) are simply beings who have been born into the world by the gods power seeping into it. artifacts are items that have either been blessed/cursed by the gods or avatars, or have been affected by the gods power seeping into the world also.

theres multiple sects, cults, and churches for each god much like how many real life religions have different sects with their own rules and standards. some have beef, others do not.

the gods themselves are entirely morally neutral, they have their own interconnected relationships with eachother, and kind of view mortals as pets in a way, picking favorites and seeing them as of lesser importance in comparison to themselves.

since the gods here arent necessarily evil and theyre actually sentient beings, their titles are changed to be more fitting (the mother of puppets -> the mother of fate as an example)

the story is set in an era resembling the early 1900s because idk. vibes are neat i guess

thats all the basic world building crumbs for now, ill go deeper into it when i have more art and story stuff ready!

for now- heres some actual lore :3c

Jonah magnus is basically eye jesus. thousands of years prior to the start of the story, the eye favored him and he became a messiah of sorts.

the House of Magnus is a church sect of the eye founded in what is now london. but it doesnt operate JUST as a simple church. many sects of the eye devote themselves to gaining knowledge of the world around them and the House of Magnus is no different there. operating with a library, research centre and all. the research not just on history and knowledge, but also the holy and divine. documenting stories that deal with the divine powers and researching cursed/blessed artifacts aswell.

its a common legend that if one tells their story under the eyes watch (either in a church of the eye or directly to an avatar of the eye) that theyll receive good fortune and foresight, and since the House of Magnus has become a well known sect of the eye, many will come far and wide to detail their accounts under its roof

all of this documentation leads down to the Magnus Mythos, a large archive under the church where the written documents are filed, curated and cared for by the head Archivist. as such, the position of Archivist has become a most sacred role among worshippers of the eye comparable to the head of the church itself.

they arent just revered for their care of the mythos (though the devotees of the eye view the care of documented knowledge to be a sacred and ever important responsibility) Theres a prophecy, hand woven by the Mother of Fate herself, one that states an ordinary archivist will one day be gifted by all 14 of the gods and awaken the great change, bringing about a new and blessed age.

but is this newest archivist even ready for such pressure and commitment? and what if the prophecy is more devious than one might think?

oooOOOOoooOO mysterious lore- i know this is heavily self indulgent but i refuse to apologize for that because im havin FUN. if you read all of that just know i love you so much and i hope you liked it ;w; im very excited and ive been working on archivist +archival assistant lore for the past few days and im excited to do art for them ;_;

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valaenatargaryensdragon · 8 months

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Legacy of Fire (II)

Chapter Two: Departure

Summery: Vaeloria Targaryen begins her journey

Warnings: Cursing, death by sword, death by fire, death by hanging, war, humiliation, betrayal, violence, use of the word bastard, incest, angst, fluff, burning, threatening, future smut, P in V, fingering, cunnilingus, scissoring, blowjob, handjob, anal sex, girl x girl, boy x girl, boy x boy, dragons

Word Count: 2,6K

The moon hung low in the night sky, its pale light casting long, ghostly shadows across the chamber of Vaeloria Targaryen. The room, once a sanctuary where she had dreamt of dragons and heroic deeds, now seemed oppressive, its walls closing in around her. She moved with a sense of purpose, packing her belongings into a simple leather satchel.

Gently, she folded her Targaryen garments, each thread infused with the weight of her heritage. The dragon and wolf pendant, its silver chain cold against her fingers, rested next to her heart. It was a reminder of the legacy she bore, a legacy she had only recently discovered.

Her father, Rhaegar Targaryen, had always been a distant figure in her life, his memory a hazy specter of a time she could barely recall. The tales of his songs and prophecies had always intrigued her, but they had never truly defined her until now.

As she reached for a well-worn book of Dornish poetry, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at her chamber door. She paused, her heart quickening, and then hurriedly stashed the book in her satchel. Her life had become a tapestry of secrets, woven together with threads of deception and danger.

“Come in,” she called, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within her.

The door swung open, revealing two figures who slipped into the room with the grace of whispers. They were Tyene and Elia Martell, her cousins, the daughters of Oberyn Martell. Their expressions were a blend of confusion and concern, their eyes wide with worry.

“Rhaenys,” Tyene began, using the name they had known her by for years, “what are you doing? Why are you packing in the dead of night?”

Elia’s hazel eyes, so much like her sister’s, mirrored her worry. “Is something wrong?” she asked softly.

Vaeloria hesitated for a moment, torn between her duty to keep her true identity hidden and her love for her cousins. She couldn’t tell them the truth, not yet, not until she understood it fully herself. “I’ve had restless dreams,” she replied carefully, “and a yearning for something more than what Sunspear can offer. I need to find myself, to discover who I truly am.”

Tyene and Elia exchanged uncertain glances. “But why so suddenly?” Tyene pressed. “And in the middle of the night?”

Vaeloria knew she needed a convincing lie, a tale spun from threads of half-truths and crafted with the care of a practiced storyteller. “I’ve heard whispers,” she said, her voice tinged with false concern, “whispers of a Targaryen resurgence, of a new dawn for our family. I cannot ignore it. I want to see the truth for myself, to be a part of this change.”

Elia’s expression softened, and she stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch Vaeloria’s arm. “You could be in danger out there,” she said, her voice filled with sisterly concern. “You must take someone with you, at least for your safety.”

Vaeloria’s heart sank. She had hoped to slip away unnoticed, to embark on this journey alone, but her cousins’ protective instincts were unyielding. After a moment’s thought, she relented, realising that their concern was rooted in genuine love for her.

“Very well,” she said, her voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. “I’ll take Lara, my trusted maid, and Ser Ian Caerlight, my sworn protector. They will ensure my safety.”

Tyene and Elia exchanged glances once more, finally relenting. “Promise us you’ll return safely,” Tyene implored.

Vaeloria nodded, her eyes glistening with gratitude for her cousins’ love and concern. “I promise.”

With that, she closed up her satchel, her hands trembling as she secured the last of her possessions. The room felt emptier now, as if a piece of her heart had been packed away with her belongings.

As they left her chambers, Tyene and Elia walked by her side, their presence a comforting reminder of the family she would leave behind. They descended the grand staircase of Sunspear, the ancient castle that had been her home, and stepped out into the moonlit courtyard.

The night air was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the Dornish sun she had known all her life. Vaeloria felt a mixture of relief and sorrow as she crossed the threshold. Her departure marked the beginning of a journey filled with secrets and uncertainty, a journey into the heart of Westeros where she would uncover the truth of her lineage and fulfil the legacy she carried in her heart.

Under the watchful gazes of Tyene and Elia, Vaeloria took her first steps into the moonlit night, accompanied by her trusted Lara, her loyal maid, stood by her side, her dark eyes filled with determination. Ser Ian Caerlight, a towering figure in gleaming armor, had taken his place as her sworn protector. The road ahead was shrouded in darkness, but Vaeloria was determined to navigate it with courage and purpose.

She turned to her cousins one last time, a bittersweet smile on her lips. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but filled with gratitude. “For understanding, for caring.”

Tyene embraced her tightly, whispering words of love and encouragement. Elia followed suit, her hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Take care of yourself, Rhaenys,” Elia said, using the name they had always known her by, a name she no longer possessed, it did not belong to her. This name she did not deserve, apparently the story of a servant's child having taken the place of poor baby Rhaenys was a lie after all and the real one had died the horrible death people shuddered when reminded of. Vaeloria wanted to tell them, but she did not have the heart to throw this truth in their faces, their poor hearts wouldn't be able to take it, not after their father's death, not after everything they've been through.

With their blessings and promises of reunion, Vaeloria, Lara, and Ser Ian Caerlight set out into the night, leaving behind the familiar walls of Sunspear. The path ahead was unknown, a tapestry of uncertainty waiting to be unraveled.

As they ventured further from the palace, Vaeloria couldn’t help but wonder about the truths she would uncover and the challenges she would face. Her heart beat with a sense of adventure and the weight of her true name, Vaeloria, that had been revealed to her, a name that meant the Valiant Queen in the language of her ancestors, a language she insisted to learn from a young age.

With each step, she moved closer to her destiny, determined to rewrite the story of House Targaryen and fulfil the legacy she carried within her. The journey had begun, and Vaeloria Targaryen was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

The night was alive with the sounds of Dorne as Vaeloria and her small retinue made their way through the winding streets of Sunspear. The city had always been a place of vibrant colours, exotic scents, and bustling markets, but tonight, it seemed different, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something to change.

Lara, Vaeloria’s trusted maid, walked beside her, her steps soft and sure. She had been with Vaeloria since childhood, a loyal confidante who had shared in both her joys and sorrows. Her presence brought comfort to the young Targaryen as they navigated the unfamiliar terrain of secrecy and uncertainty.

Ser Ian Caerlight, the sworn protector assigned to her by House Martell, kept a vigilant watch over their surroundings. His armour gleamed in the moonlight, and the hilt of his sword was within easy reach. He had sworn an oath to safeguard Vaeloria’s life, and he took that duty with the utmost seriousness.

As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the road ahead, Vaeloria could no longer bear the weight of her hidden truth. Lara and Ser Ian Caerlight had been her loyal companions, steadfast in their support, and they deserved to know the full extent of her identity.

Vaeloria slowed her pace, causing Lara and Ser Ian to do the same. Her voice quivered with the magnitude of the revelation she was about to make. “Lara, Ser Ian,” she began, “there is something I’ve kept from you, something that no one else in this world knows.”

Both Lara and Ser Ian turned their attention to Vaeloria, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and concern. The night seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to continue.

“I am not who I’ve pretended to be,” Vaeloria confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am not Rhaenys Targaryen. My true name is Vaeloria. Vaeloria Targaryen.”

The words hung in the air, a revelation that shattered the foundation of the life they had known. Lara’s eyes widened in disbelief, while Ser Ian’s stern countenance softened with understanding.

Vaeloria nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of the truth. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Jon Snow is my brother, and we were separated at birth to protect us from those who wished harm upon House Targaryen.”

Ser Ian, ever the stoic protector, absorbed the revelation with a sense of duty. “My lady,” he said, addressing Vaeloria by her true name, “your safety and your mission remain our highest priorities. Your lineage does not change our loyalty to you.”

Lara’s eyes shimmered with emotion as she spoke. “You are our lady, Vaeloria Targaryen, the true heir of House Targaryen. We will stand by your side, as we always have.”

Vaeloria felt a profound sense of relief and gratitude. Her decision to reveal her true identity had been a momentous one, and she was relieved that her trusted companions had accepted it without hesitation.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. “We are embarking on a journey that will reshape the fate of House Targaryen and the entire realm of Westeros. Together, as a family, we will navigate this path and reclaim our legacy.”

With her secret finally unveiled, Vaeloria, the Dragon, continued her journey northward, her heart filled with newfound strength and purpose. She was no longer burdened by the weight of deception, and her true identity would guide her as she sought to reunite with Jon Snow and rewrite the story of House Targaryen.

As they made their way through the city, Vaeloria couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. She had grown up here, amidst the splendor of Sunspear, where the shadow of House Martell loomed large. It had been her sanctuary, and her cousins, Tyene and Elia, her closest confidantes. Now, she was leaving it all behind in pursuit of her true identity.

The streets grew quieter as they ventured farther from the palace, and Vaeloria’s thoughts turned to the challenges that lay ahead. She had learned the truth of her lineage, but the world beyond Sunspear was vast and unforgiving. She had to find Jon Snow, her long-lost twin, and seek out Daenerys Targaryen, her aunt, to continue the legacy of House Targaryen.

But she also knew that her journey would be fraught with danger. There were those who would stop at nothing to extinguish the last remnants of House Targaryen, and she had to remain vigilant.

Lara, ever perceptive, spoke softly, breaking the silence. “My lady, are you certain this is the right path?”

Vaeloria nodded, her resolve unwavering. “I must know the truth of my family, of who I am. Sunspear cannot contain me any longer.”

Ser Ian Caerlight’s voice was gruff but filled with loyalty. “We’ll protect you with our lives, my lady. You have our word.”

Vaeloria smiled at her two trusted companions. Their unwavering support meant more to her than words could express. “Thank you, both of you. We’ll face this journey together, as a family.”

As they continued through the night, the world of Westeros stretched out before them, a vast and mysterious realm waiting to be explored. Vaeloria knew that every step would bring her closer to her destiny, and she was determined to embrace it with the same spirit of courage and determination that had defined her life thus far.

The legacy of House Targaryen had awakened within her, and with it came the responsibility to rewrite the story of her family. The road ahead might be perilous, but Vaeloria Targaryen was ready to face it, armed with the truth of her identity and the unwavering support of those who believed in her.

As they walked on beneath the Dornish stars, the world watched, unknowing, as the Dragon embarked on her journey to reclaim her legacy and reshape the fate of Westeros.

Under the watchful gaze of the Dornish stars, Vaeloria and her companions ventured further into the night, the path ahead illuminated only by the pale moonlight. The world of Westeros was vast, and its mysteries awaited discovery. Each step they took was a step closer to the truth, a step deeper into the tapestry of intrigue that enshrouded their family’s legacy.

As they moved through the quiet streets of Sunspear, Vaeloria’s thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions. She carried the weight of her true identity, the knowledge that she was not Rhaenys but Vaeloria Targaryen, the lost twin of Jon Snow. The burden of her heritage was both a source of strength and a shadow that clung to her.

Lara, her loyal maid, remained by her side, her presence a soothing balm to Vaeloria’s unease. She had been more than a servant; she had been a friend, a confidante, and a pillar of support through the years. Her unwavering loyalty had been a constant in Vaeloria’s life, and tonight was no different.

Ser Ian Caerlight, the sworn protector, maintained a vigilant watch over their surroundings. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned the darkened alleys and corners. His every movement spoke of unwavering dedication to his duty, and Vaeloria knew that he would defend her with his life.

Their journey took them through the heart of Sunspear, past the grand bazaars that had once been Vaeloria’s playground. She remembered the laughter of children, the tantalising aroma of spices, and the vibrant tapestries that adorned the stalls. Tonight, those memories seemed distant, overshadowed by the gravity of her quest.

As they reached the outskirts of the city, Vaeloria glanced back at Sunspear one last time. It was a city of secrets and intrigue, a place where the legacy of House Martell had thrived for generations. Now, she was venturing beyond its walls, into a world where the Targaryen name carried both power and peril.

The road stretched before them, a ribbon of moonlit silver leading to an uncertain future. Vaeloria knew that they would encounter challenges and adversaries on their journey, but she was resolute in her determination to uncover the truth of her family and forge her own destiny.

Lara broke the silence once more, her voice gentle. “My lady, do you have any idea where we should begin our search?”

Vaeloria paused, her mind racing with possibilities. “We must head north, towards the Wall,” she replied, her voice filled with conviction. “There, we may find Jon Snow, my twin, and from him, we may learn more about our family’s legacy.”

Ser Ian Caerlight nodded in agreement. “The Wall is a formidable place, my lady. We’ll need to tread carefully, for it is a land of ice and danger.”

Vaeloria acknowledged the warning, knowing that their journey would be perilous. But she also understood that she could not turn back. The truth of her identity and the destiny that awaited her compelled her forward.

With every step they took, the world of Westeros unfolded around them, a tapestry of kingdoms, alliances, and betrayals. Vaeloria carried the legacy of House Targaryen on her shoulders, and as the Dragon, she was determined to rewrite the story of her family.

The night was their cloak, the stars their witnesses, and the road their guide. The legacy of House Targaryen had awakened within her, and she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The journey had just begun, and the fate of Westeros hung in the balance as the Dragon embarked on her quest for truth and redemption.

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