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fairycirclesandhawthornbranches · 3 months

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Shepherd's Crook: I

It was late at night and all the world was at rest. Outside the tavern was a velvet cloak wrapping itself over the land in its serene vastness. Aside from the warm glow of the tavern, there was no other lights around to obscure the moonlight, and the stars twinkled brilliantly above.

The tavern was a humble structure of stone and thatch. Each of the windows and doors were carved from oak. The most striking parts of the Tavern was the lush garden wrapping around the building with all kinds of herbs and vegetables - and even a few finely fruited apple trees hung over the pathways leading to the main road. The front door was illuminated by a pair of lanterns to guide weary patrons to the doors even in darkness, and to fit in the theme of the Tavern’s namesake, the lanterns hung off of Shepherd’s Crooks carved into the door’s frame. The front was a beautiful set of heavy oaken doors, with fine brass handles, and the scene of sheep and shepherd relaxing in their field was carved into the door itself.

Behind the Tavern and its garden was a small barn that let out into a large pen - where during the day the Tavernkeep’s Son would watch over the sheep that originally gave the place its name. Even at this time of night one could hear the occasional baa-ing from inside the barn.

Most of the upstairs windows were dim now that the sun has set beyond the horizon - the patrons inhabiting the rooms were tucked into the beds.

Light escaped through one open door, propped open by a stuffed duck, one that could be mistaken for a real one if not for the faded floral patterns of its fabric. It was a well worn little doorstop - often patched and stitched with whatever Ida - the proprietress of the Crook - had on hand to mend the little fellow. Most of the damage would come from angered drunken patrons getting kicked out for trying to start a fight or arguing over their bill.

This would be an annoyance for some - but she found herself amused whenever someone would actually break their toes trying to kick the doorstop out of anger. The regulars that would stop by on their travels to and from the Forest and the nearest Town knew that she had sewn a brick or two into the belly of the faux fowl - just so it would look nicer propping the door open on hot days - but she always made a note never to warn someone causing her business trouble. She even had a small wooden board hanging near the front door, solely for carving a tally every time some lout injured themselves in their tantrums. It was nearing twenty as of this night.

Ida let out a soft, almost glum, sigh as the Grandfather clock struck twelve. She was staring at the wooden tally board with a still annoyed expression. “I was so sure that scrawny fella’ was going to kick it.” “Difficult to kick it when you’ve got him in a headlock.” Her companion across from her remarked with a cool and even tone of voice.

Ida turned her gaze from the tally board to a tall and lithe elven man dressed in simple and rugged hunting attire. His figure was handsome, his hair long and white with strands braided back to keep from his face, which would make sense if he hadn’t been wearing a mask. She has never once seen him without it through the few months she has known him now, not to eat or drink, which left her curious. But Ida was a lady who had her own sorts of secrets she wouldn’t want people to pry into - so she never asked. She just accepted he had a reason and it was all his own. As his red gaze met her own, she spoke again. “True. I guess throwing him face first into the dirt out front is payback enough for barking at Dante the way he did.”

Ida turned and spooned up a plate of Shepherd’s pie and slid it to him - and placed a room key beside it. “Here, Darion. This is for calming Dante down after that. He mentioned you checked on him while I was chewing that bugger out.” Darion stopped himself as his initial reaction was to protest he hadn’t asked or paid for either - but he knew better than to reject a gift. So he just plucked up the room key and the plate and offered a bow of the head. “Dante is a good young boy. I saw that it wasn’t his fault for that man spilling his drink, as he was just walking by when that man suddenly turned around without looking.”

Ida glanced at the plate in Darion’s hand, “No intention of eating down here again.” She thought before brushing it aside. She decided it was no offense and had no reason to mind it. “Bring the plate downstairs when you’re done eating. It’ll get taken care of.” Ida plucked her bottle of cream and poured a little into the glass to set above the fireplace.

The Huntsman gave a nod and retreated upstairs to his room. The Tavernkeep turned towards the last of the dishes in the basin and began to wash them all out and set them aside on racks to dry. As she set the last tankard aside to dry the window before her shuddered and was thrown open by a gust of wind.

There was a beautiful creature leaning on the sill who was staring intensely at Ida. She vaguely resembled an Elf, but had much more plantlike features.Her skin was pale and just a touch too pink to look human, her hair was a soft purple like the flowers of a Rosemary bush, and her eyebrows were long and antennae-like - and they were currently furrowed in concern. It was Rosemary, the one that watched over the Tavern, and it looked like she really needed Ida’s attention. “A girl. Collapsed in the garden.” She spoke softly.

Ida tossed down her dishcloth into the sudsy water and quickly ran out the garden door towards the spot Rosemary had drifted to. At her feet was a youthful girl, maybe only around eighteen, unconscious on the ground. The state of her made it clear she had been wandering for days. Her nightgown was dirtied and tattered, feet covered in dirt and had blisters, and her lips looked dry from a lack of water. “Poor dear - lets get her inside and cleaned up.” Ida knelt down and lifted her up into her arms and made for inside.

Rosemary trotted ahead of them and opened the door for the two to enter and locked it behind them. She rushed to the bath to get warm water started - which was not a problem with a little magic she did possess. “Not too much water, just enough clean so we can just use a cloth. I’d rather spare the poor girl a full drenching when she’s not doing well.” Ida said softly as she set the girl to sit leaning against the bathtub.

Rosemary nodded and fetched a clean cloth from the cupboard and helped Ida carefully clean out any bloodied blisters so they could be bandaged. When Ida brushed aside the girl's hair so her face could get a gentle dabbing - she paused as she saw pointed ears. “Elf?” The Spirit leaned in closer to the girl and stared for a moment - before she shook her head and gave a gentle shrug. "Smells of humans." She whispered. “Well, she sure isn’t human.” Ida remarked. She glanced down and took notice of a great tear in the back of the nightgown she wore, the tears were around the middle of her back.. Her brows knit together, “Poor girl… But no signs of blood. Think she could have been kidnapped?” Rosemary just shook her head gently and gave a shrug as she finished up the last of her bandaging. “I hope not.” She said softly. Ida let out a soft sigh. “We’ll try talking to her when she wakes. Could you please find a change of clothes for her? I think there’s a dress that should fit her.” She spoke as she once again lifted the girl. The Spirit gave a nod and drained the bath before she left the room to go looking while Ida took her to her own bedroom to tuck into a bed. Ida looked over the girl one last time before blowing out the candles and closing the door. It was time for sleep. Questions and answers could come with the sunrise.

#ida #rosemary #darion #hazel #fiction #short story #creative writing

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jeagerism · 3 years

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(i tried writing this mostly for @sallysoot dodisid) but since it's like canon that philza was techno's mentor as a kid and into adulthood, i'll just say

don't think abt being the third counterpart in the sibling-ship that tommy and wilbur have. don't think abt techno coming over all the time to train with phil - which was good, because whenever techno came over, phil stayed around. it was almost like he was an actual father, nevermind how much it stung to see him ruffle techno's hair whenever he did something that made him proud. he doesn't speak much, at least not to you. sometimes you catch the rumble of his voice as he asks wilbur a question, or answers to tommy's increasingly whiney begs to hold his sword. don't imagine feeling a tugging at your chest whenever techno let's his shoulders fall, releasing tension from keeping his guard up, rays of sun casting a pretty glow onto his face during the summer.

don't imagine how you notice that he always looked empty, for someone so young. how he always kept his face covered by that familiar mask, never let himself reveal whatever lied underneath to any of you. all you knew of him were striking eyes and thin pink lips. don't imagine how, one day, months after his first appearance, you're looking out from the kitchen, gazing at the snow that lay in blankets around your family's home. and you see him. phil had said he was dismissed hours ago, but there he was, still going. huffing, you reach over onto the table in front of wilbur, taking the unattended mug of tea you'd made minutes ago, and starting towards the door. your brother doesn't mutter a word, too enamoured with the book in front of him - you're pretty sure he'd snuck into phil's study earlier, but you'll let him do what he wishes. it wasn't as if the older would notice.

don't imagine slipping your coat around your shoulders as you step out, thin socks soaking through to your bare feet as they meet the snowy ground. keeping a hand over the top of the mug, you stumble awkwardly over to the area where he's always occupied in front of your home, for months now. you begin to set the cup onto the bench you frequent on days warm enough to come out and watch - nothing but simple curiosity - when a frustrated cry rings throughout the empty space, bouncing off of nearby trees and echoing back to you. turning, your fingers become loose around the ceramic.

don't imagine seeing techno sling the mask off, tossing it to the side with disdain. as he begins to face where you're standing, your fingers slip from around the hot mug, liquid arching up and back down onto your feet, splashing parts of your legs.

cursing, you yank the cup from the floor. when you look back up, startling ruby eyes meet your own. they all but steal the air from your chest. there's a shake in your legs as you swallow, gathering as much confidence you can into the swell of your throat as you speak. "sorry, i was, well, i...its cold and i had tea and then." you shake your head, trying to clear thoughts of the way his cheeks looked so pink from the cold - his hair nearly matched. "im sorry." once you're back inside the confines of your home, back pressed to the spruce of the door, you release air you weren't aware you were holding. tommy asks why you look so shocked. wilbur snickers to himself, but when you open your eyes to glare at him, he's only giving you a coy smile. the book he had is closed in his lap.

don't imagine the months of that winter after that being spent inside, never even daring to go too close. don't imagine the spring that comes after, slowly bleeding into another summer, an entire year of the presence of technoblade. don't imagine continuing watching countless training sessions from the same bench you'd finally seen him from - memorizing the way his hair looks really pretty the way it is now - long enough to be put into a ponytail that gathers at the nape of his neck, baby hairs slicked to the skin with sweat.

don't imagine going between watching the combat in front of you and paying attention to the enchanted book wilbur had given you as a gift days before. you'd found it strange at the time - you hadn't thought wilbur listened much to the rambling you did about wanting to train yourself - but you'd let it go anyways, accepting the leather bound book.

don't imagine techno sitting on the bench you stay on to watch as he learns, taking a moment to breathe, dragging a hand down his face. and you're in awe. you'd always been starstruck at seeing him, but this is new. now he's up close. and it's just you and him, for now. the only interaction the two of you have come close to is the singular nod he gives you when he enters your kitchen - he seldom does this. you think it's because he doesn't want to intrude. as if he could. he was pretty much royalty around here, with how much tommy droned on about how cool he was, and how many times wilbur had mumbled in agreements to that.

don't imagine the way his head tilts to the side as his shoulders rise and fall with a quiet breath. how he softly speaks your name. and you're confused, because you've never introduced yourself, yet he knows your name. to be fair, he'd never directly introduced himself to you either, but you'd peeked your head around the corner on one of his first days here, and had heard phil ask a simple, "how was your trip here, techno?" don't imagine how he'd quirk an eyebrow up at your gaping silence, a hand reaching out before it drops back down to his lap. he coughs out, "i, um, i'm technoblade."

"i know." your hands are tingling with nervousness, because he's close, and he smells like pine and parchment paper, and his hair looks really soft. don't imagine him scratching the back of his neck, shaking his head the tiniest bit. he did that a lot, you noticed. most often when phil let him take a short break from whatever he was being taught. sometimes he'd mutter a few words, always harsh whispers, before standing straight as if he'd cleared his head with the action.

"do i....scare you?" don't imagine the way he looks embarrassed to even be asking, fingers curling round the old, chipped wood he's sitting on. he'd abandoned the red cape he normally donned earlier on, now just sporting his signature white button up, sleeves unbuttoned at the ends and pushed up to his elbows.

you let out a shocked chuckle. "um, no? i mean, i don't think there's much to be scared of." you want to say how nothing as pretty as him could be scary. intimidating, sure, but not scary in the slightest. "i simply have habits of embarrassing myself in front of people i barely know."

don't imagine the quiet invitation of, "i'd be more than happy to know you."

and so it is. don't imagine how his eyes seem to find yours at least once through every session he has from that point on. he's still not as talkative - in fact, you spend more time in silence than anything, but it's nice. it's comforting. when you're not outside to watch, he begins stopping by the kitchen window that opens directly over the sink. you hand him a bottle of water whenever you see the pink head of hair pop up over the window sill.

don't imagine watching him grow - a thin, wire framed face growing into itself, long legs that he often tripped over at moments growing steady. he grows along side you and tommy and wil; techno teaches them what phil had always refused to. he teaches you himself in quiet moments shared between the two of you. brings you gifts as a thank you for helping him with extra training, as if he wasn't the one teaching you most things.

one evening, after he's ran and fought himself dry, the length of his hair crowding his face - you'd considered telling him of how awfully pretty he looked with long hair. you'd bitten your tongue when any chance had presented itself.

technoblade had always been a friend; he'd been the one to teach you how to make stew properly, had bandaged your finger when you'd burnt it from not paying close enough attention to how close your hand had been to the flame. you remember the way his hands had shook as he'd wrapped the fabric around your fingers. he'd stumbled and tripped all over his words as he'd scolded you.

the evening brings about the chirping of nearby pond animals and the clanking of whatever lay in the woods after sundown. techno takes a seat on the ground beside your bench, shoulder knocking into your calf. staring hard at the hair gathered around his neck, you wet your lips. "can i braid your hair?"

you don't reach out to touch him until he gives you a gentle nod. that was one thing about him - he hated being touched. the only person you'd ever seen touch him was phil, and he'd always let his shoulders brush his ears in embarrassment when that happened.

you shift your body towards him, gathering the amount of hair in your hands, letting it lay across your lap in bunches. as you begin weaving strands between each other, technoblade sighs. "wilbur told me about the land - manburg?"

you click your tongue at him with a soft laugh. "l'manburg", you correct, "and yeah. they've already uh, got people there. started building and stuff." you furrow your brows at the strands of pink hair in your hands. "its good. i mean, i always wanted more for them than this. and they always knew they deserved more."

"so do you." he's still as you loop the last remaining tufts of hair around each other. "and it wouldn't be so bad to have you a little closer."

you try not to pay too much attention to the warmth that blooms in your chest, rising to your ears, across your cheeks. "as if you're not here all the time anyways," you chastise, flipping the end of his braid off your lap. you can feel his eyes follow you as you scoot back to your original spot, gathering the things you'd carried out when you'd sat to watch him at the start. sighing, you meet his gaze with a dead stare. "i will consider it."

techno hums, rising to his feet with the noise. tugging the things you're holding from your grasp, transferring them into his own hold, he nods. "good."

don't imagine the way he helps you move all your stuff into chests weeks after, loading them onto the horse you'd helped him find on the eve of his last birthday. he let's you ride with him for every trip to drop your stuff off to where you'll be living - a small cottage not too far from where he is. on the final trip he helps you down with a hand held out for you to grab, pulling you in close for a moment before he leads you inside.

don't imagine the way he stays with you the first night until sundown, dismissing every worry of the dangers he may face on his way home in the dark. he stays on your couch, sandwiched in between you and the corner of the cushioned material.

"don't worry your head over it", he tells you to quiet your worries, "i'll be fine. im technoblade, remember?" when you roll your eyes at his antics, he bumps his shoulder into yours with a grin. "you act as if you want me to leave so badly."

you scoff into the mug of tea he'd prepared for you after the two of you had set nearly everything up. "whatever", you say, before clearing your throat. "you're ridiculous."

when you fall asleep he's sitting next to you, and when you wake he's gone. there's a red cloak around your shoulders that slips down at your wake - you lift it to your nose with a sleepy smile. pine and parchment.

the next day, he stops by around noon with extra supplies. he's got nothing but that white button up on, and when he sees the cloak draped over your lap as he carries things in, he shakes his head with a breathy, barely there laugh.

don't imagine the way things change. he's with you nearly every night - he makes you food, tells you about his day, listens intently when you tell him of yours over bites of bread and stew. he's always there as you fall asleep. most days he's gone before morning light. others you wake to his rumbled humming as he slips on his shoes to start his day.

the days tommy and wilbur visit, he still shows up. makes conversation with the two over the plans for the nation. often times you catch them hurriedly wrapping up a hushed conversation of serious whispers when you reenter the room. techno's brows always furrow, a crease forming between them that you always want to smooth out with your finger.

when they leave, those are the times he seems troubled. sometimes so terribly inside his own mind that he doesn't flinch when you accidentally brush against him. other nights, when it's just the two of you, he complains he's messed up his hair, because no one does it like you, and spends the minutes it takes you to redo it humming and poking into your calves.

don't imagine the day he visits that he knows something is off.

your mouth if pursed into a frown, something troublesome brewing within. but he carries on as he normally does. an unspoken rule between the two of you - the two of you would talk about bothersome things when either of you chose.

as he sets down the plate in front of you, you catch his wrist with your hand. he tenses for a second, and you give him a regretful glance. "sorry", you call out, and he nods, sitting beside you as he normally does - side to side.

"you knew they were starting a war." it's not a question. your fingers dig into the cushions of the couch. the fire crackling across the room fills the silence after your words.

"i did."

"it's not fair." a sigh. "you should've told me."

"i know." it's his turn to apologise, as his pinkie knocks against your thigh. "i'm sorry."

"it's not as if i wouldn't have been able to handle it."

he wets his lips. "i know." tapping his pinkie against your thigh again, he sucks in a breath. "i was selfish, with you. i didn't want you to worry." you lean your head onto his shoulder; he rests his own atop yours. "im always selfish with you."

just as the last embers of the fire begin to burn, your pinkie wraps around his own.

don't imagine months of travesty involving the land. countless nights of curling into the shoulder of your best friend with whispered doubts. he always quiets them with a brush of his lips against your forehead and a soft "technoblade never dies, you know."

don't imagine seeing techno one night. he's quieter than normal, doing that same old dance of shaking his head, mumbled whispers and sharp breaths. but the grip he has on your pinkie is constant, the same as it always is. the weight of his arm around your shoulders is just as warm as it always is. hands engulfing yours as he fiddles with your fingers, countless unintelligible words and heavy sighs.

"you're sighing a lot for someone who's never worried." your comment seems to jumpstart him again, as he tsks at you.

"well, i'm not worried." a few beats pass. "i'm...contemplating."

"contemplating what?" you glance up at him, eyebrows raised. he shrugs - you think you've seen him shrug a handful of times since you met him. if he ever didn't want to answer something, he just didn't. and if he did, he was always as straight forward as one could be.

you let go of the topic regardless, standing a few minutes later to carry glasses back to the kitchen. the warm water runs over your hands as you rinse away leftover drinks from the cups. once your finished, you shut the water off with a hum, shaking your hands into the sink below you.

when you turn around, he's standing there, eyes slightly widened, his cheeks pink like the cold had been nipping away at him. "techno?"

"you know that i", he shakes his head, eyes darting from every thing they could land on except you. "that i, um."

"are you o-"

"im selfish with you." he breathes the words out like a prayer. "i am, and i...ever since i saw you drop that stupid mug on the floor i've been...all i've known is you."

you swallow as he takes a step closer to where you are. you feel the cold metal of the sink through your shirt. "im really, really selfish and it's even more selfish of me to tell you, but i." techno let's his eyes fall on your face. "i don't want to have missed out on ever telling you that. i don't want that moment to pass me by."

"does this mean i get to keep the cloak?"

and he laughs. the type of laugh that you know means he's caving in on himself, hands twitching, throat dry. "if....if you want to. it's kind of...always been yours anyways?"

"techno."

"yeah?"

"will you kiss me?"

you don't have to ask him twice. the weight of his palm on your cheek is warm, and you'll always wonder how his hands are so soft with all that he does. his fingers take their place along your jaw to tilt your head up; and he's kissing you like a man starved.

when he parts from you with bubblegum cheeks and a small smile, you laugh. that night, he stays. he presses another warm kiss to your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your forehead. you fall asleep with your head tucked into the crook of his neck.

don't imagine opening your eyes the next morning to the sun. it casts shadows and patterns from where it enters the window. when you look up, he's glowing just like he did when you were kids. he's more now, longer hair, his features sharp and mouth pulled down into a permanent straight line. you think he's harder, somehow, but the light softens out all of his harsh edges just fine.

don't imagine ignoring the fact that he probably needs to be up - that he has some meeting with wilbur to attend, some kind of planning for whatever is happening next. you turn into his embrace once more, letting his arm tug you closer as he breathes out slowly.

you'll be selfish with him for a bit more.

#technoblade x reader #technoblade x you #techno x you #techno x reader #mcyt x reader

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travelling-on-the-octopath · 2 years

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FE3H’s Lords’ Designs and Symmetry

so i was overanalyzing things as i tend to when planning out/writing lengthy fics, and i noticed something pretty nifty: the three lords have varying degrees of symmetry to their post-timeskip looks

indulge me as we take a peek at the lords’ academy looks. (side note--the original concept art for Dimitri, Edelgard, and Claude??? Bangers, chart-toppers, couldn’t have asked for anything more. They’re all beautiful.)

off the bat they all get docked symmetry points for those fucking capes. each and every one of them.

Symmetrical save for the strap for his sword . . . and lance, I assume? He has a lance across his back in this art, but in the art ABOVE it looks like the sword is independently hung.

(god his gauntlets/vambraces look so fucking cool here i want to kiss this artist’s mind.)

Anyway: 90% symmetry here, folks

It’s the same with Edelgard: She’s symmetrical down to the . . . the poof? What do you call that. A cravat but floofier? Anyway, we got 90% symmetry except for when we get to that braided material connecting to the base of her floof. Even the hair is symmetrical, which cannot be said about the other two lords during the Academy phase.

Which takes me to Claude.

The artist was kind enough to zoom in on his face to showcase my point: the single braid and the single earring. (they do refer quite a bit to Edelgard’s uniform here, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they refined hers first and went about the rest.) Once again, mostly symmetrical, with a flare or two.

Then we get to the timeskip.

Symmetry WHOM? The only mirroring going on here is the base of his outfit. Everything else? Wonderfully wonky (in its placement only). He’s the only lord to maintain his one-shouldered cape, but he balances it out with another shoulder adornment (wrap?). The focus of this post isn’t the cultural references/inspirations of the outfit, so I’ll be glossing over those (others have done it much better than I) but I think it’s important to take into account the placement of colours (looking at you, you funky green tassel, you, who creates asymmetry on the golden accessory you’re a part of ALONE.) Pair that with the way the braid was substituted for a Stray Strand of Hair, and how his whole head of hair was swept to one side, and you have a man who did not know how to make the two halves of his body look the same (good, because his design is kind of VERY awesome).

Dimitri’s look gives us something largely symmetrical, except four things: The emblem(?) of Faerghus, the criss-cross on his chest opposite his heart, the off-centre fabric belt (Dimitri my love WHAT is this doing for support?), and the ever-iconic eyepatch. The fur pattern is mirrored, which is expected of certain animals, and his Crest, residing in this picture between his shoulders and at the bottom of his cape, is actually a rarity among the Crests in that it’s symmetrical two ways. Fun fact, the only other Crest to do so is Lamine’s. (The hair is more haggard than asymmetrical, and is in fact a little LESS asymmetrical than his Academy ‘do, but feel free to count it as a half point seeing as I do point it on on the other two.)

and then we have completely (unless i’m missing something, then DAMN near) symmetrical Edelgard.

Crown, hair, boots, skirt, shoulders, collar, that nonsensical window between her shoulders--like damn even the emblem(?) of the Empire is symmetrical. She looks IMPERIAL, don’t get me wrong, and I love that about her design, but I think this is Fascinating(TM).

anyway i just found this intriguing from a design standpoint? let it say what you want about the characters specifically, but it definitely says something in my opinion, especially when they all began with a certain degree of asymmetry during their early years.

#i have actual work to do for the education i PAY FOR #and yet the brain worms of the designs would not leave me be #edelgard von hresvelg #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem #fe3h #fe #fe16

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outofangband · 3 years

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Maedhros at the Palace at Alqualondë, Part Three

Previous part

Next AU masterlist + explanation Other masterlists

CW: abuse of power, gaslighting (mainly in the previous two parts), forced drugging,

References to my rather nasty Maedhros is given a paralytic in Angband story

I explain the background in the notes at the end of part one

This is the final part of this story to take place at the palace.

I am writing sort of in order but I’m always taking prompts for any time in this narrative and feel free to ask any questions!

The day passes in a haze. Whatever he had been given isn’t strong enough to cause full unconsciousness but he is drowsy, weak, and disoriented, finding himself in and out of a restless sleep punctuated by anger. And fear. He still only has his sheet to cover himself but no one tries to take it from him and for this he is grateful.

One more day, he tells himself again and again to keep his mind away from the creeping memories of another period of drugged helplessness he had suffered in the past. That had lasted an eternity but this...only one more day before he could leave the city and more importantly, leave the palace.

He is a coward. He tells himself that too. He heard no click of a lock when Arafinwë enters or leaves but has not actually stood to investigate for himself even when his restraints are removed and whatever he had been given in his drink was weakening in its effects. Maedhros doesn’t want to know if the door is locked. It doesn’t matter. He is not a prisoner and he will be leaving soon.

He doesn’t argue when he is handed the same drink the following morning and spends the next few hours entertaining himself by braiding strands of yarn that he had found in the nearly empty cabinets of his room before the urge to sleep becomes too powerful again.

Though his anger at being drugged doesn’t lessen, his desire to inflict the anger on Arafinwë does. He can hardly blame him for these precautions taken after what he did in this very city and there was no denying that Arafinwë had done him a great favor to keep him out of the hands of the wardens. It is a favor he doesn’t understand and is thus wary of but he has nevertheless calmed significantly by the next time the King enters on the end of the second day.

It unsettles him slightly when Arafinwë seems to know this. The older elf holds out folded set of robes which he takes hesitantly, still using one arm to better hold up the sheet he had wrapped around himself.

“Russandol, I need you to look over a statement regarding the incident two days previous. It will not take long, it is merely a summary of the events you must either confirm or challenge. Put this on, I will bring you to my study.”

His head is spinning and he wonders whether he has the mental wherewithal to accurately analyze anything but he nods and pulls on the robes which are rather light, likely for sleep rather than daywear. Arafinwë’s expression is impassive as he watches Maedhros dress himself, swaying slightly on his feet when he’s finished. He then opens the door and gestures to be followed. The corridors are empty all the way to the intricately decorated wooden doors the king unlocks and leads him into.

Maedhros sits where he’s indicated to, blinking in the flickering light of the candles and lanterns that line the windowsill.

“Read this over,” Arafinwë instructs, “Tell me if any part of it is inaccurate.” Vaguely Maedhros registers that he is being patronized, that under most circumstances he would not have needed to dictate his answers to another nor be under such close watch for mere paperwork.

But he takes the parchment, realizing with dismay that the neat lines of ink swim in front of him as he tries to read them. It takes far longer than it should have to get through the short paragraph.

“That is accurate,” Maedhros says finally and he can only hope that he has not missed anything, the words that should come so easily to him seem so fleeting. Arafinwë nods and takes the scrolls again.

"I will bring this to the guards, it will be delivered by the morrow. Wait here.” This time Maedhros hears the click of the lock as his half uncle leaves. He watches the fireplace for as long as he can, his blinking becoming more rapid. He doesn’t want to sleep here, at best it is an imposition. But the shadows of the fire grow longer and then twist until they enter his dreams as he nods off against the grand wooden desk.

He is barefoot, wet leaves and grass beneath his feet as he is guided firmly by the grip on his arm. The sharp ache there tells him that he had tried and failed to pull away from it. The darkness around him cannot only be the night, a light breeze brings with it the feeling of fabric that Maedhros realizes is bound around his eyes. He cannot make his limbs work properly, cannot even force himself to speak.

The next thing he knows the grass under him has become something cooler, smoother. The air too has changed, something damp and familiar and panic rises steadily in him. He is being pushed against something, losing his balance and whoever is with him takes advantage of this to hold something to his face. Something sweet as lilies fills his lungs and his feeble attempts at struggle turn to flailing before he goes still again.

The memories of another time he spent bound in the darkness make it significantly harder to return to consciousness but three hours later, he does. Far from the sensations belonging to a nightmare, he wakes to find himself immobile.

...

There is a slight stinging pain on the side of his head. It takes him a few minutes to realize this is from the cloth that is tied around his eyes. A few strands of hair has been caught in it. Instinctively Maedhros tries to reach up to fix it but finds his arms have been bound to some hard surface.

It takes painstaking effort to force himself to breathe. To think rationally and to stay in the present. He cannot see, he cannot move. But his other senses remain intact. The air around him is cool, damp. Maedhros smells the earth. He hears nothing but his own breath. He can’t move his hands but beneath his fingers he feels wood. The arms of a chair?

The last memory he has is of King Arafinwë handing him a scroll of parchment in his study. No light filters through the cloth, he has no idea if it is night or day, how much time has passed since this. Had he spent his remaining night there, left, and somehow gotten waylaid? Had the palace been attacked? Frustration at his inability to remember combines starkly with fear and the strain of keeping away the inevitable; he is bound, helpless...again.

But he never has the chance for his thoughts to stray back to Angamando. A panic like a rising trill makes him almost dizzy.

Footsteps.

There are footsteps coming towards him. There was no one here when he awoke, he was sure of it. He moves his head from side to side, unable to see anything under the cloth and only managing to disorient himself further.

“Settle, Russandol,” a familiar voice orders calmly from just beside him, “I am going to take this off now. I did not know how you would react when you woke in a strange place.”

Maedhros flinches when hands reach out to remove the blindfold, untying it and lifting it away so he sees an unfamiliar room start to come into focus.

“Where am I?” Maedhros gasps out once the shock has lifted and he finds his voice again, “What has happened?”

“Somewhere safe,” Arafinwë answers evasively, setting aside the cloth, “As for your second question, I do not think it prudent to discuss that now, you will only become more agitated.”

Author’s note: how exactly Maedhros got from point A to point B is intentionally vague as the method will be relevant later on (just so you all don’t think that this is an accidental plot hole)

Tag list: @tears-and-lilies @oswaldinator3000 @mozart-the-meerkitten @iwenttomordor @much-ado-about-whumping @miriel-estelwen @psychobootyshorts @pepperonyscience

#Maedhros #Arafinwë #Finarfin #The Silmarillion #splinters like jewel shards #short writings

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wylanvnneck · 3 years

Note

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write the angst prompt number 1 with jurdan??🥰

Angst Prompt #1: “The worst part is you didn’t even notice.”

Fandom: TFOTA

Ship: Jurdan

Masterlist | Prompt List

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High pitched giggles peal through the air and the noise makes the 21 year old Cardan Greenbriar wince. He’d been away from his hometown of Elfhame for 2 years now, having happily left it and his controlling family behind after graduation to go live in his dorm room back at Insmire University with his crazy roommates. Yet here he was, back again for a week-long visit in honour of his old friend Locke’s engagement.

He and Locke had never been all that close to begin with, but he had been his oldest friend, and it did seem like a good idea to come back for a bit and see how much things had changed in the years since he’d be gone, which didn’t seem to be all that much.

Locke was still the same fox-faced wastrel that he had been, except that he was now engaged and the other member of their old gang, Valerian was still as snarky as usual, a perpetual sneer on his face whenever someone attempted to speak to him. Seated at a round outdoors table surrounded by his High School acquaintances, Cardan feels nothing but boredom.

He grips the neck of his wine glass even tighter when he sees the source of the giggling emerge from Locke’s house where his engagement party was being hosted. Taryn Duarte the Bride to Be and her posse of friends strut out into the garden from the inside of the house where they’d been gathered together doing goodness knows what for the past half hour. A glimpse of blue hair catches his eye and he recognises it as belonging to a girl named Nicasia that he used to be friends with back in High School, a million years ago.

Taryn’s six inch heels click against the asphalt of the garden path and the sight of her familiar icy brown eyes and dark hair brings up a volley of almost forgotten feelings within him. Not feelings for the rather cold female before him, but for who she reminded him of. Her twin.

Involuntarily he finds himself scanning the group of women for any sign of Taryn’s sister before coming up short and then chastising himself for looking in the first place. Jude belonged in the past where he had buried her. He takes another sip of the red wine in his hand before shifting his attention back to the conversations happening at his table, a politely unimpressed looking Garrett talked in low tones with his friend Van, both of them engrossed in whatever they were discussing, and a slightly inebriated Valerian was attempting to flirt with the disgusted woman seated next to him.

Resisting the urge to let out a growl he downs the contents of his glass in one go before standing up to re-enter the house and get a refill, needing some kind of distraction.

He’s just finished pouring some more Merlot into his glass from the otherwise empty bar table when a rustling sound travels from somewhere nearby. He glances up at the staircase by the other end of the room, catching sight of a silky white fabric and dark brown hair before whoever it was disappears from view. Stange, he’d thought all of the other guests were outside. Setting his glass down on the table he climbs up the stairs, curiosity getting the better of him.

Having reached the landing he searches for any sign of where the person might have gone, walking a little further down the hallway on the left before seeing the big French windows leading out to the balcony flung open, the cool night air drifting in.

Cautiously, he approaches, his body going on high alert when he notices who it is that’s standing out on the balcony, hands loosely clutching the metal rails and face turned up towards the starlit sky. Her chestnut hair is tied in an intricate braid hanging down her back and she’s wearing a slim fitting black top and flowy white pants which sway gently around her legs and she looks even more gorgeous than she had in their High School days. He takes a moment to catch his breath before slowly trudging forwards to join her.

She turns when she hears footsteps approaching, a slight frown marring her expression before she recognises him and it clears. Her gaze is as disarming as it used to be.

"Shit, man, don't just sneak up on people like that," a corner of her lip quirks.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Oops, sorry."

“I didn’t know you were coming.” He catches the questioning lilt in her statement.

“It was a last minute kind of thing, I wasn’t sure if I’d be coming either, until yesterday.”

She nods and he positions himself next to her but at a safe distance, one hand coming to rest carelessly on the balcony rail next to hers.

He watches her let out a soft whoosh of breath, looking down at the garden where people were now dancing to the music that had started playing on the expensive speaker set under the bright fairy lights. There’s laughter and cigarette smoke wafting upwards, but from their little spot up above, everything seemed to be much farther away than it really was.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “So, Taryn and Locke, huh?”

“Yep.” She replies. The look on her face is one he can’t quite decipher.

He clears his throat and speaks in a tight voice. “Are you...upset by that? I know you and Locke used to be close.”

He recalls the rumour that used to fly around during their senior year, people whispering about Jude and Locke having a thing. He also remembers the sharp pain that he’d felt when he’d heard that Locke had asked Jude to be his date to their Senior prom and that she’d accepted. Cardan vaguely remembers asking Nicasia to be his date to that very same prom, but the only thing that comes to mind when he thinks about that night is the haze of jealousy that had clouded his mind when he’d seen Locke twirling a grinning Jude around the dance floor.

“Me and Locke? God no. He was just a friend. Although, I think even that was only because he kept showing up and trying to talk to me in Senior Year for no apparent reason.”

Cardan feels a surprisingly strong sense of relief wash over him at the fact that Jude was never interested in Locke that way, before his eyebrows knit together a moment later. He’d drunkenly confessed his ginormous crush on Jude to Locke at the start of their senior year, and immediately regretted it the next day. It wouldn’t surprise him if Locke had been cozying up to Jude simply to get on his nerves. It definitely seemed like something the manipulative scoundrel would do.

Not that it mattered anymore. Years had passed and he’d probably lost his chance. If he’d ever had the chance in the first place.

“I heard you’ve been off at uni all this time. Insmire, huh?” Her words are light but he’s slightly astonished that she’d been keeping track of where he’d been for the past few years.

“Yeah, it was the break I needed.”

“What are you studying?”

“My dad wanted me to do Business for when I inherit his company, but I’m also doing a course on Classical and Ancient Languages, purely because I wanted to.”

“That’s great, Cardan.” Her sincerity is clear. “I remember how controlling your dad was. It’s great that you’re finally getting to be your own person.”

He’s sure that his astonishment at her words is blatantly obvious because a barely detectable flush travels up her neck and she averts her gaze. Not only had Jude Duarte been keeping track of where he’d been, she’d also noticed his strained relationship with his father all those years ago. A thrill rises up inside of him.

“Thank you.” He pauses. “So what have you been up to these days?” he asks, like he hasn’t been checking her social media pages at least once every few months, unwittingly grinning whenever he came across one of her rare posts with her and her few friends hanging out together outside of her own University in Nightfell.

“Oh, same as you actually, getting a taste of independence at Uni. Doing a course on Criminal Justice.”

“That sounds amazing. Tell me all about it.”

And she does, her eyes lighting up as she talks about a subject that she enjoys studying and half of his attention is taken up by what she’s saying and the other half is just focused on her, on the way the moon illuminates one half of her and how the breeze is playing with a few loose strands of her hair and the way her mouth is moving whilst she speaks. They chat for what feels like ages before the conversation eventually flows to a comfortable halt and they hear the clanging of plates and glasses below as the other guests start on dinner, and he knows they’ll have to leave this place of idyll at some point.

He hates that. That they’re on borrowed time and that they were separated by too many years and very separate lives for their situation to be anything different now. And yet, he needs to tell her, to let her know, even if it can’t change anything.

“You know, back in High School I used to daydream about this. You and I, just talking.” He knows that the tips of his ears are probably flaming red, just like the rest of his head, but he forces himself not to look down and to keep meeting her stare. Her eyes widen when she registers what he’d said.

“I-What?” Her shock is apparent.

He breaks eye contact with her, withdrawing his hand from the spot next to hers on the rail, the disappointment coursing through him undeniable. He’d known that she’d never noticed him, but it still hurt to see the bafflement in her reaction.

“I had a crush on you for ages, pathetic pining and all, and the worst part is you didn’t even notice.”

She flounders, mouth slightly agape, for once not having a response and the smile that curls his lips is one without mirth.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you Jude,” he grits out, swiftly turning in an attempt to flee with what was left of his dignity.

He’d made it to the top of the staircase before hearing her voice calling after him.

“Cardan! Cardan wait, goddammit.”

Reluctantly, he stops, bracing himself for the awkwardness of the next few minutes. She’d look at him with pity, explain to him that she wasn’t interested, or maybe that she had someone else. That last thought lances through him like a punch to the gut. During his self-indulgent social media searches he had never seen any posts that indicated that there was someone special in her life, but that didn’t necessarily mean that there wasn’t anyone. After all, Jude Duarte was a special type of woman, the type of woman that you fought for.

Too bad that he’d figured that out too late.

The sound of her boots clacking on the floor gets closer and closer and he turns around just in time for her to throw her arms around his neck and drag his head down to connect their lips, their noses bumping together in the process. Time stops, and his every High School fantasy comes true when he feels her tangle her tongue with his and it’s a little sloppy at first, especially since she had caught him off guard, but they find their rhythm and flames lick through his entire being. Frantically, he grabs a hold of her waist and pushes her until she’s against the wall, her fingers coming up to tangle in his locks as he strokes her sides.

She pulls away to breathe and they’re both panting harshly as if they had run a marathon.

“I had a crush on you too. I hated it and I tried to fight it because you used to pick on me in middle school.”

Had he? It was so long ago that he really couldn’t remember, but he also knew that he was precisely the type of person who’d want to hurt the girl that got under his skin.

“Really?” He grins ruefully.

“Yes, really.” She reaches up and playfully smacks the back of his head before carding her fingers through his hair in the same spot to soothe it.

‘Well, my middle school self humbly begs for your forgiveness.” He leans forward and presses their foreheads together, locking his gaze with hers.

“Apology accepted.”

And then they’re kissing once more. He may not have been prepared for a moment like this, but he was sure as hell going to hold on to it and never let go.

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Some soft boi Cardan for you lovely peeps. I hope you see this and that you enjoy, Anon. Thanks for the ask!

Tagging: @cupcakesandkittens , @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln, @thewickedkings , @kittkatandbooboo , @min-unicorn, @fangirlprincess09, @thefolkofthefic

Let me know if you’d like to be added to or taken off of the tag list🌻

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coulson-is-an-avenger · 3 years

Note

1 11 or 27 for jmart ???

Thank you Dani🥰!!! I ended up going with #1 for this one, hope that’s cool! This one is very soft and very gender ;-;. Hope you enjoy! <3

- set in a kinder timeline, in which Jon and Martin survive the apocalypse, and are getting ready for a formal event-

At this point, Jon’s pretty sure he’s going to make them both late. He’s well aware of the time - it’s ticking away quite noisily on his wrist - but he is utterly insistent on getting this right. He’s never presented this feminine at an event before, never presented this feminine to a group before, honestly, and so everything has to be perfect. This is momentous to him.

He stares into the mirror like it’s personally offending him, lips pressed firmly together in utter concentration as he weaves the last strands of his hair together, pulling together a simple french braid that ends over his shoulder. There, it actually looks somewhat nice. Martin has said before that the grey in his hair adds to the beauty, and for the first time, he can’t help but agree. He casts a scrutinizing gaze over the whole thing again, making sure nothing’s out of place, double checking the evenness of the sections throughout his hair, and, miraculously, he doesn’t find anything wrong.

With a satisfied little noise of surprise, he frees up a hand to tug the hair-tie from his mouth and tie the braid off, and then he sits back to fully take in his work.

God, it feels nice. The effort may have been a little extensive - nearly two hours of clicking through YouTube videos and frustration and unbraiding and rebraiding - but it lays nicely, falling over his shoulder with a gentle flourish. It’s nothing extravagant, but it’s... well, it feels very, very nice. In a gender sort of way.

Which, he supposes, is the point of the whole attire he has going on tonight. A smile starts to wander over his face, and he leans into it as he adds the finishing touches to his hair; fluffing out certain bits of it, and then spraying it to make sure it stays in place, and then he’s swinging the bathroom door open and all but jumping out.

“Martin!” He grabs the attention of his partner, who has been very, very patiently sitting on his phone and waiting, bless him. “How do I look?”

Martin looks up in earnest and makes a little ‘ooh’ sound as he looks him over, his expression turning into one of wonder. “Oh, Jon, you look amazing.”

Jon feels a smile split his face at that and he ducks his head, looking down at the fabric surrounding him and rubbing it between his fingers. “Thank you,” he says, because he’s learning to accept these things. From this angle, he can see the red-black of his dress shimmering as the waves of the skirt catch the light in the living room. It’s a lovely pattern, one he really enjoys looking at, and more than that, it feels good, feels right in that way he’s learned to chase, learned to lean into. Something dangerously close to euphoria is building in his chest.

“Well? Are you going to twirl?” Martin asks, his eyes lighting up, his smile never once faltering on his face. The expression is gorgeous on him, and it softens any nerves Jon might have had like a flame clearing away snow.

He flashes a smile of his own before spinning around once, twice, enough times for the dress to flare out around his knees in the ways he’s always seen on other giddy children. The fabric billows out in its own dance alongside his own, and it’s freeing, it’s freeing. He’s beaming by the time he comes to a stop, his cheeks nearly hurting from the intensity of it as he stumbles forward and balances himself by gripping Martin’s arms.

He lets out a breathless apology, but Martin looks so full of happiness at the sight of him, that he can’t help but mirror the expression on his own face. He feels ready to burst, and then he lets out a small snort, and then they both collapse into laughter; open and free and happy. They’re still getting used to this, to it all being okay now, and moments like these always feel like miles of progressed traversed in an instant. The whole hero’s journey fits into the time it takes for Martin’s chest to stop shaking with leftover giggles.

Jon reaches up to swipe the tears of laughter from Martin’s face with his thumbs, still grinning. Martin looks back down at him with those wide, dark eyes, and the moment shifts slightly, settling into a comfortable affection.

“You look beautiful,” Martin whispers, because he knows it’s a term that makes Jon smile like he’s discovering something new, and also because he truly, wholeheartedly believes it. Jon is gorgeous to him, always has been, but the confidence and self expression have drawn that beauty out in strides that he hadn’t even known existed before. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, to get to participate in.

“Thank you,” Jon says, his eyes crinkling at the corners with affection. “You look quite handsome yourself.” He offers back, leaning away from his arms to look him over fully.

Martin does indeed look wonderful. He’s unbraided his hair and styled it into a neat fro that frames his face, and he’s wearing the sharp purple suit that he was finally able to get tailored for him last month. He also added a stud earring on the right side that sparkles in the light, and it ties the look together to give him an air that’s honestly regal.

Jon shares this with him, and Martin snorts, although from the way his smile turns bashful, and he turns his head away slightly, Jon knows he’s scored a point, and gotten him to blush.

“Oh, please,” Martin argues, even though his hands tighten around Jon’s shoulders.

“I mean it,” Jon insists, swaying closer. “You’re stunning. Always stunning.”

“As are you,” Martin deflects, and punctuates his point by leaning into the small space between them and kissing his forehead gently.

Jon lets out a sigh like he does every single time Martin kisses him, and crowds himself closer, pressing against his chest like he’s seeking his warmth. A moth to the flame, and all that. Martin presses another quick kiss to his face, this time to his eyebrow, and then another to his temple.

“We’re going to have a good time tonight, right?” Jon mumbles into the space between them.

Martin hums in response, a noise that Jon feels in his own chest. “I hope so,” he lands on. “Crowds don’t scare me as much these days, and my coworkers are nice, I promise. And I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I thought they might be bigots.”

Jon glances up at him, his eyes soft and dark. “I know,” He says softly. As much as people make him nervous sometimes, as much as he’s honestly a bit terrified to so openly defy gender stereotypes at a party, he knows he’ll be alright as long as he has Martin beside him. “I trust you.”

Martin ducks his head to hide the truly smitten expression that crosses his face, and gently presses his lips to Jon’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, and then his other cheek, closer to his eye, leaving a small trail of speckled affection across his face, like stars in a constellation.

“We’re going to be okay,” He speaks quietly, almost saying the words into Jon’s cheek. “They’re going to think you’re beautiful and you’re going to get to talk about books, and we’re going to be okay.”

“Promise?” Jon breathes, voice laced with humor, and something much, much deeper. A relief that can’t quiet yet be trusted, a relief that still cuts like a knife. It’s a fear he’ll carry with him for awhile, maybe for the rest of his life, but it’s one that Martin can assuage, one he can learn to live with.

Martin kisses the faded scar on Jon’s chin, just under his lip, one of many marks that detailed their descent into the clutches of evil, smoothed over with soft lips and a promise.

“I promise.” He says.

#I DID ONE!!!! :D #fic #jonmartin #the magnus archives #tma fic #kisses prompts #🥰🥰🥰 they're gay #mossy speaks #my writing #nonbinary jonathan sims #gnc/nonbinary jon

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alltheworldsinmyhead · 3 years

Photo

(WHILE COLLECTING THE STARS) I CONNECTED THE DOTS

or, how Nesta accepted the bond and decided to give living a try // ao3

Adoption /Self-Discovery/Domestic/Witch!Nesta/Mating Bond/Nessian/found family bc why the fck not/Healing

Heal the scars from off my back

I don't need them anymore

You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars

I've come home

The first thing she notices is how small the girl is.

Her feet are dangling far from the ground and, even though she’s perched on a stroll and Cassian is kneeling on the ground, he’s still towering over her frame. The top of the child’s head barely sticks above the table. Her tucked-in wings make her look even tinier; tiny and miserable, wrapped up with a blanket like an abandoned kitten.

Nesta’s still high on all the magic. There is dark paint smeared all over her skin and her veins are buzzing with the sheer power that she and her coven has just leeched off the very bones of Illyria. She’s only starting to regain some composer and maybe that is why, for a good few minutes, she stays on the corridor and watches as Cassian patiently asks the girl if she wants something to eat or to drink, if she’s warm enough, if maybe she wants to take a nap, hearing nothing in return except for the stubborn, shell-shocked silence.

It’s only when the child pulls her knees up and hides her face in the material of the blanket when Nesta actually makes her presence known.

‘’Hello?’’ she calls quietly from her place on a threshold, not wanting to spook the girl further.

To Cassian’s credit, he does not whip his head towards her – but, after all, he probably knew she’s been here all along.

He always knows she’s near, just like she does.

‘’Hello, Nesta.’’ He says and there is something so heavy, so terribly dark ringing in his voice that she cannot help but shiver. ‘’Sorry, darling, are you fine sitting alone for a while here? I’ll be right back.’’

He raises his hand as if to pat the girl’s knee, but decides not to half-motion; it falls awkwardly to his side when he slowly raises to his full height.

The girl just buries deeper into the blanket.

Something about her – the clear despair radiating from every pore of her body – pulls Nesta towards her like a siren song. She cannot tear her eyes off her, even when Cassian ushers her to the corridor, his hand burning her lower back.

‘’Sorry for no heads-up.’’ He whispers, face half-obscured by the shadows.

It’s almost dusk; the lovely pink light of the dying sun makes everything less real somehow. Or maybe it’s still the magic, the leftovers of it from the sabbath, she’s not sure.

She knows why he’s apologizing. Strangers still threw her off, especially here, in this – space they’ve created. The space where she walks barefoot and with her hair unbound, only for him to see. But how he knows that she doesn’t feel comfortable with unexpected visitors, she has no idea. Sometimes, she wonders how the hell Cassian even knows half of the things he knows about her, because she doesn’t tell him even a quarter of them.

Unexpected visitors that make her uneasy definitely don’t include little lost girls, though. Especially since there’s an unpleasant pounding in Nesta’s head when her mind starts to mull over why the girl would be here in the first place.

‘’Oh, stop being an idiot. Why did you bring her here? Is she- is her mother-‘’

‘’Gone? Yeah.’’

Nesta closes her eyes so tightly that the whole night sky blooms on the underside of her eyelids.

That’s Illyria. – he told her the first time when he came home reeking of blood, his knuckles scraped to the raw meat. – It happens.

And there was not an ounce of acceptance in his voice, only this defeated helplessness. The same helplessness she’s hearing – she’s feeling – now.

‘’She doesn’t have anyone else left? No family?’’

‘’No one. Her father was killed in the war, as far as I know.’’

It happens. Females disappear. Females evaporate. Females appear with their wings clipped, with blood running down their thighs. Females find themselves in the wrong place, the wrong time… especially young, pretty widows, trying to make a living in any way they can, selling whatever they have, including themselves.

Nesta does not have to ask for more details, does not have to dig deeper. Cassian fixes her stare on the chandelier above her head and breaths deeply and, when she looks down, she can see dark bruises blooming on his knuckles, turning them all shades of purple.

Her hands are still cool from the autumn air. He shivers when her thumbs brush across his tender flesh.

‘’Those who did it to her – they won’t do it again to anyone else, will they?’’

‘’No,’’ Cassian growls, his fingers curling around hers. ‘’No, they won’t.’’

She lets her lips curl into a smile, the one that makes Devlon piss his pants whenever he throws a hissy about her coven, or rather about her dragging the clipped females to the woods at night to howl to the moon, as he calls it.

‘’Good.’’ She breathes out.

Her eyes slide on the wooden panels on the wooden panels, back to the kitchen; through the ajar door, all she can see are the black curls, the small talons on top of the girl’s wings peeking from the folds of the blanket.

She’s just so small. She cannot be possibly older than five.

‘’What’s her name?”

“Nicassia.’’ Cassian answers without meeting Nesta’s eyes and something akin to a laugh bubbles in her chest. Nicassia. What a pretty name, swishing like a mountain stream on the rocks, like the wind in the valley.

Ni-cass-ia.

It seems the irony has not escaped Cassian too, because he smirks slightly at her stunned silence.

‘’What are the chances, huh?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ She sounds a bit breathless. Nicassia. ‘’What - where are you planning to take her?’’

She rather feels than hears his hesitance when he says:

‘’Well. There’s an orphanage in Velaris-‘’

Something tightens like a rock inside her core. Of course.

She bites on her tongue. Stop being ridiculous, Velaris is not the source of all evil in the world. She has no doubt that they will take care of her well there – keep her well-fed and clothed, educate her. Give her the care and attention she needs. Maybe she’ll be treated as something … something else, different, but not worse, Feyre would never allow that. Still-

There’s this nagging thought, coming back to her over and over again as she raises her eyes to the small bundle of misfortune on the stroll in the kitchen Nesta has started to think of as hers – what about the things they cannot give her in Velaris?

Nesta’s been living in the Illyria for three years now; she keeps count of every day while pretending she’s absolutely not doing that. And during this time, she has just begun to grasp the magnitude of her ignorance of how these people live and how they think and feel – but she also knows now just enough to realize that there will be no coming back for Nicassia if she’s sent to the Night Court so young.

No one will teach her the songs to keep the rhythm while sewing – no one will teach her how to sew in the first place, how to weave the promises and good fortunes into the fabric. No one will teach her the strange language, full of whistles and hard vowels, impossible to really grasp for somebody who did not grow up hearing it every day. No one will teach her how to put pebbles on the windowsills for protection or to hang bundles of herbs above the fireplace for prosperity and health. No one will make a rowan necklace for her upon her flowering, every hope, and dream that her mother has for her captured on the rope along with the fruits.

No one will teach her the sacred, secret language of Illyrian females, the rites and rituals of their womanhood. If Nicassia grows up in Velaris, she will be forever an outcast in her own home. Not High Fae and not quite Illyrian either.

She will once sit around the fire with other females just like Nesta does with her coven and she too won’t be a part of the story.

And Nesta cannot bear this thought, cannot help but fixate on it.

‘’Nesta.’’

Cassian’s hand is warm and steady on arm, gentle, when he squeezes it.

He’s always gentle with her now, hesitant almost. She’s trying not to miss the times when he was challenging her with every move, every word, driving her insane. It’s better this way, when everything between them is so delicate, fragile like an eggshell. It’s better like that, she tries to convince herself every day, every night laying alone in her bed, her very skin burning from desire.

Sometimes he sleeps beside her to keep her nightmares at bay, but honestly, she almost prefers the nightmares to this unbearable, painful distance between them.

‘’You cannot – you can’t keep her, Sweetheart.’’

She knows what he means by that – she knows he means all the sleepless nights and the emptiness still present in her eyes more often than not. Her still too-skinny hands, her still-not-quite mastered powers. How she would not touch booze for all days of the year except for the anniversary of her father’s death when she gets so absolutely pissed that she sleeps through the next week. The fact that they share fears and dreams and silence, trade quiet feelings, small kisses, absent-minded caresses every day, but they have still not traded the actual words, did not dare to voice anything they feel for each other.

She knows he only wants to protect her.

But maybe a time for coddling has passed. Not when there is a child sitting in their kitchen, small and alone in this world and this time, she has power – power, and strength, and will – to help her.

‘’Maybe I can’t’’. she says softly, slowly. Nicassia’s dark curls spill on her shoulders. Nesta’s hands itch to braid it the way it’s supposed to be braided, just like Emerie explained to her one time- first parted in two, then divided into four strands and woven together (Health. Protection. Love. Devotion.). Nesta’s no Illyrian, but she can learn. She can ask her coven to teach her, to teach her how to sing lullabies in Illyrian, which bedtimes stories she should tell-

Ni-cass-ia.

Nesta thinks about a boy of five, dumped onto the cold mud, taught over and over again in the most horrible way that he has to kill, beg or steal for every little crumb of love in his life, that it will never be given freely to him, that he will never be worth it.

Nesta thinks of a girl of eight, burning with anger too vast to be contained, only learning decades later how to be gentle, how to allow others to be gentle to her. She thinks of Feyre and Elain, of loving too much and not enough simultaneously, of not knowing how to feel anything without this magnitude of feeling devouring her whole.

Nesta turns around to face Cassian, her hands gripping his too-strongly. There’s fire – fire- burning inside her brighter than any magic ever did, hotter than any rage ever did.

She needs us. – she thinks and then: I need this. I want this.

I want this for us.

She doesn’t remember ever wanting anything more. She doesn’t remember the last time she has felt so much.

How can they continue to pretend they’re walking on eggshells when she feels every rise and fall of his chest as if it was her own? When she could’ve as well grabbed on this bond between them or hang herself on it, that’s how strong it is. Forged from some ancient metal. Hardened in flames.

Cassian kneeling on the floor in front of this girl. Nesta coming home.

‘’But maybe we can.’’

His eyes burn golden, staring down at her. She can almost hear his heart stumbling in his chest. She’s trembling, waiting for him to tell her, no, to tell her that’s insane and wrong, to try to reason with her.

But maybe her own heart is painted on her face or maybe the implication of her words are too vast, too great to grasp, or maybe it’s that fact that all her walls go down for a moment when she’s too desperate to keep them up and he sees her for what she truly is for a moment, or maybe it’s all of those things altogether or something else entirely – but Cassian doesn’t say no.

He looks to the kitchen again, his jaw clenching and eyes turning soft when one of Nicassia’s bare feet emerges from the blanket to dangle above the floor.

‘’Are you sure?’’

One step, two steps before she’s so close she could’ve counted the freckles of hazel in his eyes.

Be brave.

‘’I want this with you. I want her. Do you – do you want it too?’’

And she means more than Nicassia, or rather – she means all Nicassia can possibly mean, the whole ocean of dreams she has never dared to venture into, so deep they could both drown in it.

In her grand romance novels, he would’ve pulled her into his arms, give her a sweeping kiss. But in these books, there seems to always be a perfect moment for everything, the exact seconds when stars align and the realization comes like a lightning strike. Nesta does not believe in this type of love any more- doesn’t believe in the perfect moments. It was always Feyre’s brand of romance. Everything in Nesta’s and Cassian’s story has always been complicated and ill-timed. She doesn’t expect to be swept off her feet or wooed anymore.

She just wants to come home. Finally, after all those lonely years.

Cassian doesn’t give her a grand kiss. Instead, he raises their linked hands to his lips and whispers against her skin – quietly, like a secret, like an oath:

‘’I do. Fine then, love.’’

And for a second she can almost see that small boy entering Rhysand’s mother’s cottage in the war camp, craving family and belonging above all reason once again.

Her body turns soft, jelly; her arm raises up, palm resting in the crook of his neck, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. She’s on her tiptoes before she realizes she has even made a move.

For the first time since they met, they meet each other halfway; his forehead resting on hers, his hand pressing hers to his heart.

‘’Fine then, love.’’ She echoes and, all at once, warmth erupts under her skin like a raging forest fire when the bond tugs on her insides and snaps in place, sweet and familiar, the gravity keeping her feet on the ground.

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acosf

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simayeeet · 4 months

Text

I got this baizhu plush doll and my thoughts about it are:

it's very firm like hard to squish and I don't really like that. I want to hug something soft and not a murder weapon

He thicc (why did they give him an ass)

Changsheng is cute maybe a little too big for the doll itself

His hair is actually braided fabric in some places and the bun is a bundle of cut strands of the hair fabric and I thought that was cool

he has plastic glasses which is neat but I would have preferred them being fabric

he has one hair stick that is a piece of embroidered fabric which I like though it falls out of his faux bun

his top is a little large but I don't mind it. he doesn't have his belt sash thing so I might just make it myself

overall he's a cutie though I would prefer if they made actually soft all fabric plush of him and other chars (I personally thought this doll in particular had the best face in the smallest pool of baizhu plush)

#baizhu #genshin impact #ik what i was getting but i didnt expect this to be so firm #ill probably just make all his misc details that his outfit didnt come with #i woukd have also preferred his glasses embroidered #welcome to my gallery of silly purchases

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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

Text

The Unexpected Perks of War | Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!OC

Part 3

Summary: Allys Baratheon is the only trueborn daughter of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. After the explosion of The Sept of Balor and the death of Tommen, Allys grew tired of the ghosts that hung in Kings Landing and set off to Dragonstone, hoping to find a semblance of safety.

Note: Masterlist for this series here🤍

The seconds tick by, time ebbing and flowing in its usual pace. Guard rotations shift, the evening meal is prepped, and the sun slowly lowers as the moon prepares to take its place. Yet, every passing moment feels like a century to Allys as she impatiently waits for the keep to go to sleep, everyone except Daenerys of course.

She wandered through Dragonstone, gripping onto any distraction that would come with an iron tight hold. Her footsteps echoed through the ancient halls, fingers tracing along it’s walls so many times she’d be able to accurately sketch the keep from the inside out. She floated through conversations like a phantom, mind always halfway in the clouds. At one point, she’d ended up in the library, bundled in a corner with a book that looked moments away from falling apart. Her eyes scanned the ink, flipping the pages and actually managing to read through it, but she couldn’t tell you the first thing about the book, not even the title. But eventually, light turned to dark; the moon brilliantly glowing in the sky as it glistened off the waters surrounding Dragonstone.

The soft sand sinks beneath Allys’ slippered foot, and for a second she contemplates taking the delicate silk shoes off, eager to feel the sand between her toes. She longs to feel like a child again who was too wild to be proper, always frolicking about the shore surrounding King’s Landing, not jaded by the atrocities of the world. Not stained with the knowledge of the horrible things her mother and uncle have done, the sins her grandfather committed in the name of a golden legacy. Momentarily lost in her melancholy, Allys almost does it, if only to feel like that naive child again, but the fearsome roar of a dragon pulls Allys from her reminiscing.

Flying high above the ground, Drogon lets out a ferocious war, the sound reverberating in Allys’ ears and she could swear she felt the ground beneath her feet tremble. The dragon was massive and terrifying, in shades of red and black, the colors of House Targaryen, but he was beautiful in a dangerous way. And if the sun wasn’t already hidden away while the moon shines bright, he would no doubt blot it out. She’s captivated by him, as she is with all the dragons, but Drogon demands her attention. He’s the largest of the three, named after Daenerys’ late husband Khal Drogo, and if someone told Allys his very soul resides inside Drogon, she would believe them. All of the dragons fiercely protect their mother, but Drogon does it with a ferocity that only a Dothraki warlord could possess.

Her gaze however moves to the form on top of the dragon. She knows who it is without needing to see her face, there’s only one person here that could ride Drogon so freely. Drogon begins to lower towards the ground, and Allys subconsciously moves to meet where he’d land. She grabs onto her skirts, lifting them up as to avoid dirting anymore than necessary, and just walks, any nerves and fears about being burned alive banished from her thoughts. Daenerys would never let any of them do that to her.

Crash.

Drogon’s large form lands on the sandy ground, red eyes locking on Allys, opening his massive jaws and showing his razor sharp teeth that could rip her apart within seconds. But she’s not afraid. She continues her approach, the dampened sand squishing under her feet, water seeping through the silk shoes and onto her skin. Her eyes flit to Daenerys sitting on Drogon, looking every bit like the regal Dragon Queen she is.

Her silver hair is pulled back into a series of braids, something Allys learned is a part of Dothraki culture, each strand curled and cascading down her back and spilling over her shoulders. Her bright purple eyes are already locked onto Allys, the harshness usually present in her War Room meetings replaced with a softness more akin to a child. Her pale skin glows in the moonlight, the stars casting beautiful highlights on all the right spots. Instead of her usual black and red attire, she’s wearing a dress in a light shade of blue, the fabric thick enough to fight any chill from the night air, but still breathable. Her signature three headed dragon broach is still pinned to her dress, holding in place her shimmering cloak that looks like dragon scales. A smile rests on her delicate face, filling Allys with all sorts of warm feelings.

She’s beautiful, by the Old Gods and the new, Allys is mystified by Daenerys and everything about her.

Maintaining eye contact, Daenerys effortlessly slides off of Drogon’s back. Her feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. She moves towards Allys with the natural confidence she exudes, the easy charms she possesses always her biggest asset, only second to her dragons. In what feels like an eternity, Daenerys closes the distance between them. She’s close enough that Allys can clearly hear each breath she takes, but far enough away to be proper. And while she is only less than an arm’s length away, she feels like there’a a gaping canyon in between them.

“Thank you for meeting me tonight, Lady Allys,” Daenerys says, her voice like silk.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Your Grace,” Allies said, a teasing lilt in her voice. Her lips pull into a smile, bright enough to even blind the sun. The smile on Daenerys’ face widens as well. And if Allys’ smile is the sun, then Daenerys is the moon, captivating everyone with her soft and ethereal beauty.

“Shall we?” Daenerys says, guesting behind her towards Drogon, still in his same position, although he’s no longer baring his teeth and burning into Allys with his eyes. Her eyes widen a fraction, unsure what else to do.

“You mean we’re going to…?” Allys whispers, pointing at Drogon, hand low at her side as if she’s afraid the dragon in question will see. Daenerys looks behind her and then back at Allys, amusement brimming in her eyes, and she laughs. Not the quiet chuckle you give to Lords or Ladies from noble houses that you don’t want to offend, or the awkward squawk you make when in an uncomfortable situation. This is a real laugh, the kind that makes you throw your head back and close your eyes, that brings a pain to your stomach from laughing too hard. It’s loud, being carried away by the wind to every corner of Dragonstone, and it’s beautiful.

In that moment Allys decides it’s the best sound she’s ever heard, that no minstrel, no matter how talented, could ever play a tune sweeter than this.

“Yes, we’re going to ride Drogon.” Daenerys reaches out and grasps Allys’ hand. While Allys hands are cold and dry, her skin not accustomed to the weather, Daenerys’ are warm and soft, as if the fire in Drogon runs through her veins. She turns and walks towards Drogon, pulling Allys, who doesn’t put up a fight, with her. Her heart is pounding against her chest, a blend of anxiety and excitement coursing through her blood.

A dragon, a real dragon. She’s about to ride a dragon.

She’s in a daze as Daenerys approaches Drogon, reaching her hand out to caress Drogon’s scaled face. He nuzzles into her touch, a pur similar to that of a cat coming from him as he nudges closer to her. The startling size difference between Daenerys’ hand and Drogon snout is enough to make Allys stop breathing, yet he isn’t acting like a terrifying beast. In fact, he’s more like a domesticated pet looking for attention than a fire breathing serpent, and that’s what keeps Allys in place.

For a moment, she has a burst of bravery, a need to impress Daenerys, which causes her to step forward and reach her left hand out to Drogon. He turns his attention to her and huffs, the breath feeling like summer heat against her skin, but to her surprise, he leans his head forward. The feeling of his rough scales under her fingertips is…odd, he was as hot as Allys imagined he would be, similar to touch the barrier between a roaring hearth. Allys is at a loss, unsure of where to move her hand now that it rests on him, then she feels something soft and cool in comparison to Drogon over her hand.

She glances over and meets Daenerys’ gaze, her smile isn’t as large and beaming anymore, instead it’s weeter, more delicate, as if she’s afraid that this moment could disappear. Allys knows because she feels the same.

“Here, gently pet him here,” she says, guiding Allys’ hand in the center of his face and in between his serpentine eyes. She guides her hand down, as Allys’ nails lightly press into Drogon, who purs in delight, until her hand reaches the tip of his nose, inches away from his teeth. The tip of his nose is soft like that of a dog, but not as wet. It’s nice to feel a sensation that is familiar to Allys.

“I can’t believe it, I’m petting a dragon!” Allys exclaims, nearly breathless from excitement. Her eyes are wide and wild, beaming with the radiance of the sun. Daenerys laughs, this was softer than her previous laughter, but just as sweet.

“What would you say to riding a dragon?”

And Allys can’t speak, her brain refusing to work hard enough to think of something to say. So instead she squeaks like a mouse, nodding her head far too enthusiastically to be proper. But Daenerys just laughs, taking the hand of Allys’ she still grasps, and leads her to one of Drogon’s wings, Daenerys getting on first and then holding a hand out to help Allys up. The feel of the leather wings are strange, similar to walking on the carpets and rugs in The Red Keep, but tougher and with a better grip.

Daenerys helps Allys get onto Drogon, making sure she is situated behind her. Instinctively, Allys wraps her arms around Daenerys’ waist, placing her chin atop Daenerys’ shoulder, the warm fabric soothing her frostbitten face. A flush appears on Allys’ face from the proximity, but just snuggles further into Daenerys, the anticipation of actually flying turning her stomach into knots.

“Sōvēs.”

Allys lurches forward, the sound of Drogon’s heavy footsteps beating into the beach. And they’re moving, slowly at first, but then quicker and quicker as Drogon picks up more momentum. Allys squeezes Daenerys just a hair tighter as Dany throws her head back, laughing in delight - the sound being swallowed by the howling wind.

Just when they are about to hit the ocean surrounding Dragonstone, Drogon lifts his great wings and soars into the sky. The wind is cold and unforgiving, but Allys can’t bring herself to care, as the wind whips through her hair, instantly tangling it. The higher and higher they fly, the smaller everything looks below them. And Allys can’t help the shout that leaves her mouth, the sound mixing with the winds around them and the powerful roar Drogon releases.

o0o0o0o

They fly around on Drogon for the next hour and Allys never wants it to end. But eventually, they begin to get closer and closer to the ground until Drogon lands with a thundering thud. Daenerys slides off of Drogon with ease, holding her hand out to aid Allys off of the dragon. When her feet finally touch solid ground, they wobble and shake, and if not for Daenerys holding onto her, Allys surely would’ve greeted the ground with her face.

Flushing bright red with shaky hands and a racing heartbeat, Allys looks up at Daenerys. And Daenerys looks at her, cheeks stained red as well.

“That was-- amazing. Thank you, so so much,” Allys says, still attempting to catch her breath, something highly unlikely with how close Daenerys is.

“It’s my pleasure.”

And then Daenerys takes one step closer, Allys mimicking her movements. Then suddenly they’re only a breath away from each other. And for the first time Allys truly notices how short Daenerys is compared to her. She always carries such a strong presence, Allys imagined her 9ft. tall in her mind. But she doesn’t mind. It makes Daenerys seem real, something difficult to picture for the woman who brought dragons back into the world.

“Well, I should probably return to my room,” Allys says, but makes no movement to move away.

“Yes, it is rather late,” Daenerys says, the corner of her lips tugging into a smirk, mischief dancing in her purple eyes.

With a second surge of courage, abandoning any fear and worry that lingers in her head, Allys leans forward, connecting their lips together.

Kissing Daenerys is like taking a bite from the sweetest fruit. Euphoria rushes through her veins, her head growing lighter with each second. Her lips are soft and warm and oh so inviting to Allys. And if kissing Daenerys is like eating from the sweetest fruit, then her lips taste like nectar from the gods themselves. And Allys get pulled under, deeper and deeper into the ocean, not fearing that she doesn’t have the faintest idea on how to swim.

And it's soft, gods it’s so soft Allys melts into her, getting as close as possible.

Daenerys weaves one arm around Allys and her other hand into the tangled mess her hair is, and begins gently untangling it. Allys puts one hand around Daenerys’ neck, as if she’s afraid she’ll disappear, trailing the other one from her waist up her side, then her collarbone, and finally up her neck, with a touch lighter than a feather.

It’s pure bliss in that moment and in her haze Allys decided she must be dead. She must’ve died at some point and her heaven is every moment spent with Daeenerys.

“Would you care to join me tonight, Lady Allys? I’m afraid I’m not used to the cold of Westeros and would welcome the company?” Daenerys is only a hair away from her, but even that feels too far. Too far gone in her euphoria, Allys forgets all about her pride, chasing Dany’s lips as she groans at the loss of contact. Daenerys allows her to kiss her again, laughing against her lips as Allys’ mouth swallows the noise.

“Do you even have to ask?” Allys asks, still keeping their lips pressed together. “We should go now, while I’m still thinking semi clearly,” Allys mutters, but makes no movement to untangle herself from Daenerys.

“Then let us make haste before we die from the cold!” Daenerys exclaims, pecking the corner of Allys’ lips before pulling her towards the entrance to Dragonstone. Allys laughs, the sound so foreign to her own ears, the sound nothing like the grief stricken tones she spoke with. They both nearly tumble to the ground far more times than either could keep track of, laughing louder and harder with each fumble. Neither of them seem to notice the sleeping people in the rooms they pass. They’re too drunk on each other to possibly care, only focused on the other.

‘Perhaps we should be more quiet?” Allys suggests in between her laughter, small giggles bursting in the seams of her question.

“It would be respectful of us, but I’m too happy to care!” Daenerys exclaims. And her eyes are bright, like two stars plucked from the sky and painted purple. It would be easier to liken her eyes to amethysts, but they wouldn’t do justice to their vibrancy.

And she’s beautiful when she’s like this, so carefree and glowing like the moon.

Eventually they reach the end of the hall, standing before two double doors. Back to the door, Daenerys leans forward, pressing a faint kiss against Allys, fumbling as she opens the door behind her. It clicks open and she presses her body against it to push it wide open, the loud creaking swallowed by their laughter. Daenerys pulls Allys into the room, the lock clicking close behind them.

Maybe the dragons coming back to Westeros isn’t such a bad thing.

o0o0o0o

Tags:

@historicallydysfunctional | @stuckupstucky

#daenerys targaryen x reader #daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys oneshot #daenerys targaryen #daenerys stormborn #baratheon!reader #daenerys targaryen oneshot #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones oneshot #Daenerys x Baratheon!reader #Daenerys Targaryen x Baratheon!OC

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deans-mind-palace · 4 years

Text

Forget me not (Pt.1)

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Summary: Cas was your guardian angel and best friend. He protected you from everything that tried to harm you as child. But a terrible accident caused you to get separated from him. Years later, you’re still determined to find your guardian angel again. What happens when you meet him under unexpected circumstances?

Word Count: 1,936

Warnings: Blood, angst

Author’s Note: Yayyyy. I am so excited to share the first part of my Cas series with you! If I plan correctly, then there’ll be four to five parts. I would be glad for some feedback. Enjoy reading. This is angsty but there’ll also be fluff and maybe smut in the next chapters.

Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5

A long time ago God created a flower. But one day he forgot its name and it was very sad that God had forgotten it. So God renamed the flower Forget-me-not as a promise to never forget it again.

Castiel had been by your side since you could remember. He was assigned to you as guardian angel shortly after your birth. It meant he would keep you safe from all harm, never leave your side. Even if you couldn't always see him, you always felt his presence in your close proximity.

Castiel was your best friend.Your parents dismissed your stories about the angel with the bright blue eyes who was always with you when you slept, played or ate, as a child's fantasy, but you knew he was real. Whenever you were alone, he would show himself and have tea parties with you and your dolls or read you fairy tales to help you fall asleep. Today it is hard to imagine that the angel could build such an intimate bond with a person, but you were different. Exceptions have always confirmed the rules, haven't they?

Actually Castiel was overqualified for the job of a guardian angel, but when God told him to watch over you and guard your every step, he obeyed because he knew that God had a plan. You had a great destiny resting on your shoulders. When the time was right, you would arrive. If the Almighty wanted Castiel to watch over this child, he would do so without question. Maybe he should have. Should have asked questions. But everything was different then.

Castiel was your best friend because you could always count on him. If you called out to him in the night because you were afraid of a nightmare, he would appear right before you. His presence was announced by the rustling of feathers. While your cheeks were still wet with tears, he would scoop you up and carry you to bed. There he would stay with you until you fell asleep and he could remove the fabric of his trench coat from your tiny hands without waking you. Then, as always, he would brush the tangled strands of hair from your face and give you a kiss on the forehead before he disappeared for the night to go about his service in heaven. But as soon as you awoke, he would watch over your steps again.

You had always been a little whirlwind, sparkling with joy of life and always laughing. Your parents loved you more than anything and you were their little sunshine. They could not actually have children, but you were a miracle and an absolute dream child. Yet you were wild and untamed. Curious and full of thirst for adventures. It was not always easy to take care of you. Castiel had a lot to do and you rarely let him take a breath, but he enjoyed every second he saw you grow up. Your childlike fascination for all things made him see the world with different eyes. Bugs were suddenly magical little creatures and the reddish leaves of the trees in autumn whispered their stories to you with the rustling of the wind.

You could still remember exactly how you once banged your knee when you were four years old. You had just jumped through the garden on a hobbyhorse and tried to catch an imaginary unicorn with a skipping rope knotted to a lasso. Castiel sat in the shadow of a large oak tree and watched you with a smile on his lips.

The wind rustled through the leaves, sun rays fell to the ground in bright spots and the air was filled with your childish laughter. But then it happened. You were running through the sandbox and were so close to catching the unicorn. The sand crunched under your toes when your little foot got caught on the edge of the sandbox and you hit the ground in a ball of skipping rope and hobbyhorse.Almost immediately you began to scream and cry and Castiel rushed to your side. He lifted you up and your little hands clung to his brown hair. Your parents were just in the neighbor' house. They couldn't hear you.

Carefully your guardian angel carried you to the porch and sat down there with you in his lap. The sun had warmed the wood and it creaked under your weight. Still the crickets chirped while Castiel gently rocked you back and forth in his lap. Your sobbing subsided and you looked at him with big watery eyes. Cas smiled at the sight of your red cheeks and your poutty lips. The angel gently wiped away your tears. "It's all right, little sunshine," He murmured with his deep voice that always calmed you down. "Where does it hurt?" He asked, inspecting your bleeding knee carefully with gentle fingers. You pointed with your little fingers and trembling lower lip at your aching knee. You were strong and didn't want to cry.

Cas praised you, while you were leaning against him. Gently he took his hand and you saw how the skin on your knee closed and healed. The blood disappeared and you gave Castiel a big smile. The gap between your teeth made you look even more childlike and your braids bounced up and down next to your face.

"Thank you, Cassy" He heard your sweet voice in his ear and felt your arms close around his neck. He smiled and put a kiss on your knee. Then he sat you down on the porch and got up and knocked the dust off his coat. You watched him with big eyes. The blue of his eyes fascinated you endlessly. It was as blue as the sky above you or the small flowers of Forget-me-not in the grass of the backyard. Castiel reached out his hand to you.

"Come on," He said, waggling his fingers encouragingly. Giggling, you hopped down the stairs and his hand embraced your little one warm in his. Together you lay on the grass between the little blue Forget-me-not and watched the passing clouds, discovering funny fantasy animals again and again. "You see? That one. That one over there. That looks like a crocodile," You said, pointing to a particular cloud pattern. Cas hummed approvingly and pointed to a rabbit. Soon the crocodile and rabbit merged and moved on with the wind towards the sun.

Cas just loved to lie in the grass with you and listen to your childish stories with all their fantasy. The grass tickled his neck, the smell of peaches was in the air and cicadas chirped as the setting sun turned the sky into a sea of flames. It bathed everything in warm orange shades. It was evenings like these that Cas wished you would never grow up. ...that you would never know the pain and suffering that reigned in this world. The little healthy bubble you lived in was all you needed. What Cas needed...

When you were eleven years old, this whole bubble burst abruptly. It was in the middle of the night when the demon surprised your parents and you. Cas was less and less present, because God focused his tasks more and more on heaven with every year that you got older. Still he should have been there. For when your guardian angel arrived, your parents were already dead and you lay bleeding to death in the bed in your room.

You lay on the bed with eyes wide open. Not a sound escaped your throat, just a gurgling. You could not move and the pain shot through your body. One of your hands, which he had held just before, was pressed against one of the numerous wounds in your chest. Blood gushed out of it endlessly, staining the blossom-white sheet in an ominous red. Your hand was sticky from your own blood and your breath was shallow. You had heard the screams of your parents before it came up. To you.

"Cassy" left your throat with a rattle, as your bloodstained hand tremblingly reached out for him and silent tears ran down your cheeks. The salt burned in your wounds.

Cas was frantic at the sight of you, but he did not let it show when he tried to calm you down. Only the shaking of his hands betrayed him. He had failed. He failed you. And he knew it. If he had come any later, you would have been dead. All night he healed your wounds and sat by your side as you fell asleep from exhaustion. Again and again the angel brushed the sweaty hair from your forehead and held your hand while he sat by your bed. His thoughts raced and he knew that this had not been a human being. And whatever it had been, it wanted you. Your parents had been just a hurdle to overcome.

When you woke up the next morning, your aunt was sitting by your bed, crying. Castiel had called and hung up several times during the night until she finally got into the car to find out what was going on. Your parents' bodies were the first to greet her. They said you were very lucky in your misfortune. Whoever killed your parents hadn't touched you. Yes, you must have had a guardian angel, they said.

At the same time, Cas was told that they had taken him off his post. Y/N would no longer be in his jurisdiction. He should say good-bye. Cas was not one to beg, but he did, despite knowing he had failed.

The moment of farewell came when you had to say goodbye to your parents. As they were lowered into the musky earth, you sat on a swing with a Forget-me-not in your hand, watching the spectacle of the funeral from afar.

You felt your angel even before you heard the rustling of feathers. With the tips of your shoes you drew strange patterns in the sand at your feet, while the swing swayed back and forth in the wind. For a while he sat silently on the swing next to you, unable to put his feelings into words. He swayed slightly back and forth, but his feet remained firmly on the ground. The trench coat fluttered in the cool wind of approaching autumn.

You already knew it. You were a smart child, Castiel would have expected nothing less from you. "I will not see you again." It wasn't a question, so Castiel didn't answer.

Tears ran down your cheeks and Castiel would have loved to take you in his arms, but he couldn't. He didn't know if he could still be strong. He had to be strong for both of you. "Don't forget me, Castiel," You whispered so the angel hardly noticed. "Never," Cas replied, and the wind carried his words to the sky. It was a promise. You took his hand and you put the little blue flower in your hand into his. Then you clasped his fingers around it. He knew what it meant. His heart broke just a little more. "I'll miss you," You muttered. Castiel smiled sadly, looking up at the blue sky. "I'll always be up there somewhere above the clouds watching over you. If you miss me, just look up at the sky." Those were his last words to you. After that he disappeared and you couldn't feel him anymore either. Your connection was cut off. Your angel had left you forever this time.

It was a lie. He wouldn't be able to find you anymore...

Wanna get notified as soon as the next part is uploaded?

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Castiel tags: @zizzlekwum @ashthefirefox @rintheemolion @intoomuchfandoms @angeltardisbow @ayamenimthiriel@shypickleghostsuitcase @still-a-demon-very-ineffable @wreak-havoc02

#castiel x y/n #castiel x reader #castiel #forget me not #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural reader insert #spn fanfic series #spn fanfiction #spn #dean winchester x you #sam winchester x you #fluff #angst #smut

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hitbythunder · 3 years

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Among the Gods of Asgard -2

A dark!Thor x Reader, minor Loki x Reader story with all the drama and angst you’re craving. Including Alexander Skarsgard as Balder.

–> Read also on AO3

Summary: The gods are being loved and feared in equal parts by their subjects, more the latter by the thousands of slaves working for them. Ten feet tall, powerful and immortal are the rulers of all beings within the Nine Realms. You, the daughter of an Asgardian merchant, fancy the three handsome princes of Odin - like any woman does - and dream of actually meeting them instead of watching them at public events. That is until, as a consequence of Loki’s tricks, you are being forced into slavery at the royal court. Amidst this harsh new reality, you catch the attention of the god of Thunder who then seeks to make you his alone. You are nothing but a toy, a puppet, in the god’s eyes and he will use you as he pleases.

Do not hope for mercy.

**** WARNING: dark story, manipulative Thor, heavy rape/non-con elements, no happy ending in sight

____________________________xXx____________________________

From the window of her room upstairs, ________ watched the four palace guards arriving at her family's estate, the stomping of the hooves being audible from afar. Her eyes were dry and swollen. The moment her father had handed her the royal decree stating his punishment, the young girl had been paralyzed by shock so that the parchment had slid through her soft hands. Then she had snapped out of her trance all of a sudden and had begun to shout angrily, throwing harsh words at her father. Harald didn't respond much since most of her accusations were true, painful statements of how he had failed his daughter. Even if her servitude was limited in time, the girl would be marked as a slave forever. He had ruined his daughter's life and future perspectives. Thus Harald had let her rage like a storm inside the luxurious living room, not caring much when she had smashed one or two vases. All the wealth Harald had heaped over the years wasn't enough to buy back ________'s trust and forgiveness.

After a night of weeping, shedding all her tears in desperation and sorrow for herself, _______ had mentally arrived at the bitter resignation to her fate. Almost ghostly calm and reserved, she had hugged her mother and brother goodby when the time came. Harald only received a cold glare as she picked up the one trunk she was allowed to bring along. _______ kept her head up as she rode among the guards towards the golden palace, her heartbeat quickening when the large gate came into view between the noble houses and mansions. Nevertheless, the young Asgardian girl took her last steps as a free woman full of dignity and confidence, entering the home of the gods.

xxx

Centuries of experimenting and practice had transformed the slavery-system at the palace into one of an elaborated, well-structured design aiming at high efficiency.

According to individual capabilities, age and gender, the slaves were divided into different categories with certain tasks and duties. Young healthy males would be assigned to hard work like construction or field work and such, while the elderly as well as females and children would serve as cooks, maids and valets. Upon their first day of servitude, each of them received a magical tattoo of a ring adorned with Norse runes on the right upper arm. The different colors of the tattoo as a whole and the symbols inside the glowing ring indicated their status within the slavery-system. A white and empty ring was for the general staff, the type of work being resembled by a matching symbol inside the ring. For example, a field worker had a sickle inside the white ring, while a cook had two crossed spoons. Whenever the wearer was assigned to serve a specific single god, the ring would change to the color and be filled with the personal sigil of that deity. Then the slave would have to tend particularly and firstly to this one god's needs while still obeying the orders of other gods.

_______'s father had dishonored the God of Light and so she was bound to serve as Balder's maid. Thus after a short tingling as the magical needle pierced her skin, a lilac ring with the image of a flying dove appeared on _______ 's right upper arm. The tattoo would last until the final day of her servitude, a special rune beneath it showing that she was not a permanent slave. However, heretofore were 49,999 and a half days more to endure.

xxx

Aligned in a straight row the maids stood in the salon of Balder's chambers, their gazes glued to the floor and their mouths shut tightly as the royal abigail Gerlinda surveyed them thoroughly. The grey-haired woman was a member of the small part of Asgardian nobility that had the honor of serving the gods as special staff such as abigail, teachers or advisors. After decades of experience at the court, Gerlinda knew exactly how to train the slaves efficiently and her 'management-style' was rather prominent and feared.

“Remember to always show respect and submission to the gods!” she hissed in a raspy voice as she swiftly straightened one of the maid's skirt.

“Some of you already know what happens to foolish girls who dare to disobey.” A few maids shuddered slightly in response as Gerlinda examined one girl after another, tugging a loosening strand of hair back into the tight braid or checking wether the fingernails were clean.

“As for you, new-one....” the abigail paused in front of _______, her stern gaze resting fully on the younger woman who had no clue what awaited her in the weeks to come, still naive and hopeful. Eyes sparkling with innocence and life's joy, a young and lively spirit - Gerlinda had seen so many pretty girls like ________ joining the ranks of the maids. Ultimately, over time the strain of the work, both physically and mentally, had broken them all.

This one wouldn't be an exception. Gerlinda thought to herself as she continued. "... Keep your mouth shut, watch and learn!"

_______ only nodded in response and showed some fake respect, hoping the abigail would continue to pace the room instead of lecturing her. Gerlinda then noticed the special mark beneath the girl's tattoo and was about to comment on it when suddenly the large double doors of the adjacent bedroom opened. The abigail stepped back immediately, the new girl and her tattoo already forgotten and all women present bowed in respect as the second prince of Asgard entered the salon.

"Scolding the girls this early, Gerlinda?" Balder asked in an amused tone as he approached the group with large strides, his bare feet smacking on the cold marble floor. Since he had just risen, he only wore a night garment out of thin silk which probably was worth much more than any dress _______ had ever possessed.

"Perfection is attained through repetitive practice and discipline, so that we may serve you as best as possible, your highness!" Gerlinda replied humbly and only when she straightened up again, the maids did so too. Having laid eyes upon the gods only from afar during public feasts, _________ was impressed by the sight now that she was this close. The god of light was tall and lean, tight muscles being hidden underneath the white fabric with delicate golden trimming, which matched his blonde straight hair reaching past his ears. Hard lines painted his oval face, especially the straight nose, but the cerulean blue of his sparkling eyes kept the balance and gave him an overall tender expression. The young girl couldn't help but stare at the handsome giant, regretting her bluntness immediately when said blue eyes fell onto her.

"I see..." Balder's attention had already been caught by the unfamiliar face at the end of the row. Sensing the pair of cerulean orbs resting on her, _______ quickly averted her gaze in a naive attempt to fade in with the other maids or perhaps with the luxurious furniture surrounding her and vanish from the god's sight. But it was too late. Balder already made a step towards her. Then another and he was right in front of her.

"This one I haven't seen before." he assessed in a cool tone as he towered over the small girl with flattering amazement written plainly across her face. Not fear like so many other slaves. "She was brought to service this morning, your highness!" Gerlinda piped from the side while Balder surveyed the girl and came to notice the rune beneath her tattoo. Non-permanent... "You are Harald Leifson's daughter?" the god concluded and his eyes narrowed at the thought of the sly merchant who had embarrassed him in front of everyone. "Yes your highness, I am ________ Haraldsdottir and I shall serve you to purge my family from the shame my father brought upon us." she replied like the well-educated woman from nobility she was, her eloquence surprising the abigail and the other maids. "All others out, I shall have a word with _______ alone!" Balder ordered then, which only added to everyone's surprise but they all obeyed. Because to a god they must always obey.

xxx

Silently _________ watched the god making himself comfortable on the large couch in front of the fire place, his large body draped languidly across the plush covers. Once fully relaxed, Balder broke the silence between them. “Has your father told you about his crime?” he asked calmly, his gaze wandering somewhere in pretense of not watching her, which he very well did from the corner of his eye. “Yes, your highness. He was a fool to try and cheat you.” Curt and polite but honest, attributes the god favored in a servant. “Good. You ought to know the reasons that brought you here although I have to admit that I am not a friend of slavery.” the god replied, still not looking at her directly but noting her growing stiffness nevertheless. Then why again am I here?! _______ wondered, the question burning on her tongue but her manners kept her from ushering a single disrespectful word. She just nodded and let the god continue. “But justice must be upheld and your father made me look a fool in front of the gods, the nobility and thousands of Asgardians!” Balder clenched his fists as he remembered the hot shame and embarrassment he had felt that moment. Even if his mother had already forgiven him, the others wouldn't forget so easily, especially his dear little brother. The Trickster would chaff him about it for centuries. The blonde was so occupied by his pondering that he almost didn't hear the quiet voice of the girl in front of him.

“If I may ask, your highness, why not punish Harald himself for his actions?” _______ knew the question was risky but she simply couldn't resist now that they were in privacy. Besides, the whole topic made her want to cry and shout at the same time. Balder sensed as much, not only because the girl had addressed the merchant by his name, and since he was familiar with daddy-issues he didn't mind her asking. In fact, he admired how composed she remained in this unfortunate situation. “You, his only daughter, being here is his punishment, the worst a father can imagine.” he looked deep into her watery eyes, cutting off whatever she was about to retort.

Now her shell has cracked. “But it's not f-” “Do not question the All-Father's decisions!” Balder admonished in a stern tone, his cerulean orbs narrowed and sparkling threateningly. He wouldn't tolerate any offense against his father, especially not from a mere mortal girl. Staring bluntly at the god, _______ barely managed to keep herself together as emotionally shaken as she was right now. But she had to be brave. They may have enslaved me, but they will not break me. _______ swore to herself, her breath calming as she focused. Balder watched in amazement how the girl swallowed her anger and frustration, her expressions turning almost emotionless like the ones of a pretty doll. “Yes of course, please forgive my offense, your highness!” she said then and bowed her head in respect. The god was impressed.

Perhaps she will endure longer than I thought... “Listen closely, ________...” he began more friendly as he leaned forward on the couch, resting his strong arms on his thighs and drowning her in this orbs as marvelous as the bright sky on a summer day. “I promise not to have you do anything undignified or unbefitting of your former social status. In return I expect diligence, respect, honesty and absolute obedience. Am I clear?”

“Absolutely, your highness.” _______ replied without breaking the eye-contact with the handsome prince, wondering how in the Nine she had managed to screw such a promise out of the god on her first day.

#dark!thor #thor x reader

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ananasik67 · 4 years

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Valentine’s

Hi @goldgalaxytea! I have finally finished your gift for the secret cupid exchange hosted by @thearcanasecretcupid! I am not an experienced writer, this is my first time writing a fanfic, so please feel free to provide feedback. Enjoy!

_______________________

It was already dark and the night sky was dusted with fainting stars. The tall Parisian lamps alongside the narrow streets of Vesuvia flickered with pink light. The lightbulbs have been changed in honor of the day of the lovers. The city hall’s members have ordered ten thousand roses of all shades to be planted in the centre square. A string quartet has been playing serenades since six o’clock, and small coffee tables have been set up outside by local cafes for the passersby to enjoy the evening. White doves were perched in pairs on the overhangs of the shops, while cats gathered in couples on the roofs of the houses. The night was to be promising.

Tia was getting ready at the magic shop. This year February was unusually warm, so they decided to wear a dress they have been saving for summer. After successfully applying the eyeliner, Tia excitedly skipped to the wardrobe and got the outfit out. The dress was absolutely stunning. The top part of the dress was made from yellow silk and delicately hugged the slim figure. The gentle v neck allowed for Tia’s new necklace with an obsidian gemstone to be worn. At the waist the ruffled skirt from see-through black fabric was layered in different levels, allowing for the legs to remain exposed and covered at the same time. After putting the dress on, Tia brushed their bangs slightly to the side. This way the hair, that was messily tucked into a braid crown, looked more elegant. Tia completed the look with matching rings and black sandals.

They were to meet with Asra in front of the baker’s shop. Tia was walking down the streets with a basket of gifts picked out for him. For some reason, they felt nauseous. No, those were the butterflies in the stomach, a typical occurrence when you are falling in love. They have been together with Asra for a long time now, but they couldn’t contain their nervousness. Maybe it was because Asra had been away for two weeks on one of his journeys, and tonight would be the first time Tia would see him. The basket contained multiple scented sandalwood candles, which Asra found very relaxing, along with a homemade massage oil extracted from rose petals and black leaf tea, which Tia divided and wrapped in beautiful blue sachets. These goods were gently covered with a pastel green shawl, which Tia picked up from the market place a while ago. It would go well with Asra’s purple eyes.

Tia reached the baker’s place promptly at 6 o’clock, the agreed time. Seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes seemed like hours. They could hear the faint festival sounds coming from the city square. There would be dancing soon, Asra would for sure enjoy it.

Suddenly, Tia felt a light brush of fingertips across their waist and warm breath tickled their bare shoulder. A gentle, whispered ‘good evening’ reached their burning ears. Tia instantly spun around and threw their arms around the magician, who almost stumbled back at the sudden movement. He quickly regained his ground and wrapped his arms around Tia tightly.

«I missed you so much,» mumbled Tia into Asra’s collarbone. They pulled back for an instant to look at the magician’s face. Tia’s trembling palm stroked his tanned cheek, fingers laced with his white curls. Their eyes met, and in a single moment so many unvoiced things were said.

«You are so beautiful,» Asra murmured quietly. As if pulled by gravity, the distance between the two closed. Asra’s eager lips linked with Tia’s, and moved as in a synchronized dance. Tia hungrily kissed him back, deepening the kiss. After a while, they had to break, gasping for air.

«There will be time for this later,» Asra smiled cheekily at Tia, «now, let’s grab some dinner.» Asra intertwined his fingers with Tia’s and led her towards the main square.

Once they reached their destination, Tia’s breath was taken away by how marvelous all the decorations looked. This year the people wanted a grander celebration than ever before, and they have really put their minds to it. Couples were seated at small, black round tables, on top of which stood delicate french candleholders and plates with exquisite thematic meals. Chatter was mixed with laughter and violin sounds.

«Come on,» Asra tugged on Tia’s arm, beckoning them to follow him further. Slightly confused, Tia followed Asra into an alley and into a poorly lit building. As they climbed the rusty spiraling staircase, Tia’s curiosity grew.

When they reached the third floor, a beautiful terrace spread itself in Tia’s view. The terrace had enough space to accommodate about eight people, but would not allow for much movement. It was facing the city hall, so the spectacle that Tia observed earlier could still be seen, just from an elevated position. Along the tiled floor stood massive jars which buzzed with fireflies of different colors. In the middle stood a table set for two, much like the tables occupied by the couples on the square. In the centre stood a basket of fresh-from-the-oven bread, a special delivery from the Baker. A big cheese platter with different jams and honey was the centerpiece.

«Care for some wine?» Asra poured expensive red liquid into a glass and was holding it out to Tia, who stood there in awe. They slowly took the glass out of the magician’s hand, feeling slightly speechless.

«Did-, did you do all this, alone, for me?» Tia finally managed to speak, as they walked toward the balustrade and leaning on it to observe the town. Asra came up to stand next to them, carrying a loaf of pumpkin bread in his hand.

«I wanted to do something special for you,» Asra chipped off a piece of the bread, and offered it to Tia. Tia chuckled before taking the bread out of his fingers with their mouth, making sure their lips brushed his thumb a little. A careless touch. Enough to send Asra’s blood pumping to his ears, coloring his face burgundy.

«Well, let’s get to eating then, before the breads cool down and become stale,» Asra quickly turned away from Tia to hide his blush and excitement. He has been away from them for too long. He wanted to enjoy a conversation with them before he lost any control of his body. They had the whole night ahead of them.

After finishing their dinner, Asra got out a blanket and some pillows and climbed to the roof of the building. It wasn’t very steep, so the Magician skillfully set up the area, and invited Tia to join him. They settled on the colorful blanket and prepared to take in the view - the lively main square just below, the gardens and the towering castle in the distance, the ocean that cradled merchants’ ships on the other side, and the breathtaking night sky above them.

«Where is Faust actually? I haven’t seen her today yet,» inquired Tia. As Asra’s familiar, Faust was always beside him, wherever he went.

«I have sent Faust to check up on Muriel. I did not have time to visit him lately, so I started to get worried,» Asra replied, trying to hide his concern from his apprentice.

«I am sure everything is just fine. We can go check up on him tomorrow, if you want. We could bring some fresh bread with us,» Tia cuddled closer to the magician, doing their best to reassure him. They hated to see Asra in distress.

«That would be great, I am sure he would love that,» Asra smiled warmly at Tia, squeezing their hand as a ‘thank you’. He gently pulled Tia closer to his side, and protectively wrapped his arms around them, stoking their back. Tia nuzzled their face into the cradle of the magician’s neck, planting a soft kiss there. They felt Asra hold his breath at this moment, which brought a cheeky smirk to the apprentice’s face. The night was going perfectly. No, even better than perfectly.

«Oh, before I forget, I wrote you something,» the Magician retrieved a small parchment envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Tia. The parchment retained a nice library smell, which has been adjourned with daisy’s sent. It was carefully sealed with burgundy wax. On the front side of the envelope in delicate black ink stood Tia’s name.

«But it is a magic letter. You can only read it in your dream.»

«What do you mean by that?»

«If you open the letter now, you will see blank pages. I put a spell on the letter so that only the recipient will be able to read it, and message will be revealed to them in their sleep. This way, only they will know, what the letter holds,» Asra smiled at Tia, before planting a quick kiss on their forehead.

Tia was still holding on to the letter, and they wouldn’t let go of it before they drifted off to sleep. The starry sky, the soft violin sounds, the fresh air, and the warmth of their lover. This is everything the ever wanted.

***

My dearest Tia,

So many years ago, I still remember that day. You were at the market, standing next to a cart with fruits. There were so many exotic ones to choose from, many of which I didn’t even know. The wind was strong, I could see strands of hair being thrown into your face from under the blue scarf that you wore. You bought a few apples. I wasn’t following you that day. I was just passing by, running some errands. But I happened to see you later at the port. The sun was setting, and you were sitting on the docks with your apples, starring out into the horizons behind the oceans. At the sudden whiff of breeze your scarf was violently ripped off from your head and shoulders, and carried by the wind, to me. The fabric stuck to my body, the wind urged me to take it. I saw you turn around and look at me with those grey eyes of yours. At that point, of course, I couldn’t see their true color, we were too far way. But my legs, on their own free will, instantly took me to you. You offered me an apple as a thank you. The way you smiled at me - I fell for it deeply. And when I looked at you, I saw the orange and blue colors mix in your eyes. I preferred looking at that version of the world rather than turn around and take it in as it was. That’s what I vividly remember to this day - your cashmere scarf, your sour apple, your smile, the world in your eyes.

If I could choose one day to have on a loop, I would choose that day. Some would say it’s foolish. I didn’t know your name, I didn’t get to hold your hand, I didn’t get to kiss you that day. And wouldn’t it be better to indefinitely be relieving those moments instead? As much as I want to do that, it was not the beginning of our story. None of us knew what we were in for. We wouldn’t realize it for a while either. We were simply in the moment. I would give anything for that brief minute. Because I saw something new, something I haven’t ever seen before. The reflection of the sun and the waves merged together, it was so breathtakingly beautiful. Later I realized, that it was your soul that I have seen. And I felt, like you saw my soul too. Otherwise I wouldn’t have felt stinging shiver seep through my chest, a strangely pleasant feeling. Maybe that’s what they call ‘love at first sight’.

Years later, we are here, celebrating the Lovers’ Day. On the roof, the stars and the night enveloping us. You know this, I have told you many times. But I will tell you once more. I love you.

Yours forever,

Asra

#thearcanasecretcupid2020 #the arcana #the arcana asra #the arcana mc #asra x mc #secret cupid #valentines

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sirikenobi12 · 3 years

Note

👀👀👀

Ah yes my friend!! Enjoy the beginning of my WIP where Siri travels to Stewjon and meets clan Kenobi! **************************************** He debated cancelling their plans. It would be so easy for him to just turn left and continue on towards the hanger, she would understand, duty always came first. And if she didn’t understand then the two of them needed to have a whole other conversation.

He sighed and turned right. He needed her help, so he pushed aside the guilt he was feeling, knowing if it weren’t dire he wouldn’t delay his assistance to the poor people of that village. He clenched his fists as he thought about the innocent being slaughtered needlessly just because someone wanted to hurt him. It was Kadavo all over again. His compassion was being used as a weapon, and the pain he was feelling in the Force was all too familiar and it felt as if someone was slowly peeling off his skin inch by bloody inch.

He couldn’t leave without seeking her advice, she had been right about Zygerria and the Hardeen fiasco. Her experiences undercover had granted her a strange sort of clarity that many Jedi spent their lives trying to achieve. It often reminded him of Qui-Gon, he probably would’ve gone to him for advice were he still alive...of course his thoughts would bring up Qui-Gon right now, because of course they would. The pain of his death still felt like a weight against his chest, and yet somehow the man who had dedicated himself to the light was gone, but the dark monster responsible for his death lived?

And Maul just happened to rise out of the ashes of the darkest corners of the galaxy now, in the middle of a kriffing war? There were no coincidences in the Force, he knew, but this was really just a dirty move by the dark side.

How could he explain his utter failure to her...to anyone? His knighthood was now based on a falsehood, in his exhausted mind it didn’t matter that he’d proven himself a capable Knight - no Master over and over again, it didn’t matter that he now sat on the Council - his braid had been severed for the simple fact that he had been the first Jedi in a milenia to kill one of the Jedi’s worst enemies. “Sithkiller” they had whispered behind his back for over a decade, he had always hated the moniker, but now he couldn’t even live up to a legend he had never wanted to be in the first place.

If Darth Maul had indeed survived he’d be surely seeking revenge, and a simple death would be the least cruel and therefore the least likely outcome. No, Maul’s appetite would want more than that. He hadn’t been able to protect his Master from this monster when he was still a Padawan, he only hoped he’d be strong enough now as a Master to protect everyone else he loved. Obi-Wan must deal with his own personal feelings and finish what he started just as Yoda had affirmed.

His thoughts dwelled on this as he opened the door, not bothering to ring the chime. Not that it mattered, technically speaking his hand print had been added to her lock months ago, and in this moment manners and propriety didn’t matter to him.

He found her meditating near the balcony window, soaking up the rays of sunlight as if she were a sleek Tooka-cat. Her hair was down, which was unusual, glowing almost ethereal in the light. Her long yet strong legs were folded beneath her on the brightly colored cushion, a patchwork of various fabrics. It had been a Life Day gift from her Padawan Ferus, one of her most treasured possessions. Her feet were bare, but that was par for the course for her, she was dressed in a pair of Obi-Wan’s old Blacks that she had cut into shorts and a white undershirt that hung off her shoulders. Not for the first time Obi-Wan marveled at how comfortable she was within her own body, though with a body like hers he could hardly blame her.

Always an enigma, Siri Tachi could simultaneously be both the most and least feminine woman Obi-Wan had ever met, she was whatever she needed to be at any given time. But, somewhere along the way she had discovered that she was able to just be Siri while with Obi-Wan likewise he never had to be anything more than Obi-Wan to her. Here he wasn’t General Kenobi, or Master to the Chosen One, or Council Member or Sithkiller and the pressure it took off his shoulders was one of the justifications he gave for skirting the line of the Jedi code.

Her Force presence brushed against his and he could sense her coming out of her meditation. Before she even opened her eyes she was able to pick up his emotions in the Force, she always did have a talent for reading people.

“What’s wrong,” her voice was a bit hoarse, she must’ve overused it on her last mission. “Grievous give you the slip again?”

“What else is new?” He sighed, sitting on the back of her couch. “But no, that isn’t my current concern.”

Two azure eyes opened and looked up at him as she unfolded herself out of the meditative stance. She stretched one of her legs up over her head and then cracked her neck. After a moment she rose to her feet and headed towards the small kitchen.

As she passed him she trailed her fingers over his cheek, he leaned into the touch.

“Is this an ale situation or straight up whiskey?” She asked, opening the cooling unit.

He remained silent, his thoughts were running away with him. Siri glanced at him from over her shoulder when he didn’t answer, her eyebrows furrowed in concern when she saw the haunted look on his face.

“What did Anakin do this time?” She tried to keep things light, but her worry only grew when he remained silent at her joke. “Hey, Obi-Wan…”

Eyes that were clearly lost in a memory looked up to meet hers, she reached out to place the back of her hand to his forehead, a part of her hoped it was something physical, that was easier to fix.

“Coruscant to Kenobi,” She softly said when she realized he didn’t have a fever. “You want to clue me into what’s going on at some point?”

Obi-Wan looked at one of his dearest friends, the person who knew him better than anyone, even on a deeper level than Anakin. A thought suddenly struck him as he looked at her, this could be his last day in the physical world. He had no idea what Maul had planned, except that he was going to be walking into an emotional (and most certainly a physical) trap.

Without warning he placed both hands on either side of her head and covered her lips with his in a passion most wouldn’t believe Kenobi capable of. He then gracefully rose to his feet lifting her up, she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as their embrace deepened.

After several moments of finding herself almost out of breath with his delirious kisses she reached up to his hair and pulled him back. Breathing erratic, lips swollen and their faces flushed they stared at one another.

“Might I remind you that it was YOUR rule that we behave ourselves while we’re in the Temple.” She said between aroused breaths. “I’m definitely going to yell at myself later for stopping you, but I think it’s time you fill a girl in on what��s going on.”

He turned around so he could sit her down on the back of the couch, he moved his hands to rest on either side of her face, his thumbs gently tracing her delicate jaw. “I have to cancel our plans tonight.”

“No shit,” she reached up and grabbed his hands, looking intently into his stormy eyes. “Obi-Wan, we promised when we started experimenting physically that we wouldn’t hide things from the other...that’s fear which leads to attachment.”

The corner of his lips upturned. “Always bossing me around, aren’t you?”

“You’d be dead in a ditch somewhere if you were left up to your own devices my dear.” She gently ran a hand through his hair, fixing his one pesky strand that loved to fall into his eyes. “And you're still avoiding my question.”

He grabbed her hands and kissed them before placing them down on her lap. “Darth Maul is back.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Her body stiffened. “Like, Naboo Darth Maul?”

Obi-Wan nodded, unable to look at her.

“Are you sure it’s really him?” She asked, suddenly feeling cold.

He shrugged. “No, it could be a faked hologram. Doesn’t matter, the people he slaughtered and is continuing the threaten are real.”

“You know it’s a trap either way.” She stated, not questioned.

“Obviously.”

“How did Anakin take it when he heard?” She asked, running her hands over his arms in a comforting manner.

“He doesn’t know.”

“Obi-Wan…you promised him you’d be honest with him.” She tugged on his beard so he’d look at her.

“He’s still avoiding me after the Hardeen mission.” He sighed. “Which right now is actually a blessing in disguise.”

“You know he won’t let you go without him. It doesn’t matter if he’s angry with you.” She said.

He looked at her then with an intensity she had only seen on his face once before. “I will not let that monster anywhere near my Padawan.”

Siri bit back the correction of Former Padawan and simply nodded. This was something he and Anakin would need to work out on their own.

“Okay, so not Anakin.” She raised her hands to help calm him down. “Then who is going with you?”

“I must do this alone.”

She stood up from the back of the couch. “No, actually you don’t! If this truly is Darth Maul he is a Sith and no Jedi should go without backup.”

“I’ve faced him before, it’s fine Siri.”

She pushed past him, running a frustrated hand down her face. “Are you at least taking the 212?”

“No,”

“Obi-Wan, I swear to the Force…” She raised an angry finger at him, but he cut her off.

“I need your help.”

“Damn right you do, let me get dressed and we’ll leave at once.” She turned towards her bedroom, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Siri,” his voice was frustratingly calm. She hated that he could maintain a Jedi composure at times like this and she struggled with it.

“Don’t you dare try to talk me out of it.” She pulled her hand free. “And it’s not about my fear of losing you so don’t put that crap on me right now.” She was lying through her teeth and he knew it, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m a Jedi Shadow, my job is to go after the Sith...I should be there.”

He nodded. “You’re right, but I have a personal request to ask of you instead.”

“You can’t protect me like you do Anakin.” She argued.

“I need you to go to Stewjon.”

She stopped her next argument, taken by surprise. “Wait, what?”

“I have no idea what Darth Maul has planned, but I can’t bear the idea that innocent people will be hurt simply because they share my last name.” He reached out and held her.

“Siri, I need you to watch over my family.”

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darksunrising · 4 years

Text

Sola Gratia (12/?)

Masterlist

Rating / Warnings : Nothing in particular.

Fandom : Bram Stoker’s Dracula, BBC’s Dracula, various Dracula and vampire lore.

Part 12/? (3386 words)

Author’s notes : Final episode of the second act, part one ! Those episodes will be longer than the others, hope you’ll like them either way !

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It was a strange feeling, watching over the kettle as a very tense immortal was sitting on my couch, seemingly engaged in a vicious battle of looks with my cat, himself sitting on the end of the bar. At least, his attention wasn't focused on the very pink dressing robe I slipped into as soon as I got inside. Leah bought it for me as a joke, but it was actually very comfortable. Vlad didn't comment on it, but I caught him hiding a laugh with a cough when I came out of my room, wrapped in it.

“Do you drink tea ? I mean, I know what you drink, but can you even drink or eat normal things, for all that matter ?”

“Eating regular food males me sick”, he answered, still fixated on the animal rather than me. “I can, however, enjoy a drink or two.”

“Good.”

I got two mismatched cups – the only ones available –, and filled them both. I handed him one, which finally had him turn his attention to me. His cool fingers brushed against mine as he took it.

“Careful, it's hot.”

“Half an hour ago, you accused me of multiple murders, and now you worry I might burn myself ?”, he laughed.

I sat on the other end of the couch, sneering at him. He had a point. I stared at my cup, bobbing the tea bag as if it made any difference.

“I am far from complaining, but why did you invite me in ?”

I tried finding my words, remaining silent a moment. He didn't press, politely waiting for an answer, giving intermittent looks to the cat.

“I... Haven't slept in days, Vlad.” I started, fighting against tears welling up. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I find myself jumping at every noise, every shadow in the corner of my eye, I-”

I only noticed how much my hands were shaking when he took my cup, and set it on the table along with his.

“When I believed it was you, I had at least the hope that you wouldn't hurt me, or Leah, or someone I care about. Now I...” I took a pause to take a breath. “I'm terrified.”

I risked a look. His brow was furrowed, but he had a little smile.

“If you let me in for that reason, you really must be desperate.”

I tried to laugh, but it got caught in my throat.

“Eris, you have to go to sleep. MINA tried to scare you. For all you know, they could have lied to make you talk.” He took my hand in his. “I am surprised, but glad you did not.”

He leaned over to catch my gaze. A feeling of peace washed over me as I looked into his eyes. I wondered if he could do that. Manipulate my emotions, just like that. I didn't have the time to wonder for long, as he suddenly picked me up in his arms. I had a squeal of surprise, and threw my arms around his neck as a reflex.

“Vlad, what-”

“You need a good night of sleep, you look less alive than I do.”

His tone was firm, but still tainted by amusement. “Well, that's ironic. And I don't need to be carried, I can still walk !” My protests were only met with a grin.

“I know, but I can hear your heartbeats, and I like to have my fun.”

I felt my cheeks burning up instantly. He stepped into my room, and laid me down on my bed. I slipped under the covers and he sat next to me, glancing around in the semi darkness. As soon as the sun set, I never turned off the set of fairy lights running across the walls, bathing the room in an ultraviolet light. His shirt was glowing, and I couldn't help but wonder what his teeth would look like.

“Can you tell me a story ?”, I asked.

He smiled, brushed a few strands of hair out of my face. My heart stopped a second, while he seemed to think a moment.

“Did I ever tell you about my first voyage into the New World ?”, he began. I shook my head, while he kept softly running his hands through my hair.

He did have a talent for narration. His voice was soothing, and as the story went on, I found myself drifting, along the waves surrounding the frigate, the wind in the sails, the first cries of seagulls as they reached the shore. He talked softly at first, but was soon caught in his own tale, and I couldn't help but smile at the passion in his tone. He started to fade, and I rested my eyes, just a second.

~ ~ ~

A familiar smell dragged me out of my sleep, and I blinked off my drowsiness, slowly sitting up. After a glance at my phone, I noticed it was already past 10am. Most sleep than I had in the whole week. I stood up, and turned off the fairy lights. Stumbling to my living room, I was surprised to not hear my cat's screaming, but a cheerful, definetly human chatter.I found Vlad sitting behind the bar, and Leah, at the stove, flipping pancakes, her hair shining like pale gold under the sunlight.

“Hah, told you food would wake her up”, she told Vlad, smiling. “Grab a plate, honey, you'll need strength for today !”

“What's today ?”, I asked, a bit confused.

“Renaissance faire, don't tell me you forgot !”

Ah, right. I had to admit some of the recent events took my mind off it. It might be a good distraction, now that I thought about it. I sat at the bar, and thanked Leah as she put a pile of warm pancakes on my plate, handing me a bottle of maple syrup, and a cup of steaming coffee.

“Well, good thing Vlad has a better memory than you, because apparently, he picked up some outfits”, Leah told me as she finished up her batch.

Oh no. That wasn't good.

“Can't we just go like that ?”, I asked, delving into the breakfast. As always, it was amazing, the absolute perfect balance in taste and fluffiness, an just warm enough. God, I had to marry her at some point.

“Are you kidding ?”, she indignated herself. “No way. Finish up and we're dressing up.”

Vlad was quietly laughing, and I gave him a killer look, to which he only responded with a wink. With a glance around the room, I noticed two large leather suitcases, probably holding the outfits. As soon as I was half done, Leah excitedly dragged me back to my room, as Vlad helped bring the suitcases in. He then left, closing the door.

“Ooh, this is going to be so much fun !”, she exclaimed, opening the first case. “This is yours, and the other is mine. We'll do you first, come on, get naked !”

I sighed, knowing protests wouldn't do much of anything when she was in that sort of mood. She threw an embroidered, white linen chemise, that she insisted I wore no bra with, because “the corset will do the job fine”. For fuck's sake, corsets. I glanced at the wooden box on my desk, holding the gun. As soon as this was done, I would shoot him.

The corset wasn't so bad, to be fair. Leah took care of lacing it loosely enough so that I wouldn't faint at the first occasion, and the back support actually made it comfortable. Dressing up in the whole thing was pretty fun, even with the struggle of lacing up everything, making sure the many layers sat right in place and the overall weight of the whole costume. The fabrics were soft, finely threaded, the silk shifting colors and patterns in the light. If they weren't “originals”, they had to have cost more than a year of my doctorate scholarship. If they were, well, as a historian, I had to say they were pretty much invaluable. Not an edge frayed, a thread misplaced. They looked almost brand new, yet I was certain none of the sewing was done by machine.

“This is great, where do you think he even found those ? Do you think those are reproductions, for his work ?”, she asked as she did my hair.

“I... Maybe. That would make sense. He must have picked them up while he was back in Romania.” God, I hope it was that, and not a dress from someone he ate back in the 16th century.

Trying not to think too much about it, I helped Leah get into her dress. I had to say, he had some taste. Hers had an overall pastel tone, in blues and greens, the hem of the skirt embroidered with small flowers, climbing like vines along the slits in the fabric, revealing a pale silver-ish blue silk underskirt. She looked absolutely radiant, and I took some time braiding her hair up, leaving strands here and there. She could have been a flower nymph. I was a bit more surprised by the color scheme he chose for me. The dress was in a rich golden tone, patterned in arabesques and embroidered in dark red thread. In a small box, I found pearl necklaces, hairpieces and earrings. Fuck, he went all the way into this. I mean, being immortal had to do wonders for your bank account, but still.

“Come on, I'm going first, I wanna see the look on his face when he sees you!”

Not leaving me the luxury of protesting, she slipped away, leaving me to put on the shoes he picked for me. Covered with silk, embroidered in gold thread, and, to my demise, heels. Not that high, but he still broke his damn promise. Can't trust men on anything. Leah called me over, and I sighed, preparing myself mentally. It was way more complicated to walk in this than the 19th century skirt – which I kept, after a trip to the dry cleaner's –. I glanced at the box on my desk again. I opened the lid, considering the ornate weapon a moment. I had no guarantee that this would even work. I had no reason to distrust Vlad at this point, not much more than before, anyway. However, if I was right, if MINA was right on at least the nature of the murderer running free... Fumbling around to find the slit in my underskirt, I slipped the gun in the large pocket attached inside. Now that I thought about it, it was rather infuriating that period clothing had more pocket space than our modern stuff, and they didn't even have smartphones to carry around.

When I stepped in the living room, Vlad had changed in his own outfit. Mostly black, with navy blue and silver highlights in embroidery. Across his chest, a livery collar bearing the enameled sigil of House Draculesti, and the Wallachian coat of arms. He had a soft “Ah” when he saw me, and didn't say anything for a while. I flattened the pleats of the skirt, nervously waiting for some kind of comment.

“Well ?”, Leah asked him, a mischievous smile on her lips. He seemed to finally snap out of it, taking a breath as if he had been holding it.

“This is fine. I'm glad it suits you”, he told me after clearing his throat. “Although, it misses something.”

He picked up a box on the table, handing it to me. I opened it to find what could only be described as the most dramatic statement necklace I'd ever seen in my damn life. The center piece was a red stone, the size of a small plum, encased in intricate gold work, and surrounded by pearls and other smaller stones. The rest of it was other stones, bound together by gold chains and pearls.

“What the fuck”, I couldn't help but breathe out.

Vlad took it out of the box, slipped behind me, and set it on my chest, the cool metal against my skin sending a shiver down my spine.

“Believe it or not, it was my mother's”, he told me as he worked the clasp.

“Vlad, are those real ?”, I enquired, containing a nervous laughter.

“Depends on how nervous my answer will make you.”

He had to think this was hilarious. Fucking rich people, I swear. “Very nervous.”

“They are fake, then.”

As he left, he negligently had a hand trail along my back. Leah obviously noticed, as I saw her eyes glimmering with evil intent from across the room.

“Now that we all are hot and ready, we should get going ! I don't wanna miss the joust !”, she exclaimed.

Of course, there would be a joust. I didn't even look at the program. I bid goodbye to Zardoz, burying my face into his fluffy belly, while ignoring his meows of protest, and we all left. I was almost expecting Vlad to have traded his Jaguar for a horse-drawn carriage at this point. He disappointedly did not, and Leah dragged me into the backseat. The whole drive to the small town, Leah told us about the programmed activities from a leaflet she printed out, giving us the very strict schedule she came up with so that we wouldn't miss anything.

While she exposed her thorough research, I let my eyes drift along the countryside's landscape. Even if we were still early in the year, most trees had regained their leaves. The sky was a pale blue, and if the air was a bit chilly, given how many layers of clothing we were wearing, that wasn't so bad. Vlad had even prepared capes for the evening, which was weirdly thoughtful.

I only went a few times to the city we were headed for. It was built around the 13th century, and most of the buildings ranged from that time to the 17th century. It was rather small, isolated, on top of a hill, which was pretty impressive in the overall flat landscape. About two or three times a year, they hosted medieval themed gatherings, encouraging people to come in costume, or rent some. Most of the town's activity was artisanal, and the main income was through tourism, which was fairly well developed. Going there truly felt like going back in time, as they made a big deal of using as little modern technology as possible, to give the “most authentic medieval experience of the country”. As such, it was an almost unavoidable checkpoint for every medieval history student in my university, and trips were organized every year, for the midsummer fest. I actually dreaded meeting some of my students today. I knew I would get no peace for months if I was spotted wearing that outfit.

We stopped a little outside the city, in a dedicated parking lot. There was a little train to make the rest of the way, all in favor of authenticity. That bothered Vlad a little, and he ranted about how if they wanted historical accuracy, they should have brought a hay cart and horses, that steam-powered locomotives were only invented well into the 18th century. When Leah told him this train was actually electric, he let out an outraged scoff. Oh, he was going to be unbearable the whole day, wasn't he ?

We took the historically incorrect train, getting some compliments from the crew, themselves in costume. I think they assumed we were actors hired by the city, which Leah played into with enthusiasm. She got used to her attire pretty quick, including the heels, which was much more than I could say for myself. As we went onto the cobblestone streets, she had no trouble trotting about, I had to hold onto Vlad's arm not to risk breaking an ankle, which seemed to delight him. I couldn't say I completely hated it either.

Every time we crossed a group of actors, we chatted a bit, and he spent the ten minutes following each encounter pointing out the inaccuracies in their costumes. He punctuated it with anecdotes of his time in Italy in the 1550s, which had Leah think he was really into character. When he talked about his affair with a Leonardo da Vinci, she burst out laughing, and he gave me a sideway glance, perfectly knowing I couldn't lose my mind until we were alone. It seemed like he had done everything, witnessed every historical moment from the day he died to the 19th century. According to what he had told me, his assassination attempt had him miss most of the 1900s, including both World Wars, which he was pretty pissed about when he finally rose again in 1953.

Even if he complained about details, I could tell he genuinely enjoyed the occasion. The way he carried himself inspired confidence, a hand on the pommel of his sword, the other arm focused on helping me stay in a relatively upright position. I got used to the shoes faster than I thought, but kept on pretending to be terribly at risk. I think he knew, but still kept playing into it.

At around noon, we arrived at the jousting lists, which took place underneath the city walls. Even Vlad had pretty much nothing to say against it, but then again, he hadn't made a comment in a while, only focusing on entertaining us with his anecdotes. Against the walls, they had built stands and placed chairs and benches. A couple, posing as King and Queen, were seated in a podium, a bit higher than the rest. Vlad suddenly excused himself, telling us to take a seat without him. Before he left, he handed me a fine square of silk, embroidered in red and gold. I took it, confused, but before I could ask for explanations, Leah caught my arm and dragged me off. Suspecting she was somehow in on this, I took a seat, keeping my eyes peeled for any incoming fuckery.

“So, apparently, this is actual jousting”, Leah told me, reading a pamphlet she picked up at the reception booth earlier.

“What do you mean, actual jousting ?”

“There's an equestrian center near here that has a jousting program, this doubles as a competition”, she clarified, visibly excited. “Not that there's a lot of them, but some of the contenders are coming from all over Europe, from what that thing says ! That's why I didn't want to miss it !”

Well, this faire surely took off in the last couple of years. Now that I thought about it, historical reenactment was getting pretty popular, these days. I couldn't help but worry, though, knowing how many horrific jousting accidents there had been in history, killing nobodies and Kings alike. Trumpets announced the beginning of the tournament, and the crowd started cheering. The bleachers were full, and a lot of people were standing on the sidelines to watch the show. An announcer started a little presentation, confirming that the jousting would not be acting, but an actual professional competition. Contenders came from Germany, Hungary, Italy and Switzerland, which didn't surprise me all that much, given the overall enthusiasm for medieval history in those countries.

The first contenders arrived, in full armor, their horses pawing at the ground, raising clouds of dust. They passed each other a few times, just for show, then were given their lances. Under the raging cheers of the crowd, they spurred their horses, and rammed into each other's shields a first time, went around, and back again. This time, one was thrown off his mount, his opponent's lance breaking in the process, and crashed into the sand in a clatter of metal. The victor raised the remains of his spear under the acclamations of the public.

A couple of more contenders confronted each other, sporting their country's colors. At some point, however, a rider came into the field, mounted on a dark horse, wearing a dark armor, which I didn't take long to recognize. Blackened iron, gilded, and chiseled, battle-worn, but still gloriously shining under the midday sun. On the chest piece, stylized, the very recognizable coat of arms of House Draculesti of Wallachia.

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