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johobi · 4 years

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A Lycan Dignity

Word count: 4k

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Warnings: rough, penetrative werewolf sex, pregnancy sex, blood consumption, biting, knotting, squirting, very strong dom/sub dynamic, extremely graphic sexual description lol, impreg kink, baby bump worship, masturbation, giant COCK, i mean huge, tiny amount of angst

A/N: This was commissioned by the wonderful @divine-bangtan in exchange for a Black Lives Matter donation! I really hope you enjoy it!

Next: Mark of the Beast || Tooth and Claw Masterlist

Sympathetic to the plight of the werewolves your kind have culled to near-extinction, life as a human informant has never been one of safety. However, when you catch the eye of an alpha, your situation only grows more perilous.

After many months of unremitting use, your once solid bed frame had become a rickety, wretched old thing. Its joints ground like those of a horse bound for the knackery. Weeks ago, you thought it near total collapse. Since then, however - though it protested any and all movement - it had remained intact. Because, no longer did you and Jungkook breed with the impassioned fervour you once did. No, these days your bed hosted only the most lacklustre of sex; the sort you never imagined needing endure when you tied yourself to him. After all, Jungkook was an oversexed, testosterone-burdened manbeast with a twelve inch cock and a negligible refractory period. So why was it now so scant? So underwhelming?

According to him, it was necessary.

Ugh.

Oh, how you longed for the days and nights Jungkook would run you all the way through, bending you this way and that to offload himself for the third, consecutive time. How he would grow and grow and grow, locking into place in the depths of your cunt and soothe you all the while.

Being that you were now five months pregnant, however, you were the only one ballooning. God, you missed his knot. Missed the intensity with which he once bedded you. Missed the—

“Does that feel okay?”

“It’s fine.”

Presently, Jungkook mounted you with the shallowest of thrusts, barely wetting half his length. The bed swayed beneath you, tapping the wall to the rhythm of his gently rolling hips. Before you’d grown big, it had clapped the cabin’s pine like thunder, and splintered where it struck. Today you clutched a pillow for comfort as Jungkook rocked you into a drowsy stupor.

It was so quiet that his breathing carried across you. It, too, was shallow - hardly laboured - and sometimes there came an occasional grunt of effort. Or perhaps of pleasure? It was difficult to distinguish to what extent the act satisfied Jungkook when he restrained himself so. By the furrow in his brow, it appeared more akin to torture. It certainly was for you. Your libido had grown unruly during gestation, and nothing much gratified you.

Nothing but your aforementioned, well-endowed mate. Only he could alleviate the nagging ache.

So it was to your utter dismay when Jungkook deemed you too large for such boisterous intercourse, and insisted you be handled like some delicate bijou. It was preposterous! You were tough enough to withstand a decade’s duty in the militia’s vanguard! A few extra inches of cock weren’t like to break you.

In the end, despite two full days of moody back-and-forth on the matter, he tempered your lovemaking significantly. And though your post-coital canoodling was as much to your joy and satisfaction as it ever was, you found the preceding act painfully lacking. Actually, literally painful. Pregnancy was quite intolerable.

You challenged Jungkook on several, fruitless occasions thereafter. But his constant dismissals would not deter you. Especially not today, when the entirety of you quivered for satiation, and he had been drip-feeding you cock for the past twenty-odd minutes. It was maddening. The path to climax was a sleet-sodden slope that you could never hope to climb.

"Jungkook, please, enter me fully. There’s no need for such caution. I know it hurts you to hold back." And me. “How many times must I assure you that I’m not as fragile as you think me?" You grimaced at the headboard as Jungkook probed your entrance with middling impetus. His girth was such that your cunt begged and fluttered to receive it deeper, distressed by the gaping space that went unfilled.

“Hmph.”

Jungkook’s considerable weight descended, blanketing your back to secure your compliance. With his breath at your ear, he interwove your fingers and exerted pressure enough to bow you to the blanket. Your ass, however, remained high and accessible; as submissive a posture there was. By the devilish chuckle that blew across your cheek, Jungkook already thought himself the victor of this quarrel. "And how many times must I ask you not to challenge me? I know my own strength." It was difficult to rebuke him when his lips skirted your ear so. So soft and wet and careful in their pressure.

"And I know your strength just as well. I have been on the receiving end of it for months before th-this—ah!" Pain suffused your neck where Jungkook’s mouth lingered. He curled his lip at your continued defiance. Out of the corner of your eye, his fangs bore a red glaze.

Mayhaps it was a warning, but it only served to embolden you.

"Nothing you could do would harm the pups. Please, Jungkook. I'm begging you." He liked being begged. Liked when you relinquished your power and station entirely. Because, outside your bedchambers, you were as important and respected as he. That he liked, too.

Your particularly bullish nature meant that Jungkook relished your surrender. Especially in the aftermath of contentious discussions. There had been many an occasion where Jungkook’s red-blooded urges almost jeopardised tactical assemblies, because he simply could not ignore them. Particularly the meetings where you butted heads on some divisive detail or another. The tension grew so stark during these exchanges that it cowed the other attendants into silence. You would exchange little else, thereon, but sultry glares, and Jungkook would orbit you in inappropriate proximity, breathing down your neck and rubbing you where others could not see. The sex after those meetings was singularly wild.

Jungkook attested often to his being a tethered beast, but you were the one with the leash. “Please. Put it all the way in,” you snivelled. “Alpha.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched at your urging; you felt him on your back, chest broad and feverish. He did not perspire out of exertion but sheer sexual frustration. It was obvious by the weight with which his balls hung; you spied them between your legs when you looked beneath. "Please, alpha. Take me completely."

Furtively, you grinned. Jungkook was an astute man. However, he was also a simple, dick-driven creature.

“Argh!”

A snarl seared your ear, drawing gooseflesh in its wake. You tilted your head to behold him; to enthrall him with lust-lidded eyes. But it was you who was captivated. Jungkook would never be anything less than breathtakingly handsome. The type women ripped costly bodices for. He was rugged; as hewn in the jaw as he was in body, and with eyes so honest you could be sup from his soul. Your mouth hung in open appreciation of his masculine beauty. Jungkook’s hips stuttered, then, as you drunk one another in. A fleeting slip, but enough to propel him deeper for a crucial moment. The repercussions manifested immediately. Your eyes rolled in their sockets and out came a harrowing groan. The entirety of your body tautened as your cunt did, grasping at his elusive length as it again withdrew. "Ugh. Jungkook!"

"Cease your attempts to seduce me, woman," Jungkook menaced, butting aside your head and raking his fangs along the angle of your jaw. "Your charms will not work." His tongue laved wherever they grazed, his hands surrendering your hips only to snake beneath and caress your rotund belly. So tender was he in his touches, that your cunt pulled with desire. Jungkook splayed his fingertips, cradling your circumference as best he could in his calloused palms. He muttered something soft and indiscernible about our children as he admired you, your provocation momentarily forgotten.

His cheek came by yours, then, rounded nose drifting to your temple to huff in your pregnant scent. According to him, you’d become overwhelmingly, wonderfully fragrant. Such that he would pine if denied it too long.

Chamomile.

That was what you effused while with child.

Jungkook’s favourite tea.

The headbutt that came next would reasonably incapacitate the average person; indeed, it was so strong that your knees rattled on their hinges. But Jungkook went unscathed, nuzzling a path through your tangled hair, air whooshing through his nostrils as he scented you. "God, you are beautiful. So round, so full. And utterly mine," Jungkook murmured, teetering on the fringes of abandon. He continued his ardent groping with a whine.

Had he really sabotaged his own restraint?

How funny that his undoing was his own. Positively hilarious.

That was, until you felt his cock sink deliberately deeper. Jungkook groaned as you did, though you were far more shameless in your desperation. “Oh, God—!”

"Fuck!" The curse word unravelled into a low, ungodly growl.

"Yes, Jungkook. More—" Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his backside, but it soon retreated out of reach as he again withdrew. "Godfuckingdamnit! What must I do to convince you? Please, do it again. I can take it!"

"I will not. It’s too much a risk. What happened was—was entirely unintentional, and I won’t allow it to happen again." He stated it with resolve, but his hips stuttered traitorously, heeding not him but the wolf within him. A rush of breath buffeted your shoulders and then Jungkook's nose was again in your nest of hair, inhaling himself to his senses. "That is the end of it," he murmured on exhale, seemingly sobered. "Now, let us continue." Penetration resumed at its previous, underwhelming pace, maddening you to your very marrow.

"Fine." A growl of your own grew in your chest. "Then I will not submit to you today."

When you dared look Jungkook’s way, the sheer displeasure buckling his features very nearly undid your determination. His brows hung gravely over his eyes, obscuring their usual, gentle glimmer with a severity that stirred your wanton pussy. "You will. You will always submit to me. I am your alpha," Jungkook stated with a snap of his teeth, seeking to subdue you with his hefty physique.

Oh, you absolutely would and should submit but it was imperative you defy him now or you would never see satiety.

With something of such import in the balance, you heaved yourself onto your elbows and then your hands, quaking beneath the werewolf that hung plastered to your back. As you rose, as you straightened your spine in defiance and denied Jungkook your submission, the growl behind you grew in outrage. His cock stalled at your opening, tip still between your folds.

“Not today.”

Jungkook's lips curled back along his gums, a slight tremor to his tautened jaw. Two, prominent fangs confronted you in the candlelight, your skin prickling where they'd countless times pierced. His authority was difficult to oppose when the mere visage of this apex predator was enough to buckle your knees and sodden your cunt. "You're a baffling woman. I've dominated you on hundreds of splendid occasions, and today is the day you defy me? Must I subjugate you again, my sweet?"

As much as you yearned to present him your sopping hole, it would be another five months of unrealised desire if you did.

To hell with that.

“Come, now. Show me how ready you are to receive me.” Jungkook sought to bow you with nips and kisses, but you would not be bowed. Not this time. When this much became clear, he peeled himself from your back and his cock from your hole. Oh, no. No, this wouldn't do.

"If you will not obey me then you will not receive me at all," he snorted, as enraged and engorged as a hung bull. Truly, he was a marvel that you could not tear your desirous eyes from. Not when he knelt there so, in all his strapping, virile glory. You whined for what you were cruelly denied. Jungkook interpreted your meaning well. "It is your own fault." He vented frustration through his flaring nostrils. "Present yourself to me or I will simply finish all over you."

Your cunt pulsed in anguish and joy. What a dream it would be if he painted you, cock in hand and strangling it of cum. If his sac throbbed with each ejaculation as it fell across your body, hot and sticky. If his lips were bitten bloody and his eyes crinkled closed.

God.

Yes, it would be beautiful. But it would afford you nothing in the end but your own, spiritless fingers to finish with. Jungkook had been so keen a lover that you could not even recall the last time you masturbated. And you weren’t about to start now, as unquenchable as you were.

So, you persisted. Prayed that your ruse might finally bear fruit. It all culminated with this: "I won't. How about you I take you, so that I may seek my own pleasure? Get on your back. Offer your belly up to me, wolf, so I may sit on you."

In a lightning's flash Jungkook was atop you, one muscular forearm looping your hips and the other strong across your chest, claws toying with the malleable flesh of your swollen breasts. His weight suffocated you once more, but you did not resist when he sought to manoeuvre you into submission. Not when, in the ferocity of his outrage did he then stuff you full with his entire cock, plunging to your depths in one, fluid thrust. It took your breath away. Deprived you of your vision. For a moment, nothing but blood raged in your ears as you fully comprehended just how in want you were. "Oh, G-Gods."

A scramble of depraved utterances streamed from Jungkook's mouth as he handled you as he truly wished. With just the one, greedy hand he bullied your swaying breasts, squeezing them as if to strain you of milk. Every vulgar grope, every pull of your nipples manifested violently in your cunt, throttling Jungkook's monstrous cock in arrhythmic convulsions. "I-Is it truly safe?" He posed it to you as a throaty moan, his other hand charting the flesh of your inner thighs and skimming them like a potter might wet clay. As his thumbs brushed the apex between, willingly and desperately you split your legs further apart, elevating your backside for his inspection. The mere act of yielding to Jungkook sensitised you to him tenfold. Though you were not werekind, his influence was such in its potency that it affected you all the same. A familiar, innate desire to pleasure him overcame you. And as you submitted to him now, nothing thrilled you more than the whines of appreciation that kissed your ears as his full length stretched you silly. Jungkook murmured again; lower and in earnest. "____. Is it truly safe?"

"It is. A thousand times I've said it." As you spoke he shifted within you, and the world shifted too. The gratification was profuse. "The babes will come to no harm," you sang, sliding along the base of his girthy cock. "And neither will I. No, I need this. And so do you."

"I won't deny that." Was all he said before he pinned you like a ravenous beast its beaten prey, hips snapping, momentum rippling through you. Each drive of his pelvis bombarded your cunt with his weighty, bloated balls as he dove in deep. They struck you like a rider’s crop, again and again, until you were sore and splendidly puffy. “Fuck, you’re so deep. I forgot how far back you go. God, you’re made for me. My perfect, pretty little bitch.” Jungkook was quickly carnal. Every phrase concluded in a wolfish whine.

He rutted you with the vigour of his first heat, feverish and erratic, jamming you to your limits with his colossal cock. His tip kissed your cervix on repeat, greasing your insides with pre-cum as he ploughed apart your unyielding walls. He leaked it so liberally now, so profusely that it dribbled from around him. All the while you yelped up a din beneath him, fully engrossed in your deference to him. You glimpsed night sky in the bedsheets, spatterings of stars combusting before your very eyes. They fell as tears, streaking your cheeks wet with relief.

"Yes, yes—that's it. Oh, you feel so good, my love. S-So good." Jungkook pistoned into you with expert precision, sweeping across your g-spot with every frenzied pass. A glorious ache tugged at your navel as he did so, wringing your insides like a sopping sponge. And, oh, how you were sopping. Vulgarly so. Jungkook juiced your cunt each time he crammed you full, soaking the space between you. It lacquered his abdomen 'til he shined in the lowlight. Gods, he was gorgeous, you could not help but glimpse him past your shoulder, to observe him as he split you apart, his eyes sharp and expression fraught. Your cunt heaved at the sight and sensation of him, and spurred him on.

"You were right. So right." Jungkook's tongue flicked around his gaping mouth, touching on his teeth in concentration. His eyes remained fixed to the site of your messy joining, tracking the drag and draw of his throbbing cock. "You can take anything. You're so strong. So beautiful," he whispered between uneven breaths, adhering himself to your arching back and resuming his earlier, intimate ministrations. As his lower half rippled and rammed you, his upper half cocooned you in comfort, gifting touches so soft they could be whispers.

You sensed it before it came. Hot breath tickled your nape for the briefest moment and then, there it was, sharp and soothing, a bite as familiar as his tender kiss; the bite that affirmed your initial bonding. It no longer induced pain, only a midsummer's welcome warmth. This first bite was the gentlest; Jungkook reasserting his claim. But then he withdrew, and struck again, and again, latching onto your nape for purchase as he pounded himself into your cunt to eke mewls from you.

"Ngh, fuck, it's happening too soon." Jungkook sounded utterly bereft. He did not, however, slow his incessant pace. His zeal had displaced you so far up the bed that the headboard clattered against your cheek. Discomfort was an irrelevant notion when you were having the life fucked into you, however. "I should withdraw."

"No!" It was practically a scream. "Knot me. Please, it's been too long. I need it, I need all of you," you burbled, tears afresh in your eyes. You were so close. Something momentous accumulated in your abdomen; teased glimpses of divine completion.

"Fuck!" Jungkook's hands roved your underside in woeful abandon, gripping at you like he might yet reestablish restraint. Clearly he could not, for his next move was to indulge in the blood that trickled freely from your neck. His long, rough tongue lapped you clean of his excesses, and his lips made sweet reparation. "I want—" A wet, solemn kiss. "I w-want—" A quick, furious thrust between your legs. "I want to fill you to the brim."

"Yes, do it, alpha. Please, please." Your whining rivalled that of the den's neediest pups. "I'm strong, like you said. I can take it. There is nothing more I've wanted these past months than that. Please knot me, Jungkook." As incentive you pitched your backside higher, clenching both orifices for his appreciation. Jungkook observed the gesture keenly, his cock jumping to a stall within you.

“Sh-shit—”

With surprising composure, he cupped the back of your head and tilted you toward him. Your cheekbones brushed in passing, and the tips of your noses pressed close. He sifted your eyes for sincerity before pressing his lips to yours in a long, torrid kiss that conveyed all that you needed from him. As you parted, Jungkook's tongue lingered long enough to draw strings. And then he grinned. "Alright. As you deferred to me so readily." His pace quickened, escalating into a frenzy of cunt-cleaving thrusts that drove ruthlessly along your upper wall. "I shall oblige you."

"Oh God—" The reservoir within you burgeoned suddenly, pulsed behind your cunt for release. And as you felt the dam begin to fracture, Jungkook's fingers found your clit amidst your plastered folds. One, establishing touch was all it took to undo you. As the base of his cock began to thicken, a river of fluid rushed around it as you finally, joyously climaxed, eyes half-lidded and sightless as you ascended. Euphoria tinged your every atom and daubed the world white. You convulsed on end and with alarming force, your pussy gulping down Jungkook's rapidly ballooning cock. The stretch of him stung wonderfully, pushed apart your seizing hole without care for your capacity.

"F-Fuck." Jungkook faltered upon witnessing the ferocity with which you gushed. It soaked what little remained dry of his thighs, clinging to their definition. You gasped and moaned beneath him, dizzied by orgasm, your mouth agape and cheek crushed flat to the headboard. His vascular forearms shook to support him as he hurtled toward completion. "You needed all of me, hm?" Jungkook panted, drunk on lust and wild with power. He gloated over you like the primeval beast he was, fangs bared and liberated by instinct. "Your slippery little cunt missed this, didn't it?"

You mustered little more than a gurgle as he continued to ravage your boneless body, fucking through your spasming cunt until he himself began to twitch. "Sh-Shit, fuck," he exclaimed on high, head thrown back and knot taking root. Though you were spent and without much sense, Jungkook's sudden, violent expulsion shot new life through you. Together you groaned, until he began baying, grinding his turgid cock as far as his knot would allow, frustrated by its impediment. Possessed by ferality, Jungkook nipped desperate pleas into your bruised shoulders, grunting with each subsequent spurt he emptied into you. Though he could no longer snap his hips, they nonetheless dug into you as he milked himself of residue. “God. Shit. I—” Monosyllabic cusses continued to fall from him as he prised himself from your limp body. Without a moment’s reprieve he maneuvered himself to his knees so as to better inspect your expanding belly, his hands roaming your bulging expanses. "Yes." It was almost a hiss. "You are perfect. So full of me and mine."

"Indeed, I am." You cast him a struggling smile. When Jungkook returned it, it revitalised you. Your smile grew into a grin. "And what a lucky woman I am."

"Come, let us make you more comfortable," Jungkook muttered with a touch to your dampened cheek. Historically his knots did not always abate in a timely manner. Knowing this, Jungkook clutched you to his chest, adjusting you so as not to tug at your joining, nor disturb your swollen belly. Ever so gently he steered you onto your side, his sweat-slick body clinging to your back. His knot throbbed pleasantly within, interlocking you indefinitely. And you did not object, because this was when you felt most at peace, most loved, most protected. His arms cradled you, encircled your precious load, and all the while he washed you of perspiration and blood. No week went by where your neck and shoulders were not a spectrum of colour due to Jungkook's oral attention.

You did not object to that either.

"Thank you, Jungkook. I really needed that. I genuinely shed tears," you giggled, your breasts askew around his forearm. It tensed and pulled you closer.

"So did I." A growl laced his chuckle. "But I would never harm you or the pups to satisfy my own selfish desires. Forgive me my obstinacy, but I had to be sure."

"I understand. And we are safe. We're the safest with you, my love."

Jungkook suspended his rigorous bathing of you to kiss the crown of your head. "You are. Nothing shall befall you while I still breathe.

For a dreadful moment, your ongoing predicament punctured the post-coital glow. But you resolved not to let it. No, it could wait until tomorrow. In the here and now, you did not have to fret whether Jungkook would return home tomorrow. Whether his dinner would grow cold and your bed perennially so.

No.

In this moment, he was here, as were you. One bonded pair and their six, synchronous heartbeats.

Just a quick note to elaborate on the reader’s pregnancy, as I appreciate not everyone will have read these asks.

1) She is pregnant with four boys.

2) They develop in utero as wolves, and are born in that form too - therefore they are quite a bit smaller than human babies. So she isn’t particularly overburdened. A few months after birth they will begin popping in and out of both forms until they learn to control it.

Next: Mark of the Beast || Tooth and Claw Masterlist

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jeongguk #jeongguk smut #jungkook fluff #jeongguk fluff #jungkook x you #jeongguk x you #jungkook scenarios #jeongguk scenarios #werewolf!jungkook #werewolf!jeongguk #bts smut #bts scenarios #a lycan dignity #tooth and claw

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inncomplete · 3 years

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( HEIDY, 23, SHE/THEY, CST. ) ☆ Open your hands and hope to catch a star, KIM JANGJUN, and it might just grant your wish. At TWENTY FIVE years old with an odd resemblance to SONG KANG, you don’t seem like the type who should be caught in a town like this, but who am I to judge? I’m sure there are others who are just as RETICENT yet MAGNANIMOUS and INSOUCIANT… although, really, I don’t think anyone else could remind me so much of RIPPED JEAN JACKETS, A SMILE NOT QUITE REACHING HIS EYES, and CAR DRIVES WITH NO DESTINATION. It seems you’ve lived here for ALL YOUR LIFE working as AN INNKEEPER AT DOTORI INN, but didn’t I overhear you wishing YOU COULD FIND YOUR LOVE FOR ART AGAIN the other night? Oh, I’m mistaken, hm? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me; a little wish has never hurt anybody.

hello hello 😳 i'm heidy , twenty3 from the cst timezone , & i go by she / they pronouns ! veryvery excited to be here & share jangjun with u all , he’s truly a gift , but also very excited to be in a rp group again bc its been forever. umm anyway . apologies in advanced for how long this intro is probably gonna get i’m a virgo … we just don’t know when to shut up aha 🙈

━ ˙ ˖ ☆ QUICK STATS !

full name : kim jangjun

age : twenty five

zodiac : gemini

spoken languages : korean , english & just a LICK of french

sexuality : bisexual

alignment : lawful good

━ ˙ ˖ ☆ BACKSTORY !

son of kim seokcheon and jo minsu , their first born , pride n joy with shining qualities and the potential to become starlight bay’s shining light by the time he could talk. grinning ear to ear no matter the face that looked down at him and never once hesitating to stick his arms out for a hug.

grandson of kim minsoo and ahri , starlight bay’s actual pride n joy. the town’s favorite elderly couple aka owners of the dotori inn. these are the ones to thank for jangjun’s gracious upbringing. not that he had a negative relationship with his own parents , he loved them just as much as the next loved child , but any chance he’d gotten he’d run right down to the inn to greet the guests ( regulars and newcomers alike ) alongside his grandparents and quickly became seen as one of them.

for as long as he or anyone could remember , jangjun was a frequent enjoyer of the arts. painting , drawing , mixing water with mud to make his own modeling clay — you name it. the simplest and most accessible form of self expression and gateway for those growing emotions. instead of talking out his feelings in a way he didn’t know how or dealing with an emotion as heavy as they came , he’d use these various forms of art to center himself in any way they allowed. it became something he enjoyed so much that he knew from such a young age what he wanted to do. he wanted to take what he loved and use it to help people. it felt unique , like he’d discovered something no one had ever done before and was putting something into the world that could make such an impact it would change it. it wasn’t until he was older that he realized what he wanted to be was an art therapist.

for years , jangjun stood along his grandparents and helped around the inn whenever he could. his own room granted in the old house in which they stayed not far from it. he was happy to be in a place where he was always helping people as he was taught this was the most important thing you could do , not only for others , but for yourself. ‘ what you put into this world is what you will get back. treat others with tenderness and you will never have to wonder who you are. ’ words of wisdom passed down from his grandfather and practically engraved into the back of jangjun’s brain.

along working at the inn , jangjun focused intently on his studies , never once slipping away from his enjoyment of creating. a teasing rumor had it the kim’s cloned jangjun at birth to be a prodigy of some kind because you’d find him in so many places at once. dotori inn by sunrise , and as the day progressed , you’d catch him around every single corner of town , always on the go and always seen putting a smile on the face of anyone he passed by. by the time he graduated high school , jangjun was presented with the opportunity of a lifetime. he was granted a scholarship to nyu , such a prestigious school known for their sought after art program. as eager and excited as he could be ( and already two trips to new york under his belt ) jangjun felt like he was on his own path.

that is , until , his grandmother became sick. faced with the challenging predicament , jungjae already knew what lied ahead. the choices were unfair regardless , but he had two. continue on to nyu and allow his younger sister to hold back on her dreams to stick around the inn .. or give up his own and resume as the kim jangjun dotori inn knew and needed. for him , the decision was easy.

🚨 🚨 POSSIBLE CONNECTION MAYHAPS ? — saving his sister’s future was not the only thing holding jangjun back to starlight bay , but a lover. another person in his life that wasn’t so easy to leave behind but an easy consideration to stay. to make it even angstier ? they broke up not long after he gave up on nyu to stick around.

fast forward to current times and you’ll still find him present at dotori inn to this day. rumor has it he’ll be the one taking over ownership once his grandparents are no longer able to. but anyone that knows him well enough knows that’s not what he wants. anyone that knows jangjun to his true core notices how he no longer leaves home with the same paint residue on his clothes , no longer has that smile that reaches his eyes anytime they’re met and no longer carries that same passion that he once did. you’ll still find him helping around town and putting those in need above his own , of course. after all , it’s what he’s been taught his whole life to do. everyone always talks about the stars that fall over starlight bay and the wishes they grant you , but perhaps this is what was written for him in them all along.

━ ˙ ˖ ☆ PERSONALITY + TIDBITS !

sooooo as u could have guessed if u read any of the above gibberish is YEA jangjun puts everyone and anyone above him and would give you the shirt off his back if that was what u needed

he very much prides hard work though ?? like he’s not so much a pushover as he is just a very forgiving person and is willing to put issues to the side if it meant the greater good ....

if u are an asshole and ungrateful no he will not give u whatever u want or do anything u ask of him. he will simply tell u to learn how to do it on ur own BUT he will be willing to show u how <3

always outside .. always working on something or talking to someone .. always found absolutely anywhere and everywhere like seriously u just saw him at the inn an hour ago ? that’s great ur about to bump into him again at ur mom’s house because he agreed to help her fix a leak in her sink

ALSO HE HAS A DOG ... his little baby boy named cherry whom he plasters all over his social media. love cherry n jangjun loves u its a simple world we live in

a big part of his friendliness and eagerness to help others and make sure they are ok DOES come off as flirting i will nawt lie ? and u know what maybe he is just naturally a flirty person but he means well and wants people to feel like they have him whenever they need or want him ? SUE HIM ? SDDMDNCMCN

so sorry to the ones he lingers around a little too much and brings soup to ur door from his grandfather and always asks if u need help with whatever ur working on and u think there is something going on . no im sorry baby he just lives like that in 2021 can u believe

treasures his friends so greatly and yes , again , will bring u food twice a week and make sure ur eating well and not doing ur favorite activities alone i wish i had a jangjun truly 💔

UMMMMMM and .. umm and um ? he’s sweet and loves helping and he does it in a way that won’t let u take advantage of him and he just wishes for the growth and happiness of those around him. EXCEPT if ur mean / think u can just take and never give. if that’s the case then screw u - from jangjun

truly i hate this i wrote so much for no good reason … but anyway if ur like me & prefer discord for plotting u can add me @ heidykins#0016 and we can plot there ! but if discord is nawt ur jam we can plot over tumblr ims as well i just might be harder to reach there so pls be patient with me 🥺 anywayayayayyaya im SOO excited to be here & write with u all im so sry for the MESS of this intro she’s not so sexy but thats ok because i think jangjun makes up for it so um come plot with me <3trea

#str:intro #⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ OUT OF CHARACTER ⠀ ／ ⠀ * ⠀ notes.#i didnt proof read this if u see a typo ...... no u dont<3

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honeyandhondewberries · 4 years

Note

Fake dating au w Leon plsss

alrighty confession time even though i write fanfics almost for a living now i’ve never actually read a fake dating au hurk so hopefully this fits the bill of what you want?? mayhaps a fresh set of eyes into the dating au world will be refreshing to you, dear anon. OR maybe it’s just like all the rest?? you decide 😎

Should We Kiss? (LeonxReader)

“Should we hold hands?” you whisper to Leon.

He nods quickly, brushes his fingers against yours, between yours, hesitates for a second, then laces them together. Your fingers are barely hooked together, loose enough so your palms bump as you walk. You try to discreetly clear your throat, as if to expel these strange feelings inside you, as you walk hand-in-hand with your best mate through downtown Wyndon.

This isn’t a normal occurance for you, not in the slightest, you holding hands with Leon. You had never in your life thought about it until he came to you a few days ago with the strangest request. He had barged into your apartment as he usually does (despite your insistence that he knocks like a normal person), but his frazzled expression left no room for scolding.

“I need your help,” Leon had spluttered as he raced to you on your couch. He didn’t even close the door, but he was talking too quickly for you to even get a word in about it. “You know that magazine in Sinnoh, the one that’s raunchy but is super popular with that editor in chief who’s also that photographer and also that column writer and also that designer?”

“Uh,” you had grunted. “Maybe?”

“You know the one who does all of those risque photoshoots with Pokemon and gym leaders in Sinnoh but recently they’ve been expanding to other regions to try and get suggestive photos of all the leaders and people in the league and stuff?”

“I… I guess?”

“Well she keeps contacting my agent and won’t take no for an answer but I don’t want to do any suggestive photos for her rubbish magazine because I’ve got a good reputation of being family friendly and I don’t want Hop or my mum to see me in pictures like that but she somehow got my number and keeps calling and leaving weird voicemails and I think she actually wants me beyond like just for photoshoots and stuff but I don’t want to talk to her and I don’t know how to get her to stop.”

You blinked a few times. You opened your mouth, closed it, opened it again, and when it seemed Leon had finished his explanation, you motioned for him to sit on the couch. He sat beside you, but his wide eyes were still searching yours, as if by staring hard enough, the strange and uncomfortable Sinnoh editor-in-chief designer lady would stop propositioning him.

“What can I do?” you asked, since that’s all you could think of to ask at the time.

And that is what led you to where you are now: holding hands with Leon in downtown Wyndon. You’re not sure why something is pulling in your stomach as he bumps shoulders with you - you’ve bumped shoulders before. You’ve walked closely before. You’ve never held hands before, though, and it seems your body doesn’t know how to respond.

He had mentioned that Sinnoh designer would leave him alone if he were dating someone, you asked who he’d even want to date, he said he didn’t know, so you, being the good friend you are, had offered your services. Leon had perked right back up - no one would suspect a thing! You’re together all the time anyway, and if Leon were romantically involved with someone, perhaps that lady would back off.

It was working, so far, and it only took one post on his social media with him kissing your cheek for her risque voicemails to stop.

It also meant, however, that a blast of texts, calls, and comments from his family, friends, and Rose himself started pouring in.

You and Leon had explained yourselves well enough to everyone, and it mostly took a few sentences of clarification. It seemed everyone was already aware of the Sinnoh designer, and after getting your insurance that it was all just pretend and you’d ‘break up’ soon anyway, everyone went happily on their way. There were a few bumps in the road (particularly when you both told Sonia and Raihan), since they both glanced at each other, raised an eyebrow, then for some reason Leon couldn’t stop stuttering.

“Maybe we could get lunch,” Leon offers, and you nod vigorously. “At a public place, so everyone sees.”

“Good idea,” you say, and you begin scanning the shopfronts. Leon is already pulling you along somewhere, and before you know it, you’re stepping into your favorite restaurant. How did he know that? Perhaps just because you’re best mates.

You pick a booth that’s public enough, yet private enough, and Leon doesn’t bother looking at the menu. He mentions you should share your meal since that’s a thing that couples do, and you agree. He mentions he should feed you a bite, and after a bit of blushing on your end, you let him. It makes you squirm, how he stares into your eyes, how he rests his cheek on his fist when he holds the fork out to you. He’s definitely a good actor - anyone passing by would probably say he’s even in love with you.

That’d be silly though, since this is all just a favor, just pretend.

He tries to pay, you insist you pay, and you bicker while the waitress awkwardly waits for you both to decide. Leon insists that since it was his idea for a date, he gets to pay. You pout for a moment and let him, just like a partner would. While he chats with the waitress, you wonder why your heart flutters at the word ‘date,’ and why you can’t get that image of Leon’s eyes out of your brain.

After being out in public enough, you and Leon head back to your apartment. He’s holding your hand again, though instead of loosely tangled fingers, your hand is secure in his, and he even rubs his thumb over yours.

You wonder why you like that motion so much.

When you make it to your apartment you flop onto your couch. Leon is chatting with you again, just as you normally would as friends since you’re not in public, but you can’t get an itch out of your mind. If that designer comes back, she might want more ‘proof’... You bite your lip anxiously.

“What’s up?” Leon asks. Why are you now so much more aware of the color of his eyes? “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “It’s… it’s nothing, it’s stupid.”

“C’mon,” he teases. “We’re dating now, you can tell your boyfriend anything. Well, I mean you could tell me anything before too, but even more so now.”

You wring your hands together. It’s a stupid request, much too embarrassing, too. Leon pokes and he prods, until you swat his hand away.

“Okay,” you huff. “I was just…. Thinking…. We should practice… you know…”

Leon raises an eyebrow.

“...kissing.”

Leon raises both eyebrows.

“J-just so it looks natural if we have to in public!” you splutter. “I don’t think people would buy it if you were the type of guy to only kiss in private, s-so I was just… thinking…”

Leon is still staring.

“We don’t have to!” you blurt again. His silent shock is making your heart thump - augh, you knew you shouldn’t have said anything. Nonetheless, you try to save yourself from the hole you’re digging. “I just thought if that designer lady comes back she wouldn’t believe we were dating until we kissed in public at some point! But we can’t make it look like an awkward first kiss!”

Leon is frozen in place, staring at you, and you bite your lip when he finally breathes a response.

“Yeah,” he whispers. He seems a little dazed, for some reason. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay, yeah… so… um.”

“Right, right,” Leon says as he shakes his head into focus. He adjusts how he’s sitting on the couch, you stand, then straddle his hips. You settle yourself into his lap, and Leon’s eyebrows raise again. You quickly jerk back.

“I-I, sorry!” you stutter. “You just, you moved so I… I um…”

“No, no this is fine!” Leon blurts in return. When you motion to slide off his lap he quickly grabs your hips to pull you back. “This is fine, it’s more realistic.”

“Yeah,” you say. His hands are resting on your hips, though it seems he’s not sure where to put them. He trails to your thighs, just for his fingers to twitch, and he curves around your hips again. “Yeah that’s true.”

“So, um,” Leon whispers. His brow is furrowed as he scans your face, and he’s still trying to figure out where to put his hands.

“Right,” you say. “Let’s… yeah, okay.”

Your conversation isn’t much of a conversation anymore, but rather awkward and embarrassed half-statements as you both adjust to you being on his lap. He’s finally settled his hands, and you lean in and inch. He leans in an inch, you lean in an inch, until you’re both a nose bump away. The tension in the air forces an awkward smile out of you, and the sight of your smile draws out a breathy laugh from Leon too.

“Okay,” you whisper. “So…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leon breathes. “I’ll just…”

“Right,” you whisper, again unimpressed by this lack-of-conversation.

Leon’s eyes flick to yours, then down to your lips, and he leans in another inch. He gently presses his lips against yours, soft and sweet, and pulls back. It was a simple kiss, something small, closed-mouth and devoid of any heat, and yet it makes you giggle again. You can’t hide your awkward laugh, so you thunk your head onto Leon’s shoulder.

“What?” Leon asks, but now he’s laughing too because of how you can’t hide your embarrassment. “Was it bad?”

“No!” you say into his shirt. “It was weird! Kissing you is weird!”

“Weird how?” Leon retorts. “I’m a good kisser!”

“I don’t know,” you laugh again, and your groan is muffled by his shirt. “It was just weird.”

“Do you not want to practice again then?”

“Well no,” you mumble. “We still should because I can’t giggle like mad if we have to kiss in public.”

“Get it together,” Leon says, though his laugh is rumbling through you. He pulls your head off his shoulder and squishes your cheeks. “We can do this.”

“Yemphswecan,” you say with a serious nod, and Leon snorts. He pushes you off his lap and you slump to the couch like you were a bundle of laundry, and Leon crawls over to you. He’s laughing just as much as you are, and now his hair is draping over you as he threatens to squish your cheeks again. “Okay okay, I’m done, come kiss me.”

You’re not sure why your request shifts something in the air, but Leon’s giddy grin shifts into something softer, thoughtful almost, but definitely still bashful. Your eyes zigzag over his face, at how the corners of his mouth twitch, as if he’s still deciding on what this position means to him.

He cups your face this time, leans in again, and still pauses. There’s less giggling, none at all, actually, as your eyes stay trained on his lips.

You’re not sure why he so gently brushes his thumb over your cheek, or why it blooms something deep in your stomach.

He kisses you again, a little longer this time, enough for you both to figure out how to move your lips in tandem. Soft sounds waft when he kisses you again, then again after that, as he adjusts himself on top of you. He’s pressing his chest against yours, and his weight is strangely soothing, though you can’t focus on it much when Leon opens his mouth just a sliver, just enough of an invitation for you to do the same.

Your single, chaste, closed-mouth kiss is shifting, growing longer and warmer as each second passes. Leon is curling closer, shifting his other hand to your waist, curving it under your back. You adjust slowly, arch your back to give his hand room between you and the couch cushion beneath you, and Leon almost melts against you.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been practicing, but it’s gotten to the point where it’s hard to breathe. Leon is strangely in-sync with you, and you break off at the same time.

“A little longer?” he breathes, and you nod.

His next kiss is harder, tinged with heat, and you try to match it. His tongue slides across your bottom lip, and a squeak of shock slips out of your throat. Your cheeks are heating up, as is the rest of your body, when Leon starts kissing you harder, faster, and a little more desperately. You practice and you practice and you practice, long enough to where you’re both breathing hard, long enough to know exactly how to kiss Leon in a way that makes a moan slip.

He moves to your cheek, to your jaw, to your throat, kissing and sucking in a way that makes your heart pound. It isn’t until you let out a sigh, furrow your brow, and whisper his name, that he pauses.

“Leon,” you breathe.

He freezes, and after a second, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. His cheeks are flushed, his pupils dilated, then his expression melts into something bashful. He quickly crawls off of you and you both sit up, trying to discreetly catch your breath, but neither of you do a good job of hiding how dazed you are.

“Sorry,” Leon says as he breathes out a laugh. “I… uh… might’ve gotten carried away there at the end.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s okay. But did we… did we just…” you whisper. “...snog?”

“I think so,” Leon replies.

“We probably could again,” you whisper. “Just to be sure we’re good at it.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Leon whispers in return. “Just in case that Sinnoh lady gets suspicious.”

“Definitely.”

The Sinnoh designer never called back, but you and Leon figured you could ‘pretend’ date just a bit longer, just in case. You pretended to kiss each other in public, and you definitely pretended to kiss each other in private. You picked a few different spots to practice - your couch, his couch, on the floor, on your kitchen table, in his bed - you both certainly got much better at it, too. No one would ever suspect a thing.

#idk if this is fake dating lol #just a lot of smoochin #i do dearly hope you all dont mind #pokemon imagines #pokemon #pokemon swsh #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon sword and shield imagines #pokemon swsh imagines #leon #champion leon #leonxreader #leonxyou #fake!dating #fake!dating au #drabbles #drabble

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shera-dnd · 3 years

Text

Love for a Dark Heart

Adding now to the list of things I can’t fucking believe I got paid to write: My FFXIV character falling in love with herself.

Honestly I could have kept writing this for another 5k words more, but I set the rules so I’m gonna stick to them

As usual you can follow this link right here to read it on AO3 if you’d prefer that. If you’d like to have a fic written by me you should feel free to donate to my ko-fi (rules for donations over here) and let’s get going with the fic

You are a rational woman.

You try to deal with the facts and not let emotion rule over your decisions. That doesn’t mean you’re cold hearted or any such thing, but when it comes to wielding aether you really cannot let your emotions get in the way, lest your magic escape your control entirely.

It’s why you joined the Arcanists Guild so long ago, their approach to spell craft was exactly what you needed, and after many long months of training you had even mastered the lost art of summoning. It had been your calculated and well crafted spells that had felled the Primals and even bested Gaius and his Ultima Weapon.

But what did that amount to?

You’ve been betrayed, the Sultana is dead, your friends are lost, and the nations you fought to defend probably have a price on your head by now. All your possessions now fit neatly into the tiny backpack you brought along in your journey to Ishgard, and the only people left to console you are Alphinaud and Tataru, but in all honesty you’re usually the one consoling them now.

But Ishgard still welcomes you and still needs you. House Fortemps has embraced you and the least you can do is fight to protect them as well. Just keep fighting and saving people until everything gets solved, it definitely worked just fine the first time you tried that, so why not try it again?

You don’t want to be bitter, you don’t want to be angry, you genuinely feel sorry whenever you snap at Alphinaud or Haurchefant, you know they’re having a hard time too. Still it is so hard not to just let that frustration fester in your heart.

One day you’re walking the streets of Ishgard, trying to work the anger out of your system, when you hear a man muttering something. It was a story about a man who fought like a beast, who wielded the Darkness like other men would wield a blade. Something about this story sparks your curiosity and next thing you know you’re pressing the man for details.

It seemed your mystery man had died in battle with the holy knights of Ishgard and his corpse had been dumped in the Brume. It was unfortunate, but mayhaps you could still find his corpse, maybe even his soulstone.

You weren’t thinking of wielding the darkness, were you? No, it was simply academic curiosity. You just couldn’t leave such a thing unstudied, right? Of course. Now to make your way to the Brume.

No pulse, no breathing, skin as cold as the snow around you, that man was a corpse. At least he was a corpse with a soulstone, maybe you could study that. You just have to take it and-

A voice calls for you in the dark.

You wake up confused, but still intact. Better yet, the man you thought dead was now alive and well in front of you. His name is Fray and he was a Dark Knight. Apparently so were you now.

Perhaps embracing the dark should have been difficult, it should have been the kind of decision you pondered over and considered all the pros and cons. It wasn’t supposed to be something you did on a whim, but in reality it was the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

You were stronger now. How else could you wield a weapon so massive? How else could those knights strike you with their blades and barely make you flinch? How else could you take all that anger, and frustration that you had repressed for so long, and give it such a beautiful shape as it cut down those hallowed bastards?

It felt good.

It felt too good.

Perhaps the life of a Dark Knight was exactly what you needed.

In the weeks that passed no one questioned why you disappeared every night or where you went. You had gone through a lot, and they just wanted to give you space to heal. Besides, who would question what the Warrior of Light did with her spare time? It almost made you feel bad for what you were doing.

Almost.

It was hard feeling bad now that you have started studying the Darkness. No, studying would imply a lot more research and controlled tests. What you were doing was more like exercising it, working out a muscle you didn’t know you had until now. If that meant killing your fair share of monsters then so be it.

Especially when working that metaphorical muscle also seemed to improve your physical ones. Even your eye sight seemed to have improved somehow. With time your tunic had been replaced by plate armor, your glasses by a full helmet, your book of spells by the biggest sword you could carry.

There were still hiccups when adapting to this new life as a Dark Knight. No matter how many times you attuned yourself to the Darkness you could only ever hear whispers of that voice in the dark that had once called your name. It worried you, and frustrated Fray to no end.

Frustration seemed to be Fray’s default state. Always furious at the people around you who insist on asking you to fix all their problems, ready to throw threats and insults any time someone so much as thought of interrupting you. You try to be nice, you try to de-escalate, to help those people anyway, but you know deep down that you agree with her.

Her? Wasn’t Fray a man?

Doesn’t matter, Fray can use whatever pronouns she wants. You just can’t remember her ever telling you she changed those.

Wait did she just mention fighting Leviathan? Had she been there with you on that ship? Surely you’d remember that.

Why hadn’t she mentioned that before?

Maybe if you still saw the world through your old scholarly lens, maybe if you still distanced yourself, studied the situation, maybe then you would have realized what was happening. You really can’t help but feel a little stupid when the truth finally reveals itself.

When Fray takes off her helmet it is your face that you see, your eyes that stare into yours, your voice that challenges you. She was your Darkness, your repressed rage against those who used you again, and again to suit their needs; your frustrations with this world that would exhaust you to the bone before finding any solution that didn’t involve you, your need for someone to just step up and care for you even once.

If only she hadn’t hurt those people, if only her first answer wasn’t to just draw her sword on those she saw as a threat to you, maybe then you’d let her go.

Your swords clash and ultimately she’s the one to fall. Your Darkness, your heart, your…

...Esteem, lies defeated before you and you don’t know how to feel. She was a monster formed from the deepest abyss, yet when you hear her declare that she will always be there for you, if only you were to call her, you can’t help but feel hope.

It was only after you exposed yourself to just about every guard, and soldier at Dragon Head that you decided that it’s about time you came clean to your friends.

Alphinaud and Haurchefant didn’t understand why you had made the decisions you had, but they couldn’t think of anyone better to wield such a power. Tataru trusted you with her life and just a bit of Darkness wouldn’t get in the way of that. Estinien claimed that he understood, that he too struggled against the evil that granted him his powers. In the end it all felt too easy, too unearned.

Still, there was a nation to save and a war to stop. Your little existential crisis would have to wait. You could almost hear Esteem screaming at you for ever forming that thought.

Soon it wouldn’t be just almost.

Weeks passed as you traversed Dravania, searching for a way to stop this war. For a moment you had hoped that by exposing the lies of Ishgardian nobility you would finally put an end to this, but of course that just led the holy men of Halone to do what they thought was right, which just happened to be capturing and torturing an innocent man.

You went in to try to save a man, to make those self appointed saints pay. You didn’t go there to lose a friend, yet that’s what you did.

You kept your composure long enough to reach your private chambers in the Fortemps manor, but as soon as the door closed behind you, you collapsed. You could have saved him, you could have prevented this, you could have jumped out of the way, or pushed him away, or just done anything.

But you didn’t, and now he paid the price for it.

What a pathetic excuse for a Warrior of Light you are.

“You’re no such thing!” A familiar voice calls. You don’t know when or how you summoned her back, but there she was.

Esteem lifted you from the ground and laid you in your bed. You noticed now that instead of the black armor she had favored in your fight, now she wore one of your old robes and your old glasses. It was almost funny thinking of a being of pure aether deigning to wear glasses for some reason.

With a gentleness you didn’t know either of you had, she caressed and soothed you as she repeated those same words over and over again, “it wasn’t your fault.”

It felt pathetic to only have a shadow of yourself to care for you, but for now it didn’t matter. All you could do in that moment was cling, cling to the kind words and the soft touch of the only person who cared enough to offer, and try as hard as you can to believe in what she’s saying.

“Rest now, you fool,” she asked, her voice just as gentle as before.

“Please stay,” you pleaded, unsure if she would disappear the moment you closed your eyes.

It was a selfish thing to ask, to force her to stay in the material world simply for your own comfort, but Esteem wanted nothing more than for you to be selfish, so there was never any doubt that she would oblige.

The next morning she was still there, asleep somehow, still holding you in her arms. It shamed you to admit that this was the closest you’ve ever been to another person. No one had held you this close, no one had ever let you fall asleep in their arms - or fallen asleep in yours for what that matters - had she been more than just a piece of your own heart, perhaps you would have found reason for embarrassment.

There was certainly some strangeness to it, of course. Waking up in your own arms and seeing your own face in the morning was as surreal an experience as you could imagine right now. Though it did allow you some interesting introspection. You shifted in bed a little, trying to get a good look at your own face, wondering if you had ever looked this peaceful before.

“If you even consider rising from this bed I promise you the Archbishop will be the least of your worries,” she grumbles without even opening her eyes.

“I did not know you could sleep,” you comment.

“Neither did I,” she replies. She pushes herself into a sitting position, having completely given up on the idea of returning to your shared slumber, “if I must be honest, I don’t even know how I was granted physical form once more.”

“Yet your first response to sudden corporealization was not to question it, but to attend to the sobbing mess on the floor,” you are by no means attempting to mock her, it simply sounds odd to you.

“What am I to say?” She jested, “I’m quite fond of that sobbing mess.”

At that you averted your gaze. It felt embarrassing somehow, to have someone declare their fondness so bluntly, even if that someone wasn’t an actual person.

“Have we truly grown so alienated from affection?” She sighs, her voice a mix of worry and disappointment.

You motion to protest, but a knock on the door interrupts you both. With a gesture, she requests you stay in bed while she handles this. That may be the worst idea you have ever heard, but you’re far too tired to protest.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake and well,” Alphinaud greets her cheerfully, “If you’re disposed, I’d like to ask-”

“I’m not,” She interrupts, “now, you may be on your way.”

The poor boy is too stunned to reply, and does nothing to stop her from slamming the door on his face. A smug smirk forms on her face as she strides back to you.

“Must you be so rude to all my friends?” You say as you glare at her.

“Must you put the needs of every last soul above your own well being?” She shot back, matching your stare.

You’re the one to break the stare first, “I’ll try not to.”

She nods and gives you a satisfied smile as she sits next to you, “now do try to rest. Wouldn’t want me to be rude to poor Alphinaud for naught.”

In the weeks that followed she had been ever by your side. Like your old summons she could effortlessly appear and disappear from thin air, combined with her nature as a being of pure aether it made you suspect you had somehow called upon an egi of Esteem’s former self. This was promptly disproven by the fact that her response to any direct commands was a simple and direct, “sod off!”

By all accounts she should simply be darkness aspected aether, given shape and purpose by your needs and desires, as unreal as Ysayle’s false Shiva. Yet here she was, talking when she wanted to, sleeping when she wanted to, eating when she wanted to--seven hells she even has different tastes than you. There was no other way around it, Esteem had become her own person somehow.

Part of you worried that you had somehow created a Primal of your own heart. That had now been buried under the far more substantial worry that you have been utterly mistreating an actual person with thoughts and feelings, who had done nothing but help you and care for you for weeks. This in turn had been buried under the mess of feelings that struck your heart at the fact that this woman had held you in your sleep for weeks now. Mayhaps you should just focus on hitting things with big swords for now.

On that angle things have been a lot simpler. Your preparations for the journey to Azys Lla were now almost concluded, and as you waited for Master Cid to finish his work you took your time to aid a fellow Dark Knight by the name of Sidurgu.

That man quite proudly embodied the mass of hate and anger you expected from a Dark Knight, a trait that seemed to invoke Esteem’s disdain and earn him quite a share of her unkindly remarks. Neither his emotional state nor her opinion of him were ever aided by the fact that you surpassed him with ease.

You may have stumbled onto this power like a blind fool, but it had somehow suited you with a natural ease that eluded your companion. It was in the pursuit of more power - under the guise of aiding a young girl that Sidurgu had taken under his wing - that you found yourself once more doing menial tasks for moogles. At least today you’d have the catharsis of beating them within an ilm of their lives for it.

What you did not expect was for them to burst into song and dance afterwards.

“‘Tis love! ‘Tis love!” They profess with their tiny voices, “all-powerful, shining love!”

Suffice to say that the both of you were completely befuddled by the performance - Esteem loudly laughing in the corner she carved for herself in your mind - had Rielle, your shared charge, not appeared in that moment you were sure you’d both sit like that for an hour.

It was only as you made your way back to Ishgard that Sidurgu took you aside to talk about what had unfolded. He mocked the idea that love could be the true power of Darkness, but you could see that sharp edge on his voice begin to dull ever so slightly.

A year ago you would have been just as dismissive of such an idea, to properly channel aether you require coldly calculated theorems, not something as nebulous as love.

Yet here you are. You’ve wielded anger and frustration like weapons for months now, why can’t you wear love like an armor?

You loved your friends and that gave you strength.

You loved Eorzea and that gave you strength.

You loved yourself and that…

...Well, did you really love yourself that much? Not as much as you should if Esteem were to be believed, but she does. She loves you, and that gives you strength.

It’s with this context that you begin to notice the little things she does, even when she’s not around. The gentle touches, the kind words, the worry in her eyes after a rough fight. It had been her love that helped you strike down with your blade, it had been her love that held you up when an enemy would fell you. It made you oh so keenly aware of her heartbeat - surprisingly human and comforting - next to yours as she held you both together.

Had you loved her too this whole time?

Perhaps you should have questioned this before the worries of facing Garleans, Ascians, and the Archbishop, loomed this close in the horizon. Perhaps you should have questioned that Esteem’s love didn’t come just from some magically ordained purpose. Perhaps you should have questioned what it meant about you that you so willingly accepted and reciprocated that love.

By the time you arrive at the Fortemps manor that night, you have already made your decision and you find her in your room, reading a spicy romance novel from Emmanellain’s secret stash. Steeling yourself in a way you hadn’t done since facing Ultima, you approach her and bring your lips to hers. It was a fleeting touch, but it had the whole of you buzzing with nervous energy.

With the most detestably smug smile, she brings you close again so she may kiss you back and, as if she hadn’t just shaken your very soul with that act, returned to her reading.

You stare at her, utterly confounded by her lack of any real reaction. It takes her a moment to realize you are still staring and the words that escaped her mouth would infuriate and haunt you for the rest of your existence.

“Was I wrong to assume we’d been lovers for at least a month now?”

Perhaps you really should have just stuck to hitting people with big swords.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #dark knight #ffxiv dark knight #drk #warrior of light #esteem #warrior of light x esteem

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eremiss · 3 years

Note

WIP Asks: "Reminisce" next

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you like.

I’m not sure when this one is set yet, definitely post-Dragonsong War and post-Foibles (FFXIVWrite2020.) Maybe post-4.0, depending. This is another Thancred PoV one, where they both open up a little bit about their pasts, him about Sharlayan and Gwen about how she made a living and what made her decide to learn botany and pick up a lance.

I’m really liking this one so far, but I’ve been torn about how the conversation about Gwen’s past should go. I’m not sure if I would rather it be dialogue, or a more vague description of what she’s talking about and his reactions to it. I’m sorta-kinda writing both at once and waiting for one of them to start coming easier and/or take off lol

(this is also where that First Lines snippet came from!)

Part of the WIP and a bit more summary below the cut.

Gwen and Thancred are fairly solidly together by this point, though they’re both still avoiding labels or addressing ‘them’ like the plague lest they upset this good thing they have going on. They’re both dinguses.

Despite that, he still doesn’t know much about her, as Gwen isn’t prone to offer much about herself unless it’s something particularly prudent or useful (”You need to shoot something? Don’t give me a bow, I’m not good with them.”) and even when asked she’s more likely to sort of avoid the question or give half-answers as she’s embarrassed about her past, even with Thancred. She’s very self-conscious about growing up alone and with nothing, struggling to get by and picking up and honing skills out of pure desperation. She’s also just a private person in general and not used to talking about herself, so even when she’s asked 100% judgement-free she’s just not sure what to say.

It can grow to be a bit frustrating, to say the least lol

Despite what the Adders’ reports and the increase in Ixali activity seemed to suggest, two days of reconnaissance in the Shroud has yielded little and less. No news is good news in the case of Primals, however, even if it makes the investigation feel a bit tedious.

The Ixali haven’t created any new routes to try and smuggle crystals under the Wailer’s and Adders’ noses, and their old paths have been abandoned since the last time Gwen laid Garuda low. The items stolen in roadside attacks were mostly sundries and foodstuffs bound for Coerthas which, while troubling, isn’t cause for the Scions’ concern.

None of the travelers and merchants they’ve spoken with over the course of their investigation have been happy about being accosted in the middle of the woods, no matter how politely Gwen and the Adder recruits try to go about it.

Thancred watches the latest victim of circumstance storm off down the road from his vantage point high in the trees. He lifts a hand to his linkpearl and remarks, “Seems he took offense.”

Gwen shakes her head, casting her gaze around the trees in search of him. “Just a bit. See anyone else?”

Thancred scans the road. “The road is clear, apart from your new acquaintance.”

She passes that on to the Adders, and they have a small discussion he can only assume pertains to what they intend to do next. Given the way things have been going, this investigation will surely be coming to an end soon.

Eventually the recruits salute and depart back up the way the traveler had come. Gwen doesn’t follow.

Thancred waits until they’re yalms away before speaking into the linkpearl. “What’s the word?”

“They’re going to the rendezvous with the other team, then contact the Adders’ Nest.” She tries to spot him in the trees again. And misses him, again.

“And we get to hold position and await further word?” he drawls.

She nods. Then she remembers they’re speaking over linkpearl, “Yes.”

He sighs at the thought of more bells in the muggy forest. “Wonderful.”

Rather than continue searching the treetops for him, Gwen turns and makes for the bushes on the far side of the road. He watches with mild interest as she wanders through the untamed foliage, ducking out of sight every now and then and gradually wandering further from the road until he’s lost sight of her.

Foraging, if he had to guess. She’s never been a fan of sitting still, and it’s the perfect way to pass the time in a forest. He’s not sure how much she’ll find close to the road, as surely other travelers have already helped themselves to everything convenient.

Gwen has never hidden her skills as a botanist, per say, but she’s a great deal more open about them than she used to be, particularly when it comes to gathering herbs for her own use. Fetching tea leaves for a friend or herbs for a leve is all well and good, but collecting esoteric botanicals for herself is, apparently, a different matter. Perhaps a few too many people have commented about her snacking on dandelions and roots, or balked at the suggestion that they could do the same.

Thancred winces and shifts on the branch, knowing he ought to count himself amongst the former. He puts that little blunder out of his mind, reminding himself he’d meant no ill will and had only been teasing. Her knowledge of Eorzea’s vegetation is nothing to be embarrassed about, nor is utilizing it as she sees fit, and they’re both well aware of that. She knows more than he does, despite the fact she hadn’t had access to the same extensive education and training.

He idly surveys the road, musing about how she’s rather reluctant to discuss how she learned botany, evasive when asked and quick to direct the conversation elsewhere. He can’t fault her for that, though. Many people consider childhoods spent mired in hardship to be a sore subject, and the two of them are no exceptions. Necessity, desperation and survival are wonderful motivators, but they don’t make for good small talk.

Which is likely also why comments about nibbling on weeds or foraging for odd ingredients are unwelcome; those ‘weeds’ may well have kept her alive. And isn’t that a hell of a thing to admit to? It’s not unlike the fact he’s not embarrassed by his ability to pick locks in seconds, but he recoils from the thought of admitting he’d picked up the skill breaking into homes and shops to steal food.

Eventually her lightly-staticy voice rings in his ear again. “Hungry?”

He’s mostly bored, and tired of the tree bark making an impression in his rear. “I take it you are, if you went looking for a snack.”

“Just passing time, mostly.” A pause. Communicating when he can’t read her expression or fidgeting is always interesting, and occasionally vexing. “But we’ve been out here a while, so…”

Thancred gets to his feet and peers up and down the road again, straining his eye and searching for the shapes of travelers through the sparse trees. It’s all clear.

“I don’t suppose you managed to find a wild bakery growing out there?” he asks, stretching his arms and legs in preparation for his descent.

She laughs as the red of her coat comes into view through the trees. “I’m afraid not.”

He scoffs. “All that time studying botany and you can’t track down fresh bread in the wilderness?”

“Not even a single loaf,” she confesses, her remorseful tone colored with mirth.

“Shameful, honestly. Why did I even bring you along?” He starts climbing back down to the ground, her laugh bubbling warmly in his ear.

Gwen’s excursion into the woods turned up a handful of roots, weeds and flowers that the average traveler wouldn’t look twice at. Between his survival training and his time in Dravania, particularly before he’d fashioned those obsidian knives, Thancred isn’t so easily perturbed.

They stroll along the road and snack, chatting and keeping an eye out for travelers or signs of movement in the trees. She walks on his left, sparing him the inconvenience of his blindspot. He has to turn his head to see her, though, but doesn’t mention it.

She shows him how to shave the hard skin off the roots, and then stares confusedly when he does it more masterfully than she had. He makes a bit of a show of it, carelessly flipping his hunting knife around in his fingers in a way that always makes her tense and reveling in her silent disapproval.

Gwen asks about Sharlayan and what the time he spent there was like, intent as ever to know more about him and draw out the things he normally keeps hidden.

He chews, thinks, and decides to oblige her. Mayhap she’ll be convinced to return the favor.

He tells her about the city, the people, and the Studium to start. Then they spend a handful of yalms musing about the growing pains that came with maturing from a Lominsan wharf rat into a Sharlayan scholar. She has some questions, he has some answers --some more open and direct than others. Secrecy and facades are his habit, despite how easy she is to speak to and how well she can coax him out of his shell.

With the scene set, he weaves her a tale about some of his more harrowing lessons with Sharlayan’s masters of stealth and subtlety, sprinkling in a bit of the mischief he’d gotten up to here and there. She makes a good audience, listening attentively and reacting at the right parts.

He finishes his tale and throws in a flick of his wrist for a bit of flourish, followed by a grandiose half-bow that earns him a laugh and a brief applause.

They haven’t run into another traveler yet, or seen any suspicious movement in the woods. They turn around and begin making their way back to where they’d parted with the Adders recruits.

“Your turn,” Thancred prompts, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

Gwen cocks her head.

“A story for a story,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”

(((Tangent: This reminded me I also want to write a fic about Gwen studying her ass off post-ARR because and struggling with self-consciousness when she realizes how limited her knowledge is and how little she knows about the fine details and advanced aspects of Aetherology and a dozen other things the Archons all discuss and debate with ease. She doesn’t feel stupid per say, it’s more she’s intimidated and embarrassed at how limited her knowledge is in comparison to them, as well as feeling a bit foolish for being proud of her novice conjury and thaumaturgy, and even her red magic. (Which is ridiculous, obvs.) It’s a bit like being a novice at something and then being humbled, even unintentionally, by an expert. Also a little bit of “being a smart person in a room of smarter people,” kind of feeling. She’s not dumb, but she feels way less smart than she is/thought she was when she’s around the Archons (too much so, even.) There’s also no small amount of envy about them growing up at studying in Sharlayan, and wishing she’d ever had, or would have, the chance to go to school and get/have that same breadth of knowledge. She’s not a very prideful person, but she is/was proud of learning all she did despite her situation, and being reminded of how non-comprehensive her knowledge is kinda stings. She did great, considering her circumstances... and that qualifier has never ceased to be annoying. Some of her self-consciousness also stems from her realizing a great deal of her mastery of red- and black-magic skills has to do with the Echo letting her absorb stuff super quickly, and she almost feels like that was cheating and wonders if she really actually knows it all as well as she thinks, or if the Echo is just...doing it for her, kinda.)))

#Pre-5.0 #Thancred Waters #WoL #WIPs #my writing #Prompts #Answered #Thanks :D #I really want to finish this one uuuuggghhhh #lynmars79

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phantoms-lair · 4 years

Note

❧

“Another day, another mystery solved!” Fred cheered as they drove the Mystery Machine home.

“Like speak for yourself. I would love to have a quiet trip for once,” Shaggy complained. “I thought that Mole Monster was gonna carve me up like a turkey.” He shuddered in the memory.

“Okay, I know we’ve been doing our best not to bring this up,” Velma interjected. “But Shaggy, you’re an honest to goodness werewolf.”

“So what?” Shaggy asked confused.

“You can turn into a giant mass of muscles, claws, and teeth just by taking off your necklace. Yet you’re terrified by someone in a rubber mask.” Velma raised her eyebrow.

“Monsters are scary!” Shaggy defended.

“Give it up Velma, werewolf or not, Shaggy’s still Shaggy.” Daphne stated. “Something which we’re all very grateful for.” she added

“I guess you have a point,” Velma ceded.

“Besides, as long as I’ve got this amulet, I’m as good as human.” Shaggy proudly displayed the brightly glowing moonstone. “And I’m not taking this off for any reason.”

“Not even in the shower?” Daphne asked, aghast.

“Wet fur.”

“I revoke my objection.”

“I dunno, I think it would be kind of cool to be a werewolf.” said Fred.

“It’s not.” Shaggy’s voice was strangely flat. “It’s weird and creepy. At least with this I can actually be norma-” As he spoke the amulet pulsed a ring of pale golden light. “That wasn’t good, was it?” As he spoke his teeth and nails began sharpening.

Velma turned in her seat and saw the now brilliantly glowing pendant and the slow transformation her friend was undergoing. “Freddy...step on it.

By the time they had reached the house they shared, the transformation was almost complete. They hurried inside, Scooby keeping a watch so that no one saw them. On the way in, Velma noticed an envelope by the front door. Grabbing it, she noted the strange texture of the paper. She was the last inside, studying the the envelope intently.

Daphne was flinging the curtains closed. While they weren’t famous enough to warrant paparazzi, the occasional reporter would stop by unannounced to ask about their latest case and none of them wanted them to make a scoop out of Shaggy’s curse. “Velma, can you put that down, we have a much bigger problem on our hands.” Shaggy made a small whining noise.

“I’m not so sure it’s unrelated.” Velma broke the wax seal and began untying the string. “This envelope is vellum, sealed with string and wax. I’ve only seen one like it once before. The envelope that copy of Bisclavret was in.”

Shaggy’s ears perked up “The one which gave you the clue on how to turn me back.”

“Exactly. The note inside said it was left by someone I had spoken to about werewolf lore. Since we were at a werewolf festival, that could have meant anyone. I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s been bothering me for some time. What are the odds that out of the twenty or so people who heard the prayer, only Shaggy became a werewolf? My guess is not as high as me just so happening to buy a magic amulet that would reverse the effects, at least temporarily. And then having an anonymous well wisher leave me a book that explains how to use said amulet.”

Freddy’s eyes narrowed, “What are you saying Velma?”

“That someone arranged, or at the very least knew this was going to happen. These envelopes are a way of sharing information when he or she thinks we need it. Aha!” The envelope opened and a few pieces of paper fell out, followed by a note card.

The pages were photocopies of a much older book. Prominently displayed on the page were drawings of a familiar moonstone necklace. On the card was printed: Why did Bisclavret run through the woods for days? Mayhaps the time would have been lessened if another would bear his yoke.

Velma read the card out loud for the other. “Bisclavret again. And this proves that there was no coincidence with the pendant.”

“But what language is this?” Daphne was looking at one of the photo pages. “It’s certainly not English, but it doesn’t look like Latin, or Cyrillic, or anything else I’ve seen.”

“It’ll take some time to decipher,” Velma agreed. “But I think the note is what’s important. The timing can’t be coincidental. If we received the book before Shaggy was permanently transformed, we might not have been focused on how Bisclavret returned to normal - or forgotten it under all the other werewolf stories we’d been hearing. Likewise we just so happened to receive this package on the day the amulet failed. Since it would take too long to decipher the pages, the note is the key.”

“‘Why did Bisclavret run through the wood for days?’ Well, he was a werewolf. He wasn’t affected by the moon, like in more modern variants. He could transform by taking his clothes on and off. Hmm,” Velma began pacing in full analytical mode. “But why for days? If he could transform back just by putting his clothes on...That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Shaggy asked hopefully.

“Why would Bisclavret stay as a wolf for days if he didn’t have to? Because he did have to. He had control over the mechanism of his transformation, but he couldn’t halt it completely. At some point he had to transform.”

“The amulet probably works the same way. Or rather it gives Shaggy the ability to be normal, but it’s not a cure. He has to spend some time as a werewolf, or it stops working. When I bought it, it looked like an ordinary necklace. But it’s been glowing steadily more and more. I think that was it’s way of showing it was ‘full’.”

“Great, so how do we, like, change me back?” The pleading in Shaggy’s tone was obvious. Which made Velma’s answer all the harder to say.

“We wait it out. Allow the amulet to discharge. When it stops glowing, it should be able to change you back.”

“How long do you think that would take?”

“I’m not sure, but given the whole parallel with Bisclavret…”

“Days?” Shaggy whimpered.

“Could be.” Velma admitted. That werewolf moaned and curled up into a ball.

“Rut arout re eggs?” Scooby asked.

“Eggs?” Daphne asked.

Shaggy uncurled slightly “The note said something about yolks, right?”

Velma shook her head. “Not those kind of yokes. It means...” She stopped. “Shaggy, toss me the necklace.”

He hesitated, he hadn’t taken the thing off since the festival he’d been cursed at. Still, it wasn’t exactly doing him any good as it was.

Shaggy tossed it over. Velma’s arm tingled as she caught it, which hopefully was evidence for her theory. She slipped it over her head and the necklace pulsed again. A strange tingly feeling swept through her body as bones and muscles rearranged. Fur grew in, along with claws, fangs, and a tail.

“Okay Shaggy, I see what you were talking about. This is weird.” Velma commented as she looked at her new self. “Wait, I have a muzzle, how am I even talking normally?”

Shaggy’s jaw opened and closed, no words coming out.

“Velma, are you okay?” Fred asked, concerned.

“Fine. A little weirded out, but fine. I have so many tests to run.”

“Tests? Velma what is going on?” Daphne asked, “You were wearing that necklace the day you got it and nothing like this happened.”

“It wasn’t ‘charged’ then,” Velma explained. “The key to the note was the word ‘yoke’. It has two meanings. The literal one is a harness farm animals use to pull plows and other equipment worn around their necks. This gave way to the second meaning of yoke - to have a burden on you. The note uses both of them, referring to Shaggy’s being a werewolf as his ‘burden’, which can be ‘harnessed’ by the item he wears on his neck.

“Why did Bisclavret run through the woods for days? Mayhaps the time would have been lessened if another would bear his yoke.’ In two sentences it tells us that Shaggy does have to spend some time transformed, but the amount of time can be shortened if someone else is willing to be a werewolf with him, and that wearing the amulet will achieve that.

“You know, I think you just said that in one sentence a lot more clearly.” Daphne said dryly.

“Our informant isn’t exactly trying to be clear. The first contact was meant to be seen as coincidental. My guess is the only reason this message is as overt as it is is he couldn’t figure out a way to-” Velma broke off. “Shaggy, are you okay?”

Shaggy did not look okay. He was bent over hold his head in his hands, his tail seeming to be trying to wrap around his waist. “Someone did this to me.” He finally said. “I thought it was some random magic thing, could've happened to anyone. But it wasn’t. Someone meant to turn me into a werewolf. Why? What did I do to them?”

~~~~

This is from ‘A Shaggy Wolf Story’, which was the original werewolf Shaggy thing I was going to write, but wanted to wait until Mirror’s Gaze was finished. Then Fangs happened

#Scooby Doo #Werewolf!Shaggy #Ghost Writing #spiffylindster

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years

Text

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Nine

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Dear readers, I have neglected our game to assist you in figuring out my identity. We continue with this chapter, for those who still wish to play. The same guidance applies. At the end you will find a clue that will lead you to a word. Collect the words and save them for future use. We draw close to the end; only a handful of chapters remain and then all will be revealed.

Please enjoy the twenty-ninth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 29 ~~

I am a swirling confusion and a fog of need. My mind feels separate from my body as I make my way carefully inside and upstairs to our rooms. Peeta is not there yet. I return downstairs, bathe, and then prepare for bed, all in such a daze. As I dismiss Mary for the evening, I settle on the floor before our fire, brushing my damp hair.

The window is open, admitting a fragrant spring breeze, fresh with rain and new blooms. And still my thoughts do not clear.

Not until Peeta enters the room with a sigh, leaning back against the door and watching me. His blue eyes are deep, dark gems in the firelight.

“Should morning not come and we were stuck in this room for eternity… I think I might be happy,” he states and I smile but turn to the fire.

“Until I go into childbirth.”

He laughs lightly and makes quick work of disrobing. “Even then, I think I could find it in my heart to feel complete joy with the company.”

“Mother was not overly demanding, was she?”

“No she needed to discuss some of our lessening stores of medicines, and then I was needed to help with a burn in the kitchens, and Doctor Aurelius sends word that he is ill and unable to accompany me tomorrow should anyone have need and – heavens I worry that his health is fading and I will be called upon to fulfill his duties sooner than I am ready.”

“Was the infantry such a poor training for a doctor then?”

“There is a vast difference in the primary requirement. A bullet hole is easy to diagnose, if not so easy to mend. Disease is… far more meddlesome to diagnose and more elusive to heal. ” He finally settles on the sofa, removes his leg, and spreads a medical text on his lap, brow creasing in study. It is quiet and I continue to brush my hair, unwilling to interrupt him.

“After Mr. Hawthorne’s visit, I think I will need to make a trip to Capitol,” he says some time later.

I hum in answer, brow furrowed as I mull over Madge and Johanna’s predicament. I’ve still no way to know what to do or if I should do anything at all. I wish to discuss what I saw and heard in the stables with Peeta, but do not know if doing so amounts to a betrayal of their confidence in me – or at least Madge’s – because I was not supposed to see nor hear their tryst tonight.

“Katniss?”

“Yes?” I ask rather testily, looking over at him. He gives me a wry smile.

“I knew you were not listening.”

“Of course I was. You said you would go to Capitol after the Hawthornes’ visit.”

“Yes, and I also said I would be making the trip to reenlist. In the infantry.”

“Fine then. I was not listening.” I glare at him and toss aside my brush. He shifts aside his books and comes to sit behind me, taking up the brush and the task. I relax into his touch. Into the comfort of being taken care of by someone who loves me. “Will you be gone long?”

“Hopefully not. I only wish to speak with a few professors. Perhaps sit an exam or two, to show them my progress. I would not want to miss the birth of our child, so it will need to be soon,” he murmurs and begins to braid my hair, the tips of his fingers tickling my scalp. My own fingers seem to adopt the motions, caressing lightly over the worn flesh where his left leg ends.

“Make it as swift as possible, then.” I feel as though water had replaced all the bones in my body. I become a lump of comfort, wrapped in his attentions.

“Will you miss me?” he whispers and I smile, my eyes drifting shut as his fingers now brush the nape of my neck and lower.

“Abominably. Who will massage my ankles when I become foul tempered?” He pinches my bottom and I squeak but lean back into his embrace for a short kiss to my lips.

“I will make it swift then,” he promises and gently moves me away from him so that he can tie my braid with a bit of ribbon. The task done, he rests his hands on my shoulders and presses sweet kisses to the side of my neck. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

My body tenses as I think on my choices.

“Is it this additional guest Mr. Hawthorne brings with him?”

“Tis unforgivably rude,” I mutter and glare at the fire as though it had invited itself into my home rather than being stuck there.

“He did give us nearly a week of notice and we have the room, with a few adjustments.”

“But a business advisor? Peeta, I am not sure I can bear the examination of my home in this manner.”

“We will face it as it comes, together,” he says and lifts our joined hands to kiss my fingers. “Shall I rub your ankles now or once we are in bed?”

“Should you study more first?” I ask with a look at his texts.

“I probably should, but I am so tired tonight.”

“Oh,” I say and bite my lip. I should not burden him with more of my troubles but…

“Is there something else we need discuss?” Peeta murmurs to me that he is never too tired to listen to me air my troubles.

Finally, I turn to him. “It is about Madge. And Johanna. They are…rather close…one might even say that they have become…” I cannot finish the thought but Peeta seems to understand, his face relaxing and his eyes lifting to the ceiling. He curses under his breath.

“I was afraid she might. I will talk to her, if you wish. Remind her of the differences in their stations.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” I say and he stares at me. Blinks for a moment. My hand clenches into a fist and I stare at the carpet. I manage to tell him what I saw and some of my thoughts since then. “Do you think so low of me then that you believe I would judge my friend for her unconventional attachments?”

“To another woman? Or to a servant? Either would be cause for censure among many people,” he says and I lift my eyes to his. A sudden softening happens in the blue depths and I know. He understands. “But not to you. Nor to me.”

“Had circumstances been different, had you not been playing with Robert that day…” I say and swallow, “you would have been a baker.”

“You and I would never have met under those circumstances, Katniss. I would have been working in the kitchens somewhere, never to be seen and certainly not to be noticed by the gentile Miss Everdeen, to say nothing of loved by her.”

“I was never so wealthy as that. You think I would not have snuck into those kitchens for late night repasts? Come now, you know me better than that.” He smiles at this and twines our fingers together. “Or mayhaps I would have visited the house where you worked and been so enraptured by your creations that I would have insisted on an audience with the baker, that I might show my appreciation.”

“A highly improper flirtation or perhaps a tawdry affaire in the kitchens, then. For it could have gone no further.”

“Yes. Instead of hay in my hair it would have been flour spread over my thighs and breasts.” For a moment, his eyes darken as his gaze sweeps over me, clearly imagining such a sight. I laugh lightly at him.

I am not certain where we begin kissing, only aware of the feelings it evokes inside me. His arms hold me warm and secure, my fingers thread through his curls to keep him close. We part reluctantly and with soft gasps.

“However briefly our paths may have crossed, I am certain I would have been in your thrall,” I whisper. Then the desire lifts from his eyes and he shakes his head.

“It would never have been. I would have been terrified of you. Even as we are, I scarcely dared to hope such a one as you could love me until it had already happened, and truthfully, were I the baker instead of the bastard brother, I would have been too concerned that I would lose my post to be bold enough for an affaire.”

“Even for me?” I ask and feign a pout. Peeta laughs in my face and kisses me once more.

“Especially for you. That would have required a monumental amount of courage, my love.”

“You possess courage enough.”

“Perhaps I do, but the baker might not have.”

“Then, I suppose I would have had to be the one who was bold,” I say and lean in to kiss him. It is only a brief caress before my shoulders once more slump with the weight of dilemma. “What are we to do?”

“What do you wish to do? It is one thing to imagine a scenario where you, the landowning farmer’s daughter, would have fallen in love with the humble baker, but… odds are it is only that. A pleasant imagining. A comforting lie to think that no matter the circumstances, we would have found one another.”

“Do you not believe we would have? Do you not believe that love can overcome all obstacles? That this would have happened anyways?”

He shakes his head. “As much as I wish I could believe it, I cannot even find my own mother, Katniss.”

Guilt is swift and I think on his words a long time before resolve settles into my bones.

“Then that is my answer,” I say with conviction. “I wish to do whatever we need do to make it so that the widowed countess and the stable lad who is truly a woman in disguise being together is not a pleasant imagining, but a reality.”

“Have you spoken to Madge about this?” he asks and for a moment, I cannot meet his eyes.

“No…I confess that I am afraid to do so.”

“She is your friend. As long as you make it clear you wish to help and continue being her dear friend…”

“It is more than that,” I say and huff then shake my head. It sounds so terrible and yet it must be said. “She and I shared a bed many a time…for years. Even up until my wedding to you. It is a common enough practice amongst sisters and girl friends, meant to be a safeguard for our virtues, but if she feels physical attraction for other girls… Nothing… happened between us and yet when I saw her with Johanna, it… caused things…feelings…”

I am burning with shame as I look up at Peeta’s grinning face. “You were aroused.”

“I was not!”

“Why the indignation?” he asks. “Careful of your answer, for it will reveal much.”

“I am a married woman!” I protest and thump his chest. “A faithfully married woman!”

“Ah,” he says, positioning me to straddle his lap, cumbersome belly and all. “So then it is not disgust that upsets you, but the implication that your arousal at watching two people engaged in an amorous embrace might make you unfaithful to your poor husband?”

“That was…part of it…” I trail off as he kisses along my throat. “And you are not poor.”

“No, I am not. I am excessively wealthy in life.” His hands wander beneath my shift and find me already damp with arousal. I squirm in his hold, cheeks flushed. “And the other part that upset you… Oh Katniss, my love… there is nothing strange about what you felt. You witnessed an arousing sight and so you were aroused. It does not mean you harbor a secret attraction to either Madge or Johanna. And even if Madge felt desire or love for you in the course of your friendship with her…she now has Johanna. You will not hurt her in loving me.”

I stiffen at his words, at how precisely they capture how I feel. Yet, the stiffness passes almost as quickly as I am filled with relief. Relief that he understands. Relief that he is not disgusted with any of us. Only then am I truly able to enjoy the feel of his kisses.

It is some time later, when I am draped across the bed, having finally recovered my breath but not my ability to move my legs, Peeta’s head resting alongside my belly his hand absently caressing over my thigh, my fingers combing through his wild hair that I know he’s right. I must speak to Madge. Soon. No matter how much I dread the conversation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is, of course, the great paradox that as soon as you know you must speak to your dear friend…you are unable to.

All is in chaos from the moment of waking. Last minute preparations for the arrival of our guests begin as soon as the breakfast plates are cleared. I am about to climb a chair to help repair some of the draperies in the hall when Peeta finds me and makes a sound of protest, gesturing towards my stomach and pulling me gently away from the chair.

“Do you wish to induce early labor or cause harm to the babe?”

“I am perfectly capable of completing a simple task without injuring myself.”

“I found you on your back in the mud when we first met. Be careful what you claim to be perfectly capable of,” Peeta says, his cheeks turning red and his voice raspy. His anger stirs my own and I scowl at him.

“Are you suggesting that I cannot–”

“I am suggesting you use better judgement,” he says and takes my hands in his. I attempt to extricate them, furious at being ordered about, but give up when I feel his fingers tremble around my own. “Katniss, please. What if you had fallen?”

There is no anger in his voice now, only worry, and palor beneath his skin. I suddenly feel rather guilty for my actions and my words.

“You would attend me,” I whisper and rest one hand on his cheek.

“I am grateful for your faith in me, my love. I would prefer you not test it so. Not today.” He seems so worried that I cannot deny him and ask Horatio to see to the task before turning back to Peeta.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he breathes and I drop my gaze to the floor. It is then that I notice his boots, and the gloves he dropped on the floor before touching me.

“You are dressed for riding.”

“Martin Farrow sent word that his wife has gone into childbirth. A fortnight too soon.” His concern suddenly makes sense as I snap my head back to look at him.

“And Dr. Aurelius is indisposed.”

“I must beg your forgiveness for abandoning you to the preparations, my love. And also for taking your mother with me, Katniss. I am so sorry. I know we have guests–”

“I will be fine. Mr. Hawthorne and his companions are nothing I cannot handle. As long as I climb no more chairs.”

“Yes, please do not,” Peeta laughs and embraces me, kissing my hair and whispering that he loves me. It is then that I realise he is afraid. Of what, I am unsure. I dare not ask him to tarry and explain. We will have tonight to discuss it.

Tarry we must, though. As I walk to the door with him to see him off, a shout goes up.

“Ho there! Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. A word if you please!” The man shouts from a fair distance as he walks up our lane.

“It cannot be the Hawthorne party at this early hour,” I grouse and quickly wipe my hands on my apron to meet the new arrival.

“No and they would not be walking on foot,” Peeta adds.

The figure approaching on foot is familiar, and as I place who it is, I sigh. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Father Crane approaches,” I tell Peeta and he too curses. I hurry to the door and call for the person I need. “Sae… take Maysilee and Miranda upstairs. Tell my mother that she and Mr. Mellark will be delayed a moment in leaving.”

I then exit the door to greet Father Crane. I have a suspicion his visit is to do with Miranda and what happened in the gardens yesterday. No doubt he is here to defend his boar of a son, the youngest of five, all of whom run rough shod over the entire area. The oldest of which made attempts at courting me when we were much younger. I shudder at the memory of the vulgar poem that came right before the fire, and the speed with which David Crane ceased his suit afterwards.

But it is not youthful poetry that concerns me, it is a broken toy and a curse muttered in anger. As much as I applaud Miranda for defending herself, such an act will no doubt have consequences. Consequences that march now down the lane towards us. Would that we were free to speak our minds fully, I might throw a shoe at the preacher and curse him as well.

But…all is not dire. I stand beside my husband as he waits with me.

“Should you not depart?”

“Not yet, I think,” Peeta says and grasps my hand to link our arms together. And even though I do not look forward to this audience, I am glad for Peeta’s presence beside me. He is quite deft at calming any situation that has the potential to boil over.

I cannot fly off in a temper with Father Crane, as much as I would like to. As long as he resides on Everdeen as the cleric, I must pretend to niceties and obedience. This is no highwayman waving a pistol and thus requires more subtlety to handle. Abominable to have to lie, to deceive, but likely necessary. Therefore, I roll my shoulders back and paste a smile on my face.

“Good morning, Father! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Peeta calls out as he approaches at last.

“No pleasure, Mr. Mellark. I am here on the Lord’s business,” he huffs as he approaches the steps. His face is red and he pauses on the steps to wipe sweat from his brow, carefully folding his handkerchief and placing it in his pocket before he climbs the steps towards us. Together, Peeta and I drop into a genuflection.

“Welcome, then. Would you care for tea? Or perhaps lemonade,” I offer.

“Tea will be fine,” he says and we turn to lead him into the house. “What is the fuss about?” he asks, indicating the servants still hard at work in the hall.

“We are expecting guests today. Mr. Gale Hawthorne, his brother, and one more travels in their party,” Peeta offers.

“Ah, the new owners.”

“Not as yet,” I say, unable to keep the bite from my words, the reminder that my father is still alive.

“Hmmm. I should like to meet him while he is here.”

“I am certain you shall. They will be here for at least one Sunday and will no doubt attend church with us,” Peeta says. Father Crane makes a noncommittal noise and I manage a grateful smile for my husband. He somehow manages to be polite and ensure that Father Crane will get what he wants without my having to invite the odious man to dinner or some such thing. He would not dare rudely invite himself now.

I show him to the parlor and Peeta manages pleasantries until Nell, one of the kitchen maids, brings tea with a quick curtsy. I pour and pretend not to notice Father Crane watching her movements a little more than is seemly.

As soon as the maid is gone, Father Crane clears his throat.

“I’ve no wish to waste time, so I’ll get right to it. The girl, the one you brought here in winter, she cursed my boy.”

“Cursed him how?” Peeta asks, feigning ignorance or perhaps forcing Father Crane to speak the words aloud, in all their ridiculousness. I calmly add sugar and cream to the tea as needed, although I’d much rather dump it in the man’s lap.

“Does it matter? I’ve a responsibility to the souls of my congregation and the child is practicing witchcraft. I demand that you turn her over to me that I might convince her to reverse this dreadful deed and rescue her before she is completely lost to the devil.”

I have no intention of handing my daughter into his care. Not in a million years nor if the Rapture came this afternoon.

“Has anything befallen your son?” I ask.

Father Crane examines me at length, his eyes cold and his jaw working. He answers begrudgingly. “No, thanks to providence.”

“Then what exactly is your concern?” Peeta asks rather gently. Crane sputters.

“That is beside the point Mr. Mellark. These things may not have immediate results.”

“Oh,” I say rather innocently. “I would not know. I’ve no experience with witchcraft.” He stares at me and blinks before adopting a concerned expression, reaching across to pat my hands.

“Of course not, my dear.”

“Because I do not believe such witches exist.”

Father Crane sneers at me and sips his tea.

“Your innocence in such matters is a credit to you, Mrs. Mellark. But I doubt that you want a child of the devil about when your own precious lamb arrives.”

He pointedly looks at my swollen belly. I cannot help myself. I place a hand protectively over the growing babe. Father Crane makes a noise of triumph in his throat and turns to Peeta again. He delineates all possibilities and Peeta listens, nodding as appropriate. When Father Crane has exhausted all his considerable advice, Peeta sets aside his empty cup and stands.

“Father Crane, I do thank you for sharing your wisdom on such matters and we will carefully consider your council.”

I stand and Father Crane thankfully has enough manners about him to stand as well, to gather his things as he insists that he only wishes the best for the souls under his keeping. We give him a promise to speak with Miranda about such behaviors and see him to the door.

My mother arrives then, a basket of supplies over her arm, my father helping her into a cloak. “Are we ready now, Peeta?”

“Yes,” he says, tugging his gloves on.

With a swift kiss to my lips, despite the presence of both my parents and several servants in the area, Peeta and my mother then depart. I fold my hands together and sigh, leaning against the house in a spot I know will afford me a view to watch him ride away.

He has already spent months with such a schedule as this. There are of course the regular visits amongst the servants and out to the tenants, and not just of Everdeen. Peeta has ridden as far beyond the borders of our land as he can manage in a day to see to patients. And yet this, him leaving with my mother beside him to deliver a baby, without the guidance of Dr. Aurelius… I am filled at once with a strange sort of melancholy, pride, and love.

But I’ve no time to savor it, I’ve details to attend, and a friend to lend my support. I turn back to the house to immerse myself in tasks only to find myself facing a panting and flushed Sae.

“Mrs. Mellark…I could not find Miranda. I’ve looked everywhere.”

A strange fear bubbles up inside me and I cast about for ideas on where she might be hiding.

“She must be about somewhere, check the stables,” I insist.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sae departs. It is then that a flash of red and a blue dress emerge from behind a clock positioned near to the parlor. She flees upstairs even as I call out to her.

“Miranda!”

Her footsteps pound on the stairs and I hurry after her, muttering under my breath at how much slower I now am. How much more careful I must be with the babe altering my balance.

The door to her and Maysilee’s room slams. It takes a moment or two for me to catch up with her. I knock and then warn her.

“Miranda, I am coming in.”

The door opens easily beneath my hand and I gasp as a blanket is dropped over me. “Miranda!” I struggle free and scowl at her as she hides beneath the bed. I toss the thing aside and take a deep breath. More footsteps in the hall and Sae in the doorway.

“I heard you shouting.”

“I have found her,” I say and then send Sae away to see to Maysilee. Once more alone, I sigh and move towards the bed.

“Miranda, my love… what do you hope to gain with such a trap?”

“Are you going to send me back now?”

My heart breaks the instant she speaks. My knees buckle with the pain and I sit clumsily in the bedside chair. To have her first words to me be such a thing.

“Heavens no! Miranda why would you think I would?”

“That man…the preacher. I don’t like him. But he said you wouldn’t want me once you have your own baby.”

“Oh Miranda, my dove. No. No, he was wrong, and I don’t much like him either. He thinks me rather wicked.”

“But you didn’t…you let him say it and didn’t correct him.”

“I know. I know, but I wanted to. Oh how I wanted to.” She sniffles and shifts beneath the bed. “But sometimes, we must pretend to believe things we do not, or behave in a certain way so that others do not hurt us. Like wearing a mask. Like you used to do at the orphanage sometimes.”

One small hand becomes visible to me as she moves again. The cat wanders out and leaps into my lap. Miranda does not call him back.

“What did you name your kitten, Miranda my dove?”

“Odysseus,” she whispers. “Like that poem you read to me.”

I hum and pet the cat. Of course. It has become one of her favourites for me to read to her. Slowly, she pulls her body from beneath the bed and stands before me. Dust has caught in her hair and her ribbons are undone. Her blue eyes downcast and sorrow on her face. I reach out and take her hand in mine, and she allows it.

“Now that you are speaking to us, I feel that I must ask…Do you want to return to the orphanage?”

“No!” she shouts and then shrinks back, softens her tone. “No. I… I thought we were to be a family.”

“We are a family,” I say and pat my knee, lifting the cat enough that Miranda may slide into my lap. I deposit her pet into her arms and brush back her hair. “I am not upset with what you said to that boy yesterday, but there are others who will be.”

“But I’m not really a witch. I can’t curse anyone!” she protests.

“No, but there are some who will believe you can. And the first time something dreadful happens to Jacob Crane…they will look to you to blame.”

“They’ll blame me even if I hadn’t cursed him,” she complains. “They did that at the orphanage, too.”

“They might. But I won’t.” Her eyes widen as she stares at me. “I will smile at every misguided soul who enters the parlour looking to have you punished when you’ve done nothing wrong. I will lie to them in whatever underhanded manner I need to protect you, and then send them on their way.”

“You will?”

“Yes, if that is what it takes to protect you, Miranda. I will be a merciless liar.”

She giggles at that and the sound warms me.

“Is that what you were doing today?” I nod and her giggles calm. “And Papa too?” For a moment, I am confused.

“Papa?” Miranda nods and curls into me as best she can.

“I know he said he is my brother but…he seems more like a Papa to me. Like your Papa is to you.”

I embrace her and kiss her wild tangle of red hair.

“Yes. Yes, Miranda, your Papa-brother will lie for you as well.”

“Mama?” she says and once more, my heart shatters inside me. With joy this time as tears line my eyes.

“Yes, my dove?”

“I am sorry for throwing the blanket on you.”

I hug her close and fight back my tears. “Oh my darling. I am not angry over that.”

A cough at the door catches our attention and I lift my head to see Madge smiling at us. “I hate to interrupt, but I believe lessons are about to resume in the school room.”

“Oh,” Miranda says. “Do I have to?”

I ignore Madge’s astonishment at the revelation of Miranda’s voice and turn to my daughter.

“Yes, you must. Learning is the most important task you now have before you. Madge, she will be right down.”

“Of course,” Madge says and then leaves in almost a daze.

“Now before you go, my dove, you must repeat after me. This is the most important lesson you will learn today.”

She blinks up at me and nods, determination to please shining in her eyes.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” I wait and she takes a deep breath before speaking.

“My name is Miranda Mellark.” Such a beautiful sentence spoken in her calm voice.

“I am eight years old.”

“My home is Everdeen.” She dutifully returns each phrase I give her.

“My Papa is also my brother. We are twice bound together as family.”

“Somewhere I have a mother who wanted me to have a better life than what she could give me.”

“You’re my mother now, are you not?” Miranda interrupts the proceedings and I nod.

“If you insist… My second mother is Katniss Mellark.”

“My mother is Katniss Mellark,” Miranda says with a saucy smile that makes me laugh and kiss the tip of her nose.

“My parents are both marked by fire in their skin as I am in my hair.” She dutifully repeats the phrase, her fingers lightly touching my scarred shoulder.

“They love me from the roots of my flaming red hair,” I ruffle the already wild locks, “down to the tips of my witchy, twitchy toes–” I tickle her and she laughs, squirming in my hold until the cat makes an escape. “–and everywhere between.”

Miranda giggles at this and then turns sombre for the last line I feed her.

“So long as I remember who I am, and how I am loved, I will never need to wear a mask.”

Miranda curls close to me and we sit like that for a moment before a question can no longer be contained.

“Did you only bring me here because Papa and I are brother and sister?”

“No,” I tell her. “That may have been the reason we started with, but reasons can grow and branch into something new and change.”

“Like the flowers in the garden,” Miranda says. “Or the trees.”

“Yes,” I say. We sit there for too long, talking quietly. About why we brought her here, how we came to love her, and how that at least will not change when her new sibling arrives. We are neglecting her studies and my duties and yet I cannot bring myself to care.

Finally, when her questions have been exhausted for now, I send her on her way.

“One more thing, Miranda,” I say and she pauses in the doorway.

“Yes, Mother?” I may never tire of hearing her use that word.

“When he returns home tonight, Peeta will want to hear you speak.” She smiles and nods, then races down the hall with the exuberance of a child who is loved and cared for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The work continues. The day brings the warmth of spring sun and the drifting fragrance of early blooms in the garden, the mud coated laughter of men and women dancing on the breeze, heartened after the beginning of the planting. The end of the harsh winter brings promise, and yet, once I have dealt with Father Crane and Miranda, and half a dozen other issues, I cannot help but examine Madge’s downturned face for signs at every turn. It becomes apparent that we will have no time today for that talk, and I am desperate with worry for her now.

Is the pallor of her skin that of a sleepless night? Sleepless because she spent it in the arms of a lover in the stables? Or because she did not, and instead spent it thrashing in bed, doubting her choices and fearing her future.

I am tormented the entire day, catching the falseness in her laughter as she converses with several of the tenants. Bright spots of blush on her cheeks whenever Johanna is within sight, and once more I reel with questions.

Is it the blush of memory? The flush of a body sastfied and a passion sated? Or the blush of denial?

In the end, I’ve no chance to find out. The cry rises up, the sighting of an approaching cart. The luggage of the gentleman who even now make their way towards Everdeen. A pair of servants with the luggage is swift to distribute and settle in, to prepare for the arrival of their employers. All too soon, a carriage and a trio of horses in trail arrives.

I recognise the gentle brown with the white socks that Rory Hawthorne rides and Prim is quite occupied adjusting her dress and appearance.

“Will you cease? You look radiant,” I tell her and she blushes.

It is an annoyance to be greeting them at all, and I find myself wishing that Peeta were here. There has been no word from him or Mother as yet, and so I can only assume that the child has not yet arrived.

It tastes foul in my mouth, greeting the man with the potential to usurp my family, toss us all out on our rears with next to nothing. Miranda slips her hand in mine and I glance down at her. She is once more wearing the blue turban, but she stands tall and proud beside me to greet our guests.

No. Not with nothing, I realise. Mr. Hawthorne cannot touch our money. Cannot touch the love between Peeta and I, nor the child growing inside me, nor the one clinging to my hand. And even without Peeta beside me to say it again, I know he is right.

“It will be alright, Katniss.” He had said last night in our room.

I smile at Miranda now and give her an encouraging nod.

The carriage halts and Rory Hawthorne is the first to emerge, a bright smile on his face as he does. His eyes find Primrose first and, seemingly assured of her presence, he descends the step to greet me and the man standing beside me.

“Mrs. Mellark. A pleasure to see you once again,” he says warmly, with a gallant bow in my direction. “And this…”

“My father, Mr. Kent Everdeen,” I say and Papa grunts slightly as Rory’s eyes widen and his cheeks pinken.

“Sir, it is an honor. I was quite glad when Miss Everdeen wrote to me of your recovery,” he says and then stammers for a moment, realising his error in mentioning that he is a young man who openly corresponded with an unmarried girl, without her father’s permission.

“My girls made it quite easy, all of them capable of managing affairs so well that I am not certain I was needed or missed.”

“Papa, of course you were missed and are needed,” Primrose scolds and steps forward so that Rory may greet her now. He does so swiftly, almost awkwardly, and then turns to the two young men who have stepped from the carriage behind him.

The first is tall and lean, well turned out, his complexion dark and his hair darker. Even his grey eyes appear to swirl with an impenetrable darkness. The similarities make it clear that this is Rory’s brother. Mr. Gale Hawthorne. After so many months of hating him from a distance, I had rather fancied him a mustache twirling villain with pocked skin, perhaps greasy hair, or a bad form caused by gluttony and excess. Unfortunately, he is undeniably handsome in a way that would make all the ladies of an assembly scheme for his name on their dance card. He moves with a lithe sort of grace that reminds me of a panther. He gazes over the facade of the house as one examines a meal. His chin turned up in arrogance and certainty.

Already I hate him.

The second man is far more amiable in appearance with bright green eyes and bright red hair beneath a jauntily cocked hat, freckles on his nose, bright pale skin. He is all brightness where his companion is dour darkness and brooding.

“Allow me, please,” Rory says and waves towards the two men in turn. “My brother, Mr. Gale Hawthorne. His business associate Mr. Darius Fremont.” They bow in unison and Rory turns to our party. “Now let me hope I do not err with so many names.”

He runs down the names from my father all the way to Maysilee without a single error. He has been paying attention to Prim’s letters and I can feel her excitement radiating off of her. I send her a small smile. Thus far, her suitor has acquitted himself admirably.

“I hope we will not inconvenience you, Mrs. Mellark,” Mr. Hawthorne states with a pointed look at my pregnant form.

“Indeed not,” I assure him and bite the inside of my cheek when a swift kick from the child nearly me makes me cry out in pain.

“Now I do not see Mrs. Everdeen, nor one who might be Mr. Peeta Mellark…” Rory states uncertainly.

“They were called to attend to a woman in childbirth,” Primrose explains and invites the gentlemen into the house. “They will hopefully join us for dinner, so long as the babe cooperates.”

“Your husband is a midwife?” Mr. Hawthorne asks me. The air shifts in a subtle manner at the veiled insult within the folds of his tone, as if being a midwife were somehow shameful.

“My husband is studying to become a doctor,” I explain. “And as such, he is respectful of the knowledge and experience that a midwife and healer, such as my mother, can impart to him.”

Prim laughs nervously and Madge asks Rory how their journey was as we enter the house and servants are called upon to guide guests to their rooms. I abscond to the study and immerse myself in work. I will need to be charming and pleasant for dinner tonight and so I will need time to myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am given very little respite as, before long, my father interrupts me. “Katniss, I hate to interrupt, but Mr. Hawthorne wishes to see the estate.”

“It is late. Can it not wait until tomorrow?” I ask then snap my mouth shut as the impertinent prat himself enters the room.

“In all likelihood it could wait,” he says. “But I am never one to wait for tomorrow when a task could be completed today. Such a habit smacks of laziness.”

I believe he just called me lazy. Wonderful start.

“Very well then. I shall order the cart prepared. Shall you ride along or exercise your mount, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“A good ride is just the thing,” he states and I curtsy before hurrying from the room to see to the arrangements.

It only takes a moment to wait for the cart to be prepared, yet it feels an eternity. Noise from the stables draws my attentions and I enter to find Mr. Hawthorne examining Sagittaria, Johanna holding her by the bridle.

“And you exercise her daily?”

“I wouldn’t usually have to,” Johanna explains. “Except this fine beauty belongs to Mrs. Mellark.” I clear my throat to draw their attention.

“Mrs. Mellark, you have a fine horse here,” he clicks his tongue at her and Sagittaria snorts at him in protest. “Quite free spirited. Have you any trouble handling her?”

“None,” I say.

“And she only one of several fine mounts in your stables.”

“None of which are to be part of the estate,” I remind him and he eyes me for a moment before Mr. Hawthorne finally unhands my horse. Johanna has turned away to hide what I suspect to be laughter.

“Your conveyance awaits, Mrs. Mellark,” Rory declares as he pauses in the doorway to bow at me. “If you can tear yourself away from the horseflesh, Gale.”

I sweep past Rory and only vaguely hear him mutter that Gale is forever distracted by horses and spent nearly their entire childhood in the stables or in the saddle.

Father hands me up onto the box and then Primrose. He hands me a list for the cargo loaded into the rear of the cart. “He might as well see exactly what is involved in maintaining the place,” Father says and I nod.

“At least this will make it not be a waste of a trip.”

“Good girl. Chin up, Firecracker.” I smile at him as Madge emerges from the stables atop Diablo, Gale Hawthorne beside her on an unfortunately equally impressive black stallion, already engaging her in what appears to be a lively discussion of horses. Rory and Mr. Fremont follow on their own horses.

We are a strange party. I wish that I could claim that I held on to my ire for longer, but I unfortunately do not. It is difficult to be cross with such beauty and natural delights to behold. As always, Everdeen, my home, awash in her spring glory, easily brings a smile to my face and a lightness to my heart.

“It is a fine view, is it not?” Prim asks and I turn to catch her smiling at Rory before dropping her gaze bashfully.

“It is indeed, Miss Everdeen. A most refreshing view.” His horse skips a few lengths away and I nudge my sister with my elbow.

“Have a care, Prim. The poor man will likely be befuddled with love before the day is out.”

“Oh I do hope so,” she breathes and links our arms. “You do not despise him still?”

“No, I think not. He appears to be kind and sensible…and smitten with you,” I tease and she curls into me. “And there is something to be said for his constancy in writing to you for such a long time now.”

Mr. Hawthorne asks a great many questions as we follow the roads. Tenants greet us as we deliver the items in the cart and collect items in trade. Time is spent sharing news and well wishes. Mr. Hawthorne watches it all with a critical eye.

“You seem eager to acquire Everdeen,” Madge remarks at one point as I carefully guide the horses and cart through a rather large section of muck in the roads.

“I had thought to auction it off in pieces, but my most recent business venture was such a success that I am considering retaining the estate and doing the same with it.”

“And that would be?”

“Improving it, turning it into an exemplary farm.”

“You find it deficient thus far?” I ask and he brings his horse to ride beside me.

“I find it mediocre, Mrs. Mellark, as many an estate that handed down through generations of a single family tend to be. The expectancy of inheritance dulls any feelings of ambition, the desire to make improvements and so many estates are left to languish or fall into lethargy, disrepair when they could be thriving.”

“Where exactly was your last venture?” I ask instead of contemplating his other words. Unless I am mistaken, though, the question brings a blush to his cheeks.

“Mining. Copper in North Panem and diamonds abroad.”

“Diamonds? Truly?” asks Prim. She turns to Rory with a smile. “Did you try your hand at diamond mining, Mr. Hawthorne? You made no mention of such in your letters.”

“Rory turned out to have a nose for it. At least for the diamonds. He would not admit such a thing to you, as he is far too humble,” Gale states and I refrain from stating that humility is clearly not a family trait.

“So then your experience is not at all in farming.”

“No, yet it does not seem so complicated. A bit of seed, a touch of harvest. Nothing to it. Not nearly so complex as mining.”

“Oh it is far more complicated than that,” Madge says with a beatific smile. Mr. Hawthorne frowns at her.

“Have you farming experience? Were you not a countess?”

“I was but I am no longer.”

“Surely a countess can afford to pay others to do her farming for her,” Mr. Hawthornes says and Madge’s cheeks flush brightly.

I steer the conversation back to how exactly Hawthorne intends to improve my home and how successful mining could possibly translate to successful farming.

“The trick was the workers,” Mr. Fremont explains. “They were underfed, underpaid, needing medical care in some cases. Gale provided those things and the investment turned into a success shortly after.”

“Tis only human decency. How can one expect a man to do anything well if he is starving or otherwise maltreated? Generations of inheriting what amounts to the livelihood of people, of expecting an unholy amount of sacrifice from so few.” Politics quickly enter the discussion and I am uncertain exactly how we ventured down this path. “There is a sense of entitlement that poisons the gentry and the nobility. It is what caused the war in France, part of what caused England to lose her colonies, and if we are not careful, Panem will follow next into turmoil and strife.”

“You are interested in preventing conflict then, Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask. “Would a mine that produces metal ares not profit from such a thing?”

“Of course it would, Mrs. Mellark, but the profits would be short lived. Panem only engages in brief skirmishes when pressed to do so by her allies. We haven’t the might to support an extended engagement such as several of our neighbors. Such a conflict would cause the owners of mines to further burden their workers with longer hours and higher expectations to produce. Conditions would turn from dire to bestial.”

Rory attempts to calm his brother’s rant, but it has little effect. “We are guests, Gale. No one wishes to discuss politics when there are such lovely sights.”

Darius has far better luck. “It helps that there are those willing to correct the transgressions of the past.”

“It may only slow the march towards internal strife but cannot stop it,” Gale states and then, thankfully, he does cease his talking, and yet he remains in a quiet sort of rage. For my part, I feel a strange sense of triumph.

Mr. Hawthorne fancies himself a hero of the people, rescuing the common man from the indifference or even cruelty of the upper classes. He thinks to rescue the tenants of Everdeen from such a fate. What then would he think if he saw that those who live on Everdeen land are never mistreated nor left in the cold shadow of indifference. What would he think if he knew that the landed gentry who own Everdeen sweat and work right alongside her tenants, go without during lean years as do her poor.

It is with great joy that I conduct them about the estate and converse with several tenants. Handing out the goods my father sent forth, hearing complaints and rectifying any immediate problems that I can.

Eventually, we reach a row of houses that causes my heart to speed a little.

“The Farrow family lives here,” Prim remarks and I only nod. Peeta should be here. I spot Cicero first, tied in the shade of a lean-to next to Mother’s horse, Thistle.

“Great jehoshaphat. How does a tenant farmer have such a beast? May we stop?” Gale asks, not waiting for an answer before urging his mount forward at a faster pace.

“Mr. Hawthorne…” I begin and then a great screaming of woman in labor rises up from the walls.

“Oh! The babe has not yet arrived,” Madge announces unnecessarily. “We should continue on and leave them to it in peace.”

“Try telling that to Mr.Hawthorne,” I say and urge the horses to move faster.

As quickly as it rose up, the cries die down. As we approach, the door opens and Peeta emerges. His coat has been removed and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He moves with purpose to a water pump in the yard, filling a bucket with a handful of forceful pumps. Setting it aside, he then pumps more water onto his hands and quickly cleans them. Gale slows his mount near the gate and calls out to my husband just as Peeta splashes a fair quantity of water over his face and hair.

“You there. You reside here?” Peeta sputters and wipes his face clear then looks up at Mr. Hawthorne on horseback.

“Not directly. This is the residence of Martin and Kate Farrow,” Peeta says as I finally catch up to Gale and bring the cart to a halt. Peeta turns his eyes to mine with a strained smile. I can see he is weary, worried. The birthing must not be going well.

“And the new babe, husband? How fares the child?” I ask and Gale turns his mount a bit too sharply, forcing Peeta to step back. He maneuvers around the pawing stallion and passes through the gate towards me.

“Hopefully better now that we’ve turned them the right way. It could still be several hours though. I may miss dinner as yet.”

Peeta grasps hold of the side of the cart, using only his arms and his good leg to pull himself closer to my height. He must be terribly worried and distracted to have snubbed Mr. Hawthorne so easily. Peeta’s gaze sweeps over me and I smile as I whisper to him.

“And you, my love? How do you fare?”

“Infinitely better now that I’ve seen you.” He places and hand over mine on the seat and gives my fingers an affectionate squeeze that I return. “Your mother insisted I take some fresh air before we continue. I should go and relieve her so that she may do the same.”

Mr. Hawthorne then clears his throat in a rather annoying manner.

“Might I trouble you for an introduction, Mrs. Mellark?” I scowl slightly at this. As a man of near equal rank to Peeta, he could introduce himself. But he is our guest and I am endeavouring to not anger him so I change my expression to a smile. Peeta blushes, properly chastised for his lapse in manners and once more lowers himself to the ground.

“Forgive me. My husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark. Or if you prefer to use his military title, although very few do, Captain Mellark, and quite soon it shall be Dr. Mellark. Husband, this is our prestigious guest, the illustrious Mr. Gale Hawthorne and his companion Mr. Darius Fremont. Oh and Mr. Hawthorne has a fondness for horses. He was ogling Cicero as we rode up. Perhaps you might show him off later.”

“Or now if your patients can spare you,” Mr. Hawthorne suggests.

Another scream rises up then and Peeta glances back at the hut. “I would be delighted to, but I’m afraid they cannot. I’ve tarried too long as it is.”

“Pity,” Mr. Hawthorne says and shifts in his saddle, tipping his head back to look at the sky.

“Perhaps later, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“We shall leave you to your task, then husband,” I say softly. Something strange flickers in his eyes as I lean towards him, presenting my hand to him, strangely needing one last touch before I depart, or perhaps it is that I sense Peeta needs it and would never ask me for such a thing, encumbered as I am with so many guests.

He grasps my hand to gift me with a kiss on my fingers, despite the presence of our guests, and I know we will have much to talk about tonight.

“I will see you back at home,” he tells me.

Such a simple phrase and yet as the spring breezes dry his hair, I cannot help but think of how far we have travelled together since our first meeting a year ago. I can only nod as he releases my hand, calls out a farewell to the rest of the party before he picks up the bucket of water and hurries back inside.

As we set off again, Mr. Hawthorne continues to turn about and stare from whence we came until I become annoyed with it.

“I assure, Mr. Hawthorne, you will be granted an opportunity to examine Cicero. He is a remarkable horse and I am certain my husband will oblige.”

“Yes, Gale, she is certain her husband will oblige,” Mr. Fremont says. There is something strange in his tone and Gale clears his throat before turning his mount at last to point in the direction in which we travel.

I continue to act as a guide, pointing out various features of the land, explaining the crops we grow and so much more. At one point, a break in the trees along the roadside reveals one of my favorite sights of my home. And today… today it is beyond perfection.

“Oh,” Madge breathes. “I had forgotten how lovely this meadow is in the spring.”

I had not. It is a rolling sea of green grass, dotted throughout with vibrant yellow and orange blooms, and yet I see it now through different eyes a warm joy filling my breast as I run a hand over the swell of growing child. How I wish I could raise our children here for always. Since I am uncertain that I shall be able to, I intend to pluck joy from every moment that I can. I beg a favor of Rory and he is swift to dismount.

“Only one,” I beg and he moves carefully to not trample any before plucking one lush orange bloom and handing it to me.

“Will this suffice, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Perfectly,” I tell him and then continue the tour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The word you seek this time is but one letter and found countless times throughout this chapter, indeed through every chapter, a crucial piece of every first person narrative.

To be continued…

#Springtime Edition 2019 #prompt 88 #M #late submission #submission

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jesatria · 3 years

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Fic: Simple Pleasures, Chap 8

Title: Simple Pleasures Fandom: Kushiel’s Legacy Characters: Isidore d’Aiglemort, Anne Livet Pairings: Isidore/Anne Word Count: 4,888 Rating: NC-17 Summary: The story of Isidore d’Aiglemort & the gardener’s daughter of Lombelon. WIP. Disclaimer: I do not own Kushiel’s Legacy. This is only for fun & no profit is being made from it.

Previous Chapters:

1. The Visit

2. Desire

3. The Harvest Festival

4. Triumph

5. Gifts

6. The Eagle Unbound

7. Lighting the Candle

Chapter 8: The Longest NIght

Winter came early and hard. The snows fell earlier in the City than they were usually wont to do and fever soon broke out. It made me glad that I was not planning to pass the Longest Night there. Poets soon took to calling it the Bitterest Winter. Mayhap others felt the bitterness; I did not. Quite the opposite. Things were proceeding according to my plan. Yes, the King had rejected my bid for Ysandre’s hand and Ysandre herself refused to speak against her grandfather’s decision. It was a setback, but not a serious one. I had other plans.

I was in high spirits when I arrived at Lombelon a few days before the Longest Night. In truth I’d been flying high since Baudoin’s death, as if a weight had been lifted from me. That combined with Anne’s agreement to become my consort, sufficed to keep me in a fine mood since the summer. Then there was her unexpected revelation that she’d lit the candle to Eisheth. I soon realized, however, that I liked the idea of having a child with her. I was past thirty now—it was high time I got myself an heir. Whether I ever married or not, children born of an officially-recognized consort were counted as legitimate.

A fresh dusting of snow covered the ground when I arrived at Lombelon. Anne stood in her usual place of greeting outside the door, the fur-lined cloak I’d given her wrapped tightly around her. As I rode closer, I could see she was positively glowing with excitement. I all but leapt off my horse and rushed over to her. “I’ve some wonderful news,” she said after we exchanged the usual greetings, “I’m with child.”

My eyes went wide. “You’re certain?”

“Quite certain.”

I swept her into my arms and kissed her fervently. “That is wonderful news indeed!” Somehow the possibility of fatherhood had failed to register with me yet; this brought the reality home. I was going to be a father. Anne and I were going to have a child. It was happening, truly happening. The prospect was intimidating, yes, but only a little. The entirely foreign territory of parenthood was not such a wild land when I had Anne to travel it beside me.

“Would you carry me over the threshold as if I were your wife?” Anne’s teasing voice jolted me out of my thoughts. I did as she suggested and set her down just inside the doorway. It was only a casual remark, but it got me thinking, imagining myself as King with Anne and our child beside me. The thought of tossing all political considerations aside to follow Blessed Elua’s precepts was a very appealing one. I resolved to think on it again later, once I had the prize I sought. For now, I would continue with my plan to name Anne my official consort. ‘Twas a pity it would have to wait until I had the throne. I simply did not have the time to see to it before then, not when I had so many other preparations to make.

It was immediately apparent that the Longest Night was nigh upon us. The great hall was decorated with wreaths and evergreen boughs, embellished here and there with red, white, and silver ribbons. Such decorations were common for the Longest Night, but I could see how they would have a particular significance in L’Agnace as a reminder that there was life yet in the earth and green things would return. “I see you’ve noticed the decorations,” Anne remarked, drawing my attention back to her.

“Yes. They’re quite festive. Your doing?”

“Oh no, we always decorate the great hall like this for the Longest Night,” she explained. “I like the greenery. I’d keep it there all winter if I could.”

“How very L’Agnacite of you.”

“Seeing evergreens always cheers me in winter,” she replied. Anne hated winter, a sentiment which seemed rather common in L’Agnace. I recalled hearing Ghislain de Somerville complain about it while attending winter functions at the Palace. I found it hard to relate, as winter has always been my favorite season. Still, I did the best I could to comfort Anne when the cold weather began to wear on her. I’d have my work cut out for me convincing her to ever spend the winter with me in Camlach. She wouldn’t like the cold, but she was L’Agnacite and would see the beauty of the land.

“I’ll need to take you to the Midwinter Masque at the Palace sometime,” I said. “It’s somewhat to see at least once.”

She smiled. “I think I’d enjoy that.”

“The decorations are always quite stunning, the food excellent, the costumes beautiful. The only spectacle I can think of to match it would be the Midwinter Masque at the Night Court.”

Anne’s eyebrows rose. “The Night Court has its own masque?”

I nodded. “Cereus House hosts it every year, and all thirteen houses attend. It’s harder to get an invitation there than to the Palace masque.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Twice, both with Prince Baudoin.” The first time had been the year he played the Sun Prince. None of us had known about that beforehand, only that Baudoin had a surprise he couldn’t wait to share. In retrospect I’m surprised he did not just tell us, considering how he boasted of his mother’s plans so carelessly. Parts of that night are somewhat of a blur in my memory, as I’d been more than a little drunk, though not as drunk as Baudoin. I’d been stuck holding him as he staggered into Cereus House, so drunk he could barely walk. That was somewhat I didn’t miss in the least, carting Baudoin around when he was blind, stinking drunk.

“When was that?” Anne asked.

“The first was around ten years ago. I was just shy of turning twenty.” It seemed longer ago than that. “Baudoin and I were still good friends then.” The thought didn’t sting as much as it might have months ago.

She was silent for a moment and I thought she might ask me about Baudoin, but she didn’t. “Which of the two masques do you prefer?”

That was somewhat I never considered before; I had to think on it. “Well, it’s difficult to match the sheer decadence and debauchery of the Night Court. You can certainly get it at the Palace too, but no one does debauchery quite like the Night Court does. Their masque has a tendency to turn into an orgy before the night is over.”

Anne giggled. “Decadent indeed. I imagine the Palace masque is more restrained.”

“Yes, to a certain extent. I’ve never seen it become an orgy, but that isn’t to say there aren’t plenty of couples carrying on in semi-private niches.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Those are fêtes worth attending, it seems.”

“Next year you’ll attend the Palace masque with me.” Next year I’d be King of Terre d’Ange if all went according to plan.

“I would like that very much.”

The days leading up to the Longest Night passed quickly, as all days spent with Anne had an unfortunate tendency to do. It snowed a handful of times, ensuring the grounds were covered in a blanket of white for the Longest Night. I’ve always felt the day lacks a certain something when there is no snow on the ground. Once the pathways were cleared, Anne and I spent some time walking outside. The air was brisk with winter’s chill, but not so cold as to be frigid. I was pleased to see Anne wearing the fur-lined cloak I’d given her, along with a new pair of sturdy boots and warm gloves.

“It really is beautiful, the snow,” she commented as we walked through the gardens. The snow had rendered them a foreign landscape, with the only points of familiarity being the evergreen trees and shrubs. “For all that I complain about it, it is beautiful.”

“It is. I’ve always thought there was somewhat peaceful about it when everything is covered in white after a storm, like a blanket for the sleeping land,” I said, feeling unusually poetic. I suppose my contentment in the moment brought it on.

“My father used to say somewhat similar. When I’d feel sad because all the plants died as the seasons changed, he’d tell me that many of them were only sleeping in the earth and would return again in the spring,” said Anne. I was glad to see her speaking of her father with no trace of sadness in her voice. It was nearly a year since his death and she’d seen fit to confide in me whenever the grief was especially strong. I wished I’d known Gerard Livet better so I could share her grief. My own father had died not so very long ago, and it had been a sudden thing. He’d neglected to call for a chirurgeon after being wounded in a border skirmish and the wound took septic. Maslin d’Aiglemort was nothing if not stubborn to a fault. I’d been with him when it happened and was not expecting to find myself as Duc d’Aiglemort before I was thirty.

I took her gloved hand in mine and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you think your father would approve of what has passed between us?”

She grinned. “If you mean would he approve of me getting with child by you, he would. He knew how happy you make me and so he approved of us.”

“I do wish he was here to see the birth of his grandchild. He and your mother both,” I said gently.

“So do I. What of your family? What will they think of us and our child?”

“Well their opinions hardly matter, not when I am the head of the House. I doubt any of my cousins will say a word against you.” A small smile came to my lips. “My father, were he here, would doubtless be pleased I fathered a child.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you concerned my family will not be welcoming to you?” I inquired.

“The thought crossed my mind once or twice.”

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself over it. I don’t expect you’ll need to see them often.”

Her hand relaxed a little in mine. “I know I’ve been worrying about all of this too much, it’s only that… I fear I won’t fit into your world,” she admitted. At my confused expression, she added, “The parts of your life without me in them.”

I was silent for a moment, taken aback by her words. I’d never thought of it that way, at least not consciously, but it was true enough. There were things Anne did not know and could not know. If things went wrong and my plans were exposed, suspicion might fall on her. That could not happen. By keeping her ignorant of my plans, I protected her. She would not end up like Marc and Bernadette de Trevalion, exiled for their knowledge of Lyonette’s plot. Still, it hurt to keep these secrets from Anne. “That distinction won’t matter once you’re my consort, Anne. You will learn to feel at home in my ‘world’ as you put it over time.”

“I do hope you’re right.” She squeezed my hand. “To think next year we might attend the Palace’s Midwinter Masque together.”

Next year she’d be consort to the King of Terre d’Ange if my plan succeeded. “Indeed we will.”

The Longest Night dawned clear and cold, just the sort of weather I liked. Since Anne and I would be counted as a household once she was my consort, we thought to dress according to a theme for the masque. I would be attired as winter while Anne would be summer. It was her idea and I had to own it was a good one. She had some specific ideas for the costumes, which I relayed to my tailor and seamstress. That surprised me a bit, for I’d never seen Anne to express much in the way of opinions on clothing. I hardly ever gave much thought to it myself, so I was glad to have someone else take charge of it.

We were both quite satisfied with the end results. For my part, I wore a deep forest green doublet and breeches, the shade of pine trees in the depths of winter, accented with silver. My first inclination was to wear all white, but Anne quipped that I was like to blend in with the snow given my coloring. The forest green brocade with silver embroidery was meant to evoke a pine tree with snow in its branches. To complete the costume, I wore a crown fashioned of pine boughs accented here and there with red berries.

Anne loved her costume. “I’ve never worn anything so fine,” she said, running her hands over the silk of her gown. It was the color of honey, with a pattern of fruit and flowers on the bodice and along the hem. Her crown was of flowers and green leaves fashioned from silk. Doubtless she could name all of them; I couldn’t.

I secured a cloak of white velvet around my shoulders with a silver pin. Anne left off admiring her gown to look me over. “You look like a winter spirit come from the heart of the forest. The dark green really does suit your coloring.”

“I didn’t know you paid attention to such things,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Neither did I. I never had much cause to pay attention to such things until now.”

Our costumes were complete with domino masks, mine silver and hers gold. Once they were in place, I held out an arm. Anne took it and together we made our way down to the great hall. Most of the household was already there and they stopped what they were doing to watch us walk down the stairs together, Anne’s hand on my arm. Gasps and whispers could be heard here and there—I daresay we made an impressive pair. “Do they know you’re with child?” I inquired.

“Yes, I imagine so. Word spreads quickly at a small estate such as this.” It was a bit uncomfortable that the household knew, if not exactly surprising. No doubt it was a thrilling bit of gossip.

The decorations I’d noted when I arrived were only the beginning. More had been added since then and the great hall looked entirely unlike I’d ever seen it before. I’d attended several celebrations at Lombelon over the last few years, but none of them had taken place in the great hall. L’Agnacites loved the land and with it came a fondness for outdoor celebrations. But not even they would pass the Longest Night outside. A pair of long tables had been set up on opposite sides of the hall, with ample space in between them for dancing. A fire roared in the large fireplace, keeping the room pleasantly warm. As Anne and I approached the table nearer the fireplace, folk in the crowd paused to bow or curtsy. I knew nearly all of them by name now. There was Thèrese, the head of the kitchen who’d made Camaeline dishes for me. There was Marcel, Anne’s friend and lover before—and also a bit after—she met me. If he had any lingering resentment toward me, he didn’t show it. My men were there as well, casually mingling with the residents of Lombelon. Those among them who regularly accompanied me on my visits had gotten to know the folk of Lombelon and felt at ease attending a fête such as this.

Anne and I took our seats at the center of the table nearest the fireplace. There was nothing like a formal seating arrangement—the higher-ranked members of the household sat closest to us while the rest took what seats were available. The table was laden with a fine selection of dishes. Anne took the time to point out a few of note. “I made sure some of your Camaeline dishes were included,” she informed me.

“Let us see if the other cooks did as good a job preparing them as you did,” I replied as I helped myself to slices of quiche and tarte flambée.

What followed was a Midwinter Masque quite unlike any I’d ever attended. To compare it to the masques at the Palace or Cereus House was as pointless as comparing a rabbit to a swan. They were entirely different experiences, for all that they are both Midwinter Masques. Suffice it to say that the food was quite delicious and I enjoyed the company greatly. Joie flowed freely, along with L’Agnacite wine and the pear brandy no visit to Lombelon would be complete without. I drank a bit more than was my usual want. Anne on the other hand contented herself with a single glass of joie owing to her condition.

When the meal was over, instruments were fetched and several folk left their seats to begin playing. Others moved to the open space between the tables and began to dance. Anne and I watched in comfortable silence for a few minutes. These were not the formal court dances I knew. No, they were the same sort of country dances I’d seen at other celebrations I’d attended at Lombelon. In all likelihood they were traditional L’Agnacite country dances. Each province had its own traditional dances entirely separate from the formal dances found at court. I was well-versed in the Camaeline ones and had more than a passing acquaintance with the Kusheline ones as well. Eventually the lively music gave way to a slower tune. I looked at Anne. “Would you care for a dance?”

“Dance? With you?”

“Of course.”

She blushed a little. “I don’t know anything of formal court dances.”

“Then we’ll start with somewhat simple.” I stood and offered her an arm. “I’ll lead and all you need do is follow.”

She laid a hesitant hand on my arm. “As you wish.”

Together we walked out to the center of the room. Several of the other dancers halted what they were doing to stare at us. Those nearest us moved out of the way to give us space. I took Anne’s hand in mine and laid a hand on her waist. “Put your other hand on my arm,” I instructed, “and try your best to follow me and not step on my feet.”

She smiled. “I think I can manage that.” The musicians took up their instruments and our dance began. I kept it simple, leading Anne across the floor. She was able to keep pace with me without any difficulties. It made me think of how well-matched we were in bed, how attuned we were to each other. As we danced, the crowd around us seemed to disappear until Anne might’ve been the only one there. Her mask completely failed to hide the love that was plain on her face. I could lose myself in the depths of those hazel eyes.

“You’re a good dancer,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Not even with all those times you’ve watched my sword practice?”

“Well, that isn’t dancing exactly.”

“It’s not so very different from it. The footwork is important.” It wasn’t the first time someone had complemented my dancing. The Shahrizai were surprised to find me a passing good dancer when I arrived to foster among them. More recently Ysandre de la Courcel had praised my dancing skills while dancing with me at a fête. Anne and I danced to several more songs until the hour grew late. “That’s certainly a good start,” I remarked once we’d returned to our seats. “It shouldn’t take you long to learn courtly dances.”

“I suspect not with such a good teacher.”

We were interrupted by the doors of the great hall opening wide to admit the Winter Queen. She looked much the same as other Winter Queens I’d seen, dressed as she was in a ragged cloak and hobbling along with her staff. “Our Winter Queen wears the same costume every year,” Anne remarked. “Same thing with the Sun Prince. All we do is make alterations as needed.”

The lights were extinguished. The doors opened once again to admit the Sun Prince. He tapped the Winter Queen on the shoulder with his spear. She cast off her cloak and the lights were restored. The new year had begun. “Were you ever the Winter Queen?”

“Yes. More than once. What about you? Were you the Sun Prince?”

“Of course. Once the year before I went to the Shahrizai and once the year after.”

Anne lifted a hand to stroke my hair gently. “You must’ve made a fine Sun Prince with your beautiful hair.”

Elua, I loved it when she called my hair beautiful. It was my one vanity. I avoided tying it back specifically so I could show it to its best advantage. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

After the appearance of the Sun Prince, the celebration began to wind down. Many people left the hall to retire for the night. We had no obligation to stay for the rest of the masque and thus made our exit. With the whole staff enjoying the masque, a fire hadn’t already been laid in my bedchamber. I saw to it quickly, then removed my mask and crown. After wearing them for hours, it was a relief to take them off. Anne did the same with hers and a moment later we sat together on the bed. A bottle of joie and two glasses stood on the bedside table. I hadn’t requested it. “Your doing?”

Anne nodded. “I thought we might enjoy some in private.” She uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses. “Joy to you on the Longest Night, Isidore.”

I raised the glass. “All the same to you, Anne. Joy.” I drained the glass in one go. Never let it be said I didn’t learn anything during my association with Prince Baudoin. I took a brief moment to savior the icy bite of the joie. I would easily name it my favorite liqueur if asked. There’s somewhat in it that always reminds me of Camlach, as if it retained some memory of the high places where the snowdrops grew. I set the glass on the table and looked at Anne. She sipped the last of the joie and placed her empty glass beside mine. I kissed her then, tasting the joie on her lips. She returned the kiss with equal ardor and we drank deeply from each other. Our costumes were soon a pile on the floor.

We savored each other that night. I must’ve kissed and stroked every part of her and she did the same to me. Somewhat about the simple fact that she was carrying my child made me even more aroused that I usually was. She was not showing yet—it was too early for that—but I couldn’t help stroking her stomach more than was my usual wont. Anne told me she’d already spoken with the local priestess of Eisheth, who guessed our child would be born in early summer. With luck the impending Skaldi invasion would be over by then and I could return to Lombelon to attend the birth.

I pulled her closer to me until I could feel the entirety of her pressed tight against me. She had exactly the sort of richly-curved figure prized in Camlach for the promise of warmth on the coldest winter nights. I laid a hand on her arse and buried another in her hair as if I could keep her from harm if I held her close enough. My mind was too active from the excitement of the day for me to fall asleep easily. Even after Anne fell asleep I lay awake, my thoughts turning to our child. I tried to imagine what the mingling of my blood with Anne’s would produce. Would our child be more Camaeline or L’Agnacite? Camaeline, I was fairly certain. I was of one of the purest Camaeline bloodlines, after all. But mayhap there’d be a love for gardens in there. A son with my hair and somewhat of Anne in his face. Or mayhap a daughter, but in truth I was more excited by the idea of a son. It made no practical difference—a daughter could inherit as well as a son. We are a civilized people, after all. A son, though—a son I could teach to wield a sword, draw a bow, lead the Allies of Camlach in battle, as my father had taught me the entirety of Camael’s Arts.

With that pleasant thought, I finally drifted off to sleep.

With the Longest Night now passed, my natality was soon upon us. I did not generally want a big fuss made of it, a preference formed after years of the Shahrizai and Baudoin insisting on throwing fêtes for the occasion. This year I was determined to spend the day with Anne. The only thing that disrupted our time together was a message from Melisande, and I quickly dispatched several of my men-at-arms to carry out her request. I had to wonder if she knew about Anne and me. All the local folk did. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Melisande did as well.

When the day of my natality came, thoughts of Melisande’s request vanished entirely from my mind at the prospect of spending the day with Anne. She insisted on marking the occasion, and I was happy to go along with it. She spent a portion of her time in the kitchen, preparing a special dinner. It consisted of Camaeline dishes, some which I specifically requested. To be able to enjoy some comforts of home while also spending time with Anne was the best birthday gift I could’ve hoped for.

Anne had other gifts for me. “You really did not need to do this,” I said as I followed her into the bedchamber.

“I know. But I wanted to anyway.” She gestured to one of the armchairs by the fireplace, where she’d laid out my gifts. A pair of shirts were draped over the arms of the chair, with a smaller square of cloth resting between them.

“You made me shirts. But how…?”

“I might’ve… borrowed one of your shirts while you were last here so I could get your measurements,” she admitted. “I know they’re not as fine as what you usually wear…”

“They’re just perfect. Thank you, Anne.” The shirts were fairly plain, with little in the way of embellishment on the collars and cuffs. Not that I don’t wear shirts with lace trim on occasion, but it is not my preference. My eyes then shifted to the square of cloth lying on the seat of the chair. It was a handkerchief. A closer look revealed she’d embroidered it. That took me aback for a moment—I hadn’t known Anne had such skill in embroidery. She’d stitched a pair of silver eagles in opposite corners, with pear blossoms at their feet.

“I copied them from the eagles on your standard,” said Anne.

“It’s quite a good likeness.”

“I wanted to give you a lover’s token you might take with you when you ride off to war again.”

Her words fell heavily between us. I’d not spoken of the coming Skaldi invasion to her at all during this visit. Better not to speak of it at all than dwell on what I had to keep hidden from her. I steered the conversation away from the impending invasion. “A very thoughtful gift. I’ll be sure to keep it with me.”

“I’m so pleased you like it.” Anne smiled. “I’ve been quite busy with sewing lately, for I mean to make a quilt for our child.”

“Really? I’ve not seen you doing anything of that sort since I’ve been here.”

“That’s because I’ve been too busy spending time with you.”

I sat on the bed. “Well, you can rest assured our child will have all the blankets he could possibly want.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He?”

“Or she,” I added. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to have a son. The idea of teaching him to wield a sword really appeals to me.”

“Could you not teach a daughter?”

I considered her question a moment before answering. “I could, yes. Camaeline women are taught to defend themselves should they be attacked, but they don’t fight on the battlefield.” I met Anne’s eyes. “You know I wouldn’t love any daughter of ours any less.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, amused, “and in case you were wondering I have no particular preference for a son or daughter.”

I spent most of the winter at Lombelon. Business did call me away from time-to-time, but for the most part I was able to spend much of my time with Anne. There was a sense of urgency in it as winter began to loosen its icy grip on the land. When the days grew warm enough that I judged the nearest pass to be open, I left for Camlach.

It was a difficult parting, the most difficult we’d had thus far.

Soon I would be at war.

Notes

I’ve been writing Kushielfic for 10 years, & this is the 1st time I’ve actually managed to post a Longest Night scene on the Longest Night. Enjoy, & joy to you on this Longest Night!

#kushiel's legacy #simple pleasures #jesatriafic #isidore d'aiglemort #anne livet

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iamalivenow · 4 years

Text

[can’t tag it but its explicit because of course it is]

“Build me my panopticon, and I'll give you everything you want.”

“Everything?” Robert watches the man sitting across from him. Even in the dim lighting, the low glow of the gas lamps in this quaint little establishment, Jonah Magnus manages to stand out brighter than any other living thing. “A high offer, certainly.”

“It would be so good for me.” Jonah sits upright, always proper, always delicate, immaculate, with his long sleeves and high collar. Every slip of skin felt like a treat he wasn't meant to be having. “So unbelievably good, my good sir. And the joy must spread, mustn't it? Workers? Sums? Simply ask and you'll receive it.”

His eyes- his eyes are so horrifically captivating. He feels drawn in, every single time. They're not even that vibrant, it would seem. The color on anyone else felt like nothing at all, but on Jonah- Robert finds him drawing them in the margins of his drafts more often than one would think. He finds himself frequently drawing all of Jonah, with his dark hair and his dark clothes and his captivating gorgeous eyes.

“Ah, well.” He smiles and catches Jonah's own grin for but a moment. “I wasn't aware that you were attached to the project.”

“I wasn't until recently. A sudden rather sharp change in management, as it were. But I've little interest in perusing the venture if your name is not attached.”

The food here is barely passable, and he hardly blames Jonah for not eating any of his. The ale is excusable, but they're both clearly gentlemen of standing, and if Jonah will not imbibe then neither shall he.

“Dare I ask if you are a fan?”

“Ask away.” Robert laughs, lifting a hand to his mouth.

“You're much too funny, Jonah. Much to funny.” His lips quirk up again, and that is simply a delight. “Yes, of course I'll take the work. Am I a fool to say no such a phenomenally lucrative offer?”

“Wonderful.” Jonah slides contract papers across the grimy table and Robert has to wonder why on earth someone as high standing as Jonah would ever invite someone to such a hole in the wall. Mayhap out of consideration? His estate was not too far, and certainly more sparing then a quick jaunt to Germany, or where ever it was that he was staying.

“I'll have the designs over as soon as Monday. Wednesday at the latest.” Jonah's beautiful eyes grow wide for a moment.

“So soon?” He clears his throat. “I appreciate it of course, more then anything but, you needn't rush for my sake.”

“Oh, I've been toying with ideas for some time now. And that aside.” He does call a waiter over to inquire of the whiskey offerings. Certainly Jonah would understand the need to celebrate. “I find myself rather inspired as of late.”

If he was more artistically inclined, he would rush to his estate for his canvas, while the image of Jonah Magnus smiling so brightly at him was still fresh in his mind.

…

They are in the onsite office, discussing materials when Robert sees Jonah pass down the hall.

“Ah, my good sir-” He nudges past his assistants and rushes to the hallway. “Pray, have you lost your way?”

Jonah turns from where he stands, a particularly dark navy riding coat on his slim waist, tucked into perhaps the whitest pair of trousers he's ever seen outside of a shop.

“No, no not at all.” He laughs at that, as if that's somehow the best joke he's heard in a few days. “Just-” He makes a hand gesture. “Taking it all in.”

“My office is-” Robert glances through the glass, at his two assistants still pouring over measurements. “I'm occupied with rather dull business at the moment, but if you've need of me I can make time.”

“Ah, I see.” Jonah crosses his arms and takes a moment to think. “I'm quiet alright actually, just checking in.” To say that Robert feels crest fallen is an understatement. “However, as I am here, I might as well ask now. I've been invited to a party this coming Friday, by the Lukas'. If you are not dreadfully busy, would you find the time to accompany me?”

Ah-

As in-

“Forgive me, I've not met them-” He's heard of them certainly. Most people have in their circles. But most people have not had any personal acquaintance. He honestly doesn't know why he's surprised by Jonah anymore. Every day the man finds new ways to fascinate him.

“They're rather reclusive.” He laughs to himself again. “Mordechai is friendly enough when you can draw him away from his studies. You will come won't you?”

“Ah- Yes, yes of course.” He had nothing to wear to meet someone like the Lukas' but that is rectifiable. A quick trip to the estate would rectify that hopefully. Laura would understand, these were the Lukas' they were talking about, after all. “Should I bring something along?”

“A jovial mood.” Jonah smiles. “Though, if you've in possession of a good cherry, I don't imagine it will be turned down either.”

The image flashes in his mind but for an instant but Robert can not help but linger on it. The two of them, close friends, confidants, sitting on a balcony in the late hours, two glasses between them. Robert can see the pale skin of his wrist, can feel the hot breath of Jonah's whispers on his ear. The two of them so close, and then Robert, turning to gaze into those eyes, like a man possessed he grips Jonah's chin and tugs him into a kiss.

“Of course.” It comes out barely more then a mumble. Bottle of cherry. A cheerful disposition. His mind lingers on the kiss, even when the rest of him reals, begging composer in front of the man, in front of his friend!

Jonah places a hand on Robert's shoulder, searing somehow, even through the layers of his waistcoat.

“Friday.”

He remains locked in the spot, nigh breathless until he could no longer hear Jonah's heals down the hallway. And then he did what any sensible gentleman would do in his circumstance, and rushed to his desk chair before he could faint on the floor.

…

The party was a rather raucous affair.

A most peculiar gentleman, much to lively for a man his age, had challenged the two of them, Robert and Jonah, to a game of darts almost as soon as they arrived which he won instantly, bullseye on every shot. Jonah had stood by and watched with amusement as Robert missed all but one, but the man, Fairchild, clapped him on the shoulder.

“You shouldn't play against him for money.” Jonah told him later, when the dancing had begun and both of them with out a partner, stood to the side. “He'll clean up every time.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Mm.” Jonah nods. “Old acquaintance.”

“And has he always been so-”

“Full of vigor?” Robert laughs. “I can't attest to the man's youth but for all I've known him he's been much the same. Wonderful artist.”

“Artist?” Of all the things he could have imagined, it certainly wasn't something so... sedentary that he would place on the man.

“Recently, he's been rather fascinated by trains.”

Trains...

“And how is it that you've come to know him?”

“Similar work, I suppose you could say.”

“Gossiping?” Robert jumps, not his finest moment. The man stands behind him almost as if he'd appeared out of thin air. “Is this him them? Your brilliant architect?”

Jonah had called him brilliant?

“Robert, this is Mordechai.”

“Ah, our host.” He holds his arm out and after a rather long moment, Mordechai shakes it. A peculiar man as well, but so different from Fairchild. Solidly built and rather imposing, hair already graying even as he seemed rather young. “A pleasure, Mr Lukas.”

Jonah, though, looking rather pleased with himself, called him brilliant?

Him?

“So well behaved.”

“Oh, Mordechai please. Not so early into the night.” Jonah looked embarrassed for some reason, a lovely look, a most lovely look. The thought of seeing just how deep that blush might travel left Robert breathless again. Where on earth was this coming from- Laura, Laura would certainly have quiet a few words to day, her father even more so. Lord, pray no one finds of these thoughts-

Pray Jonah never finds these thoughts of his, that they never spill out anywhere near the poor man.

Does his entire chest bloom in that exquisite red-

“Pardon me.” He bows briefly and turns away from the two friends. “My glass is almost empty.”

“Your glass- have of mine then, I'm not drinking tonight.” Jonah's voice does sound some distance away.

The taste of cherry on Jonah's lips, the taste of his tongue under the moonlight-

“I insist. And surely the two of you have some catching up to do, yes-” And as he rushes across the dance floor, he must imagine Mordechai echoing Jonah's earlier sentiment of how early it truly was.

The dance floor is lively, beautiful people twisting and turning in hypnotizing patterns. It's easy to become distracted from his goal of trying to find an servant, or mayhap a balcony to clear his mind.

Jonah on a chaise lounge, shirt unbuttoned and a blush that reaches low on his chest, the moonlight bathing him in an utterly divine radiance, hair splayed out, hands reaching up for Robert's face, to run a thumb along his lip and beg for more affection. For Robert's hands on his, running over the smooth planes of his body. For Robert's fingers to do the work of getting him out of those trousers and to put Robert's mouth to much better use then just gasping for air and whispering of Jonah's beauty. For more and more, for Robert to take him there and then, on a balcony adjacent to a crowded party and damned be who sees, for Robert to-

So mayhap not the balcony then.

“Are you alright, lad?” Ah, Fairchild again. How do people keep sneaking up on him? “Looking rather peaky there.”

“I'm quiet alright, just-”

“Catching your breath?” There's a grin on the man's face Robert doesn't appreciate all that much.

“Something like that.” Robert runs a hand down his front. “I don't suppose you've seen a servant- I've been searching-”

“So have they I imagine.”

Of all things, he doesn't find himself all that surprised at the riddles. They seem to be expected, for the evening he finds himself having.

“Ah, Jonah- Mr Magnus said you were a painter.” Anything to make small talk, anything to bring some shred of normalcy back to him. To erase even half of his brazenness.

“Mmhm.” He points up and Robert humors him.

The ceiling is a thing of spectacle, an endless sky so realistic he swears he sees the clouds drifting betwixt the chandelier.

“It's-” He finds himself at a loss for words. How could he have not even noticed, how could anyone hide a masterpiece such as this on a ceiling of all places? It's so easy to get lost in as well, an endless blue as real as the one outside- it's almost as if day time itself has been captured, tamed, and splashed over the ceiling.

“Breathtaking?” Jonah's voice rings out like a shot.

“Flatterer.” Fairchild laughs, slapping a hand on Jonah's back who just smiles back good naturedly. “It wasn't a gift for you.”

“That would be my honor, wouldn't it.” Mordechai laughs, here now too.

They're old friends, the three of them, clearly, why in the Lord's name would Jonah bring him along.

“But if you would like one, I'm sure I could break out the brushes again.”

“Mayhap another time, Simon.” Jonah had smiled, smiled, smiled again.

That damn beautiful smile.

Worse still, his eyes.

Robert felt so exceptionally small under those eyes.

“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Again, barely more then a mumble. “I- My wife is expecting me.”

“So soon?” Mordechai asks, a hand on Jonah's shoulder.

“I was potentially a little unclear on the events of the night.” He clears his throats. “I would hate to have her worry over a miscommunication.”

“Of course.” Jonah steps away from the other two men. “Allow me to walk you out?”

Say no.

Pray, Lord, the will to say one simple word.

“Certainly.”

Not that simple word.

…

He dreams of him now.

Well.

He dreams of the two of them, under an endless sky. The two of them in isolation, in tall grass, the only two left alive. Clouds rush overhead only to twist and turn into stars shining brightly and brilliantly. He dreams of Jonah whispering secrets that he can never remember when the morning comes.

Of Jonah's eyes on him, hungry.

Watching endlessly, almost never blinking as if he wants to drink all of Robert dry.

He wakes to an empty bed, and a quick run of his hand to his waist assures him that is a good thing. Bless Laura for being dutiful, for not asking him of his most absurd moods of late.

Jonah invites him out to have tea, and again, no does not come to him.

He wants to see him, is the worst of it. Mayhap not the worst, but it does feel to some degree unnatural. The pull between them.

“Robert.” Jonah stands from his seat, brushing his lap. “How pleased I am to see you again. Your wife was alright, yes?”

“My wife?” He sits across from him and gives his order to a waiter already at his side.

“The miscommunication?”

“The miscommu- oh, Oh, yes of course. She's very understanding, my Laura.” He smiles in way he hopes is convincing and not sickly or weak. Jonah smiles back, reaching forward to take Robert's hand in his.

He can see the pale skin of his wrist.

Jonah doesn't have a wife, some traitorous part of his brain supplies. Jonah has been a bachelor for a long time now. He lives alone, as far as Robert knows. No relatives to speak of, no servants. He travels between London and some tiny village in Germany frequently enough, but when Robert asked him about it months ago, Jonah had made clear it was of a visit of a friendly nature.

He can still see Jonah's wrist.

His face feels warm.

“How is the jail progressing?”

“The-”

Of course this a business meeting, yes, of course. Excellent. Wonderful. He could speak on the finer points of concrete and structural support and subtle design elements for hours on end, and threse no way his mind will drift off to any untoward places.

A thousand blessings on his chosen profession.

A thousand at least.

They spend the better part of the day discussing logistics, and that's fine. What isn't fine, what most assuredly will send him down yet another spiral of confusion, is that, despite what Robert initially thought, that Jonah was just attached to the project for the sake of investiture, Jonah. Jonah seemed. Interested.

And not only interested, but involved. Aware of terms, aware of expectations. So unlike the usual sponsors he spoke with, Jonah had opinions he wanted to contribute. At some point he asked the staff to bring him a paper and pencil and the man started drawing diagrams- the lines were straight! Straight!- at scale, with variation- one of them even explained how he had intended the lighting to work- and around the point when Jonah had mentioned wanting to bring in an electrician, Robert had to excuse himself to the wash room.

He looked a mess, splashing water onto his face and getting half of it down his shirt.

This man was going to put him into an early grave.

…

“Phenomenal!”

Jonah walked along the center chamber, running his bare hands along the walls.

“As we discussed.” Robert says. “To your specifications.” He looks so elated, Robert feels as if he might expire at any given moment.

“This, truly, this is everything I had ever hoped for. And look, look how-” Jonah throws his arms out. “How monumental it all it! How-” He waves a hand in the air. “Truly, Robert. Truly, your finest work.”

He climbs the stairs two at a go, in a rush to get to the observation deck and Robert does all he can to keep pace.

“I didn't imagine it would please you quite this much.” Thought the praise is nothing if not appreciated. “It's just a jail.”

“Just a- No-” Jonah stops on the stairs and grabs Robert's hand before tugging him the rest of the way. “Don't sell yourself so short, my good man, my best man.” He laughs. “You'll understand from up here, come, come, don't dawdle.”

“I swear I'm not.” Jonah laughs again, echoing through the empty space.

“It's not just a jail.” Jonah ushers him into the observation room. “This is-” He sighs and looks through the glass at all of the empty cells. “This is a seat of power.”

“Peculiar way of thinking of it.” Robert gasps for breath. Quiet a few bit of stairs there.

“But it is- this is going to change everything.” Jonah leans on one of the desks. “You could see everything they do, everything all at once, every movement, every whisper, practically every thought if you're attentive enough. At every moment, of every minute, of every day. Not a moment of peace, not a moment to yourself that isn't observed, that isn't cataloged. Nothing is secret, nothing is private, it's all for me-” Robert looks at him.

Really looks at him.

“For you?”

“Speaking metaphorically. As a guard.”

“Oh, of course.”

“But truly, this is-” He jabs his finger into the desk he's sitting on. “This is going to- god, Robert.” He smiles, wide. Dangerous, he thinks, oddly sharp for a man as soft as Jonah. “I promised you everything you wanted, do you remember? When we started?”

“Of course I do.”

Of course he does.

He has a feeling he couldn't forget even if he wanted to at this point.

“So what will you have? How could I possibly repay you for all of this- this majesty you've granted me.”

“You, the security guard.”

“Oh, no. No, me. This is a masterclass of architecture. To think I could aid you in it. To think you built it for me?” He drags the word out, hand on his chest. “Either way. What of everything shall you be having, my good man?”

“You.” He says.

It was truly, truly just him trying to catch up to the conversation. At the pace that Jonah was going on, all of the praise he had been heaping, all fo the metaphors, Robert had truly gotten a little lost along the way.

Jonah, though, for his part, as Robert's eyes go wide and he starts to mumble his way through a thousand apologizes, doesn't even look surprised.

And then he's in Robert's space, staring for a moment, and then kissing him.

Robert is certain he tastes the cherry.

“Everything you want.” Jonah says, one hand already working the buttons on Robert's slacks.

“What are you-” Jonah kisses him again, teeth along his lip that makes his head spin.

“You think I don't notice how you stare sometimes?” Well he was really rather hoping Jonah hadn't. “Like I'm that damn ceiling in Lukas' manor? Like you want to fall into me and disappear?”

“I'm sorry-” He begins- before there's a hand over his mouth- Jonah's soft hand.

Touching his face.

“Don't be. You think I don't want you to?”

“You like being stared at?”

Jonah laughs.

“You're wonderful.” Jonah says and returns to the buttons. “Truly. After this-” He points between the two of them. “I'll teach you some secrets, hm?”

“Secrets-”

“About why I wanted you so desperately-” He drops his knees and before Robert even has the sense to fully realize what is about to happen, Jonah has his hand around his cock, giving him a few strokes before opening his mouth licking at the head. “To build this prison for me.”

“Jonah-” Robert grips the desk behind him, fingers digging into the wood. “You don't- for the love of God, you don't have to-”

“Oh, but I want to.” And then Robert's cock is in his mouth, and what a mouth, what a mouth. His tongue is the only thing in the entire world and Robert wants nothing more then to just stay here, frozen for all eternity. And he's staring again, Jonah is, the same hungry way he stares in the dreams. In his visions of that all too elusive balcony. “I wanted to at the party, at your office, at that filthy decrepit excuse of a restaurant.”

“Oh-” It's a moan that escapes him now, an even louder one follows when Jonah is back to licking the head of his cock, swirling his tongue around like it's a sweet. “Jonah-”

“I was wondering, how long it would take for you to realize I wanted you too. If you were bold enough to shove me onto my knees there and then, make all of them stare, make all of them watch while I sucked your cock.” The possibility seemed to far removed at the time. “But now, you've given me such a phenomenal gift, I forgive you entirely for the wait.”

“Jonah- Jonah-” The only word on his tongue now is this man's name. Have there ever been any other words? Has all of the English language been created just so he could utter Jonah's name with enough reverence in this singular moment?

“A genius, ahead of his time.” He places a kiss on it, as if that's something one does, and then takes all of Robert into his mouth. All of him truly, until Robert feels what must be the velvet skin of the back of his throat. He bobs his head back, until his face is brushed up against his pant leg. One of Jonah's hands grips his thigh, hard enough to bruise.

“Jo-Jonah-” Robert gasps for air, one of his own hands leaning down to run it through Jonah's dark hair. Jonah pulls off for but a moment.

“Grip it. Harder, yes just like that.” And then he's back, sliding the entire length of his cock along his mouth and into his throat. That wet heat is everything, his entire being, all and all and all of him. “I'm not breakable, pull like you- ah!- that's it- that's it-”

“Is- Is it truly alright?” He is pulling rather had- but all he gets is a nod and a hum, and oh, he feels the vibrations all the way up his spine. It makes his toes curl in his boots. It makes him grip Jonah's hair hair.

Jonah does- does something with his tongue just at the very head and it makes his toes curl again, his eyes fluttering shut and another long sigh escaping his mouth. His thigh is slapped and his eyes fly open- Jonah smirking up at him through his long lashes.

Alright, so he'll just keep his eyes open then- all the better- certainly all the better with how red Jonah's lips are getting, with his eyes watering just a smidge. He feels like he's about to spill over- from the tightness in his belly and the way his hips start to jerk to meet him, he must be.

When he does spill, and he does rather quickly after the thought, it's right against the back of Jonah's throat. Jonah grips his other thigh, breathes through his nose and swallows every drop, before pulling off of him with a satisfied grin on his face, a hand wiping at the saliva on his chin.

Again, the desire to rush home, to grab paints he doesn't own and spread them on a canvas are so strong- to commemorate this moment, every moment they've had together- is so strong he barely knows what to do with himself.

“Will you take me in hand?” Jonah's risen at some point, mouth close his ear. A quick glance down confirms the warm bulge grinding against Robert's thigh all to inviting to neglect. He fumbles the buttons with significantly less grace then Jonah had his own, but Jonah is patient, hips jutting forward every now and then in impatience. Finally, he gets him free. “Lick your hand first.”

Robert does as he's told, and for a singular moment there may be a part of him struggling with the revelation that he is about to touch another man's cock, but it's a quiet part, and the moment is gone quickly.

He is so warm, and heavy in his palm, head already dripping- the thought that he had gotten aroused from sucking Robert's cock- that Jonah- Jonah- his Jonah would have gotten hard from something like that makes him feel as if he's been set ablaze.

“Jonah-”

“As you would yourself-” And he does, stroking him as if his life depended on it. Jonah's arms are over his shoulders, his palms on the back of his neck. He's panting- he's making Jonah pant, gasp, jerk his hips into his grasp- he feels dizzy, but he doesn't dare close his eyes. Jonah- Jonah likes being watched, then so be it. It's all he can do in the moment, especially when his hand still for but a second and Jonah whines right in his ear.

“Jonah-”

“I-I'm loathe to beg- b-but if you want that of me-” He gasps, hips jolting forward again. “Then please, please, please, Robert-”

“Jonah-”

“Please-”

Robert grasps him a little tighter, and stares down at the red of his cock and Jonah moans in his ear, fucking his hand until his climax, a sharp and punched thing, ends in a groan, resting his head on Robert's shoulder.

“Are- Are you alright?”

“I'm phenomenal. Just- catching my breath.”

Once they are presentable and clean again, Jonah stares out the windows with a smile on his face. His lips still a little red, stained with his effort.

“That was-”

“Mordechai is throwing another little get-together, this coming Friday.” Jonah glances at him. “Mayhap this time you'll stay long enough to allow me the pleasure of showing you the view from the balcony.”

Robert-

A lot of things go through his mind all at once, nervous and jittery and oddly calm at the same time. How did he know, did he know or was that just an assumed spot for these sorts of things, had he knows the whole time before even Robert himself knew, had he some how orchestrated this entire thing, did his friends know, is that what the teasing about, was he being serious while he was on his knees, why did he know so little when Jonah seemed to know so much?

“I would love to.”

#the magnus archives #writing #fanfic #long post #i blacked out and wrote this in four hours

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autumnslance · 5 years

Text

Prompt #3: Lost

She had looked everywhere.

Aeryn upended her pack (again, there was nothing in it), feeling through every pouch and crease. She turned out all of her pockets, and all of her pouches. She even checked her scabbard.

She slid to the floor of the Intercessory--the “Falling Snows” as Haurchefant had called it--and covered her mouth with a hand to hide her sobs.

It’s just an old toy, she tried to remind herself. Just a little tin knight; we lost the rest of the set, and the dragon they had fought, long ago...

Her chest squeezed painfully and she hiccuped back a sob, trying not to let anyone hear.

The knights had been Zaine’s favorites when they were children. He had names and personalities for each of them, and sent them on grand adventures through the house and yard, often staging elaborate productions for Aeryn’s amusement--if he was putting on a show for her toddler self, she wasn’t trying to grab at them so much, risking damage to his beloved toys.

Sometimes the knights were friends with the dragon, instead of fighting it, until Papa had explained why that was Bad. Aeryn recalled being sad the dragon and knights couldn’t be friends anymore, after that talk. She had been too young to really understand, though Zaine had looked pensive after.

Most of the toy knights, and their dragon, were lost with the rest of their home when the real dragons attacked. Zaine had found only the one, scorched and slightly melted, before they had to leave. He kept it with him all through the journey from Coerthas, leaving Eorzea.

Aeryn had often seen him holding the old toy, looking smaller and smaller in his hand as time passed, whenever something happened to draw out that same, pensive look on his face. Or when he was sad, or simply missing their father and old life, that he remembered better than she did.

He always had it with him, until the day he left.

She stood at the dock, eyes hot with tears she tried not to let fall. “I want to go with you.”

“Not yet,” he said, his own voice thick. “We made a deal with Mama. Soon enough, you’ll be done with your studies and can join me.”

“I could study in Eorzea,” she countered. “She’s being unreasonable.”

Zaine laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Mayhap, but so are we, according to her.” He held out his hand. In his large palm was the tiny tin knight. “Do me a favor, and keep this for me. Give him back when we meet again.”

“This is stupid,” she muttered, even as she accepted the old toy, clutching him tightly.

“You’re stupid,” Zaine countered automatically, leaning in to give her a hug and kiss her forehead. “You’ll meet me in Eorzea before we know it.”

Life rarely goes as planned. Mother was soon unable to hide how sick she really was, the reason she hadn’t wanted to let either of her children leave and had clung so tightly to Aeryn while Zaine had refused to be manipulated into staying.

After a couple years of beating her head against a wall, Aeryn had to give up her magic studies to care for her mother.

The Calamity happened. Her brother’s letters stopped coming. People stopped speaking about him, or mentioning his name. At first, Aeryn thought they were trying not to upset Mother.

They had forgotten. Aeryn hadn’t even realized she had forgotten his name until after the battle in the Praetorium. Then it all came back in a rush of light.

Along with the knowledge, bone deep, that she was never going to find him. Never going to see him again.

The Crystal did not answer why.

She had carried the little tin knight back to Eorzea with her, usually kept on her person, and what foolishness that now turned out to be. Everything was so jumbled after that godsawful night in Ul’dah. The other Scions. Nanamo. Raubahn. The Rising Stones.

Her last memento of her brother.

You’re acting like a child, she scolded herself, still unable to stop her crying. After all, hadn’t she come home in the end?

Outside, the wintry winds keened in response, while knights watched out for dragons.

The Rising Stones were in shambles, but nothing seemed to be too damaged. There was a constant hum of talk, stories swapped as those who had slipped the Braves’ net reunited with those who had been held captive. Alphinaud was sharing stories of their time in Ishgard. There were even jokes and some laughter.

“Aeryn,” Riol’s voice, getting her attention as she straightened one of the knocked over tables.

She paused and smiled at him. Like the others, he was no longer wearing the blue coat of the Crystal Braves, returning to his familiar, comfortable Limsan style.

He smiled back, and hesitated. “So while cleanin’ up, I found somethin’. I think it might be yours? I asked the Doman children, thinkin’ it one of their toys, but Koharu said different…”

He held out his hand, and Aeryn gasped. The little tin knight lay in his palm. There were new scuffs on the battered bit of metal, but there was no mistaking it.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it back. She felt the sting in her eyes and looked away. “I thought it gone forever.”

She felt more than saw his own smile. “I ain’t ‘bout to press, so, you’re welcome,” he said. “If only our other friends were so easy to find as steppin’ on the right spot,” he joked.

Aeryn chuckled. “We’ll find them somehow,” she replied. The tin knight was warm from being held in Riol’s hand. If this little fellow came back to me, the others will too.

Thank you, Zaine.

#Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIVWrite2019 #Heavensward #A Realm Reborn #Riol Forrest #Aeryn Striker #Backstory #Lyn Writing

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chrysalispen · 4 years

Text

xiv. alive, not vital overmuch;

Of all the things the Carline Canopy’s proprietress would have expected the Council to request of her as part of Gridania’s rebuilding effort, playing hostess to an imperial prisoner of war on a work-release program was not one of them. But looking at the haggard, pale young woman before her, dressed in filthy homespun and absolutely soaking wet from the downpour outside, Miounne realized this woman wasn’t at all what she had feared.

Truth be told, she hadn’t been quite certain what to expect. A cruel mien, or mayhap a pretty one paired with a haughty, dismissive demeanor. She’d spoken to enough adventurers over the years to be passing familiar with stories of the warlike race from far northern Ilsabard – or, perhaps more correctly, the tall tales and gossip. She’d heard that Garleans fancied themselves superior to other races, that they were taller even than Roegadyn, that they had a third eye that allowed them to see in all directions at once, that they were violent and, well.

Rather savage, really, for all that they applied that epithet so freely to Hydaelyn’s other peoples.

This woman - no, girl, Miounne thought, this was just a girl, really - had the so-called third eye and that was all: a small pearlescent jewel resting perhaps an ilm below her hairline. Concealed for the most part, by honey-blonde locks that badly needed washing. She might tower over a Midlander but her height was hardly remarkable. She didn’t appear cruel or sullen or haughty, either, although the hands white-knuckled and fidgeting at her waist clearly betrayed discomfort.

Well, she supposed, one could hardly expect an enemy prisoner to be pleased with their reduced circumstances.

“So, you’re the imperial army chirurgeon who surrendered to the Maelstrom.”

“Correct.” That soft, subdued voice was not what she had expected, either, seeming rather better suited to a lady’s drawing room than a battlefield. It also held the barest hint of a tremor; whether from fear or some other emotion, it was impossible to tell. “I am told you offered your space to the Grand Company on the Seedseer’s behalf. You have my thanks.”

Not trusting herself to respond to that, Miounne pushed the ledger on her desk towards her charge.

“Write your name here,” she said. “I oversee the Adventurers’ Guild here in Gridania. In name at least, you will be entered upon this roster as one of my freelancers. It should keep most people in town from asking inconvenient questions about your presence.”

A humorless smirk tilted the young woman’s mouth – ‘inconvenient for me or for you?’ that look said, plain as day – but whatever her opinion might have been she had apparently elected to keep her own counsel, because her expression smoothed back into a neutral mask almost as soon as it had appeared. She bent studiously over the ledger to write on the page with the quill, paused mid-stroke, wrote something else, and finally put the pen back in its inkpot.

Miounne took the book back, half expecting to see an X or some other scribble indicating a signature. 'Twas not uncommon to encounter foreign adventurers who either couldn’t read Common, couldn’t write it, or both. What she saw was a name scribed in painstakingly neat and perfectly legible Eorzean letters.

“…'Aurelia Laskaris.’ ” She stared down at the bowed golden head; those dark blue eyes would not meet hers. “That’s not some amusing nom de plume, I hope?”

“No, 'tis my name, save for a title to which I can no longer lay claim.”

Oh.

“Anyroad,” Miounne cleared her throat after an uncomfortable pause, “your room is through those doors. It’s hardly what one would call opulent, but you’ll find us Gridanians a very simple lot. Your meal times will be regimented as follows. Breakfast at six bells, luncheon at noon, supper at six past, and per the terms of your sentence you are to make an appearance at the inn for all of them if you are within the city limits.”

“Will that be all?”

“I’m told you will have a companion?”

That wry half-smile returned. “The minder assigned to me by your governing council, you mean?”

“Quite. If you are detained for any reason during a meal hour, you may send them in your stead to explain the situation so that the conditions of your service are met. I don’t expect to have to impose a curfew upon you as though you are a child. I ask only that in turn you will please not abuse my hospitality.”

“I shouldn’t expect there will be an issue,” the woman answered softly. “I do find, however, that my services as you put it are unnecessary at this juncture, and I am fatigued. By your leave?”

Somewhat bemused by the polite dismissal, Miounne nodded. Her gaze lingered for a moment or two upon the tall girl as she limped away from the desk and towards the doors that led to the bedchambers of the Canopy’s patrons without so much as a glance backwards.

To a native Gridanian, an exchange like that ending the way it did would normally have seemed abrupt or impolite. Presumptive, at the very least- but Miounne instead found herself feeling both a sense of consternation and pity. She wasn’t certain what she found more remarkable: the air of quiet melancholy that surrounded the woman, or her pitifully dignified demeanor.

It was like watching a disgraced noble attempt to maintain some shred of self-possession while begging for scraps from strangers, and it made her acutely uncomfortable. She didn’t want to feel pity for a Garlean, especially not one she had not wanted to board.

But there was no help for it now. She’d given her word to the Council that she’d take the girl in, at least until a more permanent arrangement could be made.

Twelve, what have I agreed to…

~*~

Over the course of the night the latest bout of rain had passed, leaving the air still and humid. The sky was still grey and overcast, the ruined city somehow even more wasted in the light of day, blackened and broken. A thin and grimy patina of grey mud seemed to have been slapped over every single surface upon which feet had trod and the Canopy’s deck was no exception.

Aurelia limped towards the steps that led downwards to the main thoroughfare, taking care to watch her footing. A small crowd of people had gathered around the remains of the aetheryte plaza, and she saw no less than a score of men and women bracing the dark and cracked crystal with a mass of ropes and pulleys.

“Move!” a strident voice shouted. “Pull left on my count, one, two–”

As one the work detail hoisted and groaned and dug their heels into the water-loosened soil. The crystal moved perhaps the barest few ilms.

“Left! One! Two!”

She was just about to make her way down the steps when she felt the intrusion into her sphere of perception. Not even a heartbeat later, a gloved hand fell upon her forearm.

“Whoa, now hold on a moment, miss.”

Aurelia tensed, thinking perhaps she’d violated some unspoken rule, but the face she saw was mild-mannered and friendly. It belonged to a Miqo'te man with bronzed skin and fawn-colored hair and soft grey eyes, the pupils large and round in a fresh-looking face. He was wearing the yellow overcoat of what she was quickly starting to realize was the color of Gridania’s Grand Company, the Order of the Twin Adder.

“You don’t want to go out there just yet,” he continued.

“I’m sorry, but I’m expected. The Council was supposed to send someone-”

Without skipping a beat he thrust a hand forward. “That 'someone’ is me, as it happens. The name’s Keveh'to Epocan. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you and make certain you don’t decide to hop the border.”

“I doubt I should get that far,” Aurelia said wryly. “I can barely make it down the blasted stairs without falling.”

“That all that’s stopping you, is it?”

“Hardly. I couldn’t return now even if I wished it.”

“…Ah. Well-” he cleared his throat, “it’s the Conjurer’s Guild that has need of you, actually. But before we’re off… you’ll want to put this on.”

The object he held out to her was a kerchief, made of the same homespun, layered and heavy and obviously meant to be worn on her head. Confusion reigned for a span of seconds before her face paled and she looked away.

“The third eye,” she said, her voice flat. “Of course.”

“Sorry, Miss Laskaris. It’s just…” He sighed, glanced at the work crew, and his voice dropped to a mutter. “I’m saying you should hide it for your own safety, you understand? People are… sensitive right now. They’re already upset enough knowing the Seedseer agreed to take in some of your fellows. Should they find out a Garlean is in the city, right under their noses…”

Her minder trailed off, watching her stare down at the rough hempen cloth in tense silence. To his credit he had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything as she arranged the kerchief on her head so that the fold over her brow covered both her third eye and her neatly brushed fringe.

“Most folk will know you’re a prisoner, mind, and they’ll be suspicious but they’re not like to harass you - at least, not any more so than any of the others. We’re for the Fane today, so we’ll just pass this lot by and leave them to their work.” Keveh'to held out his elbow. “Here, hold onto me. The mud’s left the pathways a bit tricky to navigate.”

It was slow going. The wooden-soled pattens had almost no traction to speak of and she slipped several times, her gait made clumsy with her limp. But her minder was patient and quiet, and caught her each time with a friendly smile, and they were able to pass by the crowd around the platform without comment.

The main thoroughfare was another story.

Most of it was a mess of charred wood and ashes, and along with the Miqo'te she had to carefully pick her way about the rubble. Several of the people clearing the debris had stopped to watch them pass, and Aurelia fancied she could feel those stony, hostile stares prickling the gooseflesh on her arms.

“Murderer!” a woman’s voice shouted. “Look at what you’ve done!”

“Keep walking,” came Keveh'to’s murmur at her shoulder. “Pay them no mind.”

A moment later she found herself thankful indeed for her third eye and the perception it granted her. The mud-covered stone had come from the other side of the road, hurled with a surprising speed. Aurelia acted upon instinct, barely cognizant of the attack until after it had happened, and was able to dodge it with relative ease. There was a sharp sting as it grazed her cheek and that was all.

Aurelia’s minder acted instantly. Tugging her arm to position her behind him in case any more thrown stones might be forthcoming, he turned a scowl upon the small cluster gathered on the far side of the path, his tail lashing against her leg in the restless sort of way Sazha had used to do when he was agitated.

“Tossing about insults is one thing, ladies,” he said sternly, “but I’ll not have you attacking people in the streets.”

“Why is she even here?” the leader of the number scoffed, with an angry lift of her chin. She was pretty in the sort of way Aurelia recognized from personal experience: delicate features, head of glossy golden curls, blue eyes alight with defiance. “Why should we have to tolerate imperials in our own bloody city, the one they destroyed? Why are you defe-”

“Enough, Alyse! This isn’t your concern.”

“Says who?”

“Says the Seedseer. Now you keep your hands - and any thrown projectiles - to yourself in future, or there will be consequences.”

The Hyur’s jaw dropped.

“…Are you threatening me?”

“I’m reminding you that the Twelveswood’s law applies to everyone,” Keveh'to said coolly. “Now you have a choice. You can either disperse or return to your business, but make a decision before I have a mind to press the issue with the Wailers. Your father has enough worries as it is.”

The pair locked gazes for a moment, but Alyse was the first to look away - though she continued to glare daggers at his charge.

Sullen-faced, the women returned to their work, and the prisoner hurried past with her minder close at her heels. They made their way down winding paths, past more burnt homes and shops and gardens, Aurelia keeping her eyes carefully fixed upon the ground.

“Down this path,” Keveh'to said with a brief gesture. “The Stillglade Fane is just ahead. Home of the Conjurers’ Guild.”

By chance or by design, the glade appeared to have been spared any major damage. The stones beneath her feet were worn smooth, mottled with lichen, and half-overgrown by countless treads along the path, and as she emerged she saw people lying in cots under the open air, sheltered from the sky only by the massively tall canopy of the Shroud that arched gracefully over the clearing. Robed figures moved with an unhurried grace from cot to cot, and a soft, cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

At her questioning glance, he confirmed:

“People often bring their ill or injured loved ones to the Fane for healing when matters are particularly dire - though the Hearers say it’s up to the elementals whether those lives be spared or no.”

“ 'Dire matters.’ I suppose there has been quite a bit of that particular circumstance as of late.”

“I’ll not deny it. Most come away with their hopes dashed, these days. Even at their friendliest, the elementals cannot and will not save everyone. This disaster left most of them so addled with rage they will no longer respond even to the Padjal. This way.”

Aurelia followed a few steps before she halted in her tracks, froze in place at the entrance. Even from here she could see the Fane’s interior corridor was dark and almost oppressively quiet, its walls close, barely enough to admit two people.

No recourse if there was a collapse.

She stared into its depths without blinking, the pupils of her eyes blown wide despite the diffuse light of day, and all but startled out of her skin when the Miqo'te’s hand squeezed her forearm.

“They’re waiting on us, you know- …are you all right?”

“….I’m fine,” she rasped. There was a sharp and acidic taste on her tongue. Bile and burnt ceruleum. “I’m…. fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You look about to faint. Your leg, right? I suppose you’ve overtaxed yourself.”

“I’m-”

“Go sit down over there, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Aurelia opened her mouth to protest but one look at the man’s face told her it would fall on deaf ears.

She limped towards one of the empty stumps and seated herself, watching him disappear into the recesses of the cavern, and uncurled the hands that had clenched into fists. Two of her nails had broken skin cutting into the meat of her palms and she hadn’t even noticed. The half-moon shapes welled with thin lines of blood.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her thighs - the small sting of those cuts helped her focus, at least a little bit - and took in the cool peace of her surroundings. It was a relief that this place seemed so serene and untouched by the disaster. Most of the city of Gridania had burned to the ground and she couldn’t bring herself to look at any of it.

She supposed it was cowardice on her own part, at least on some level. It was hard to face what the VIIth had done, to acknowledge as their responsibility both the sheer scale of their folly and the consequences wrought from it. Carteneau had been horrible, but it had also been a battlefield; she could make sense of the ugliness of war in that context.

But as they’d traveled she had seen that it wasn’t confined to Mor Dhona. Bahamut had cut a deep wound into the very land and that included the deepest parts of the Black Shroud. Countless small villages had burned to the ground with no hope of rescue and naught left to salvage. There had been endless piles of deadfall and ancient old-growth trees burnt to hollowed husks, lines of shallow-dug graves peppering the roads around abandoned smallholds and settlements, and the sight of each had placed an invisible stone’s weight upon Aurelia’s stooping shoulders.

And beyond the Shroud was the entire continent of Aldenard, and that made her feel so ill with guilt she had to abandon the attempt.

“Miss Laskaris!”

Keveh'to was waving for her attention.

At his side stood… a boy, one with a pair of horns on his head that made her think of Kan-E-Senna. The smile he wore was not unlike hers had been either, though it felt somewhat more genuine, and as the pair drew nearer Aurelia couldn’t shake the feeling that much like the city’s ruler, this boy was much older than he appeared.

“The Seedseer sent word ahead,” he said. His calm voice was clear and crisp, like the sound of a bell on a cold winter morning. “Well met, Aurelia - it is Aurelia, correct? I am Brother E-Sumi-Yan, master of the Conjurers’ Guild. I trust your journey was quiet?”

“Very wet, but otherwise peaceful, yes."

Were they really sitting here discussing the weather…?

"Ah, that is good. The elementals have been ever so uneasy, ever since the fires.” As if sensing her underlying confusion, he shifted the simple wooden staff to his other hand. “When Dalamud was destroyed, it unleashed a great and terrible force. One that wreaked havoc upon the realm and will, I fear, continue to do so for some time. 'Twas all my fellow Padjal could do to ease their pain and fury, and large pockets of the forest lie too heavy with woodsin to be safe for any living creature.”

“Aren’t they calling it another Calamity, Brother?” Keveh'to asked. “That’s the rumor making the rounds anyroad.”

His smile faded. “I’m afraid so. At the very least, Calamity or no, Eorzea has been brought to her knees. We were fractious and divided at the best of times beforehand, and this disaster has sundered us nigh beyond hope of recovery. The only silver lining thus far is - if you’ll pardon me, Mistress Laskaris - that the Empire appears to have fared no better than we in the aftermath.”

“No offense taken.”

“But enough of politics; you are here for a reason. Many have been injured, mind and soul as well as body,” he said calmly, “and they are desperate for those who can bring them succor. I am told you have skills that will prove useful when used alongside conjury, and that you have extensive knowledge of reagents and the like as well- though the Seedseer did admit that knowledge is secondhand.”

“I have a kit- a field kit, that I was told accompanied me to the city. With medicine and alchemics and such, and my… my tools, should they be needful.”

“They will be, I am sure.”

“Then I will bring it with me on the morrow.” She felt the fragmented pieces of her composure assemble, then settle, as she fell into her role. It was like shrugging on a comfortable coat - she could take some solace, if naught else, in the fact that she could still be trusted to do her job to the best of her ability. “Or at least, I assume that your Seedseer wishes me to work alongside the Guild in my capacity as a chirurgeon?”

“We certainly do. Tell me, Mistress Laskaris- did your duties in the VIIth Legion include the creation of medicines as well?”

“Most of the medicines were premade and shipped to the various castra from the capitol,” she admitted. “That said, any medicus worth the title should know how to create and use simple potions at the very least, yes. Why?”

“While the ability of a conjurer to heal is absolutely vital to our skillset, it is not all that we will need to weather the coming winter. Many people were lost to this tragedy and we have had refugees coming into the old city from the outskirts for weeks. People are in sore need of food and medicine, and we have fewer in the guild who are skilled in the craft of alchemy than I should like.”

“I am only one woman, I’m afraid, but I shall do my level best with what means are available.”

He beamed at her, with an earnest air that did remind her of a boy, at that moment. “Excellent. Now, I know that you must needs report to Mistress Miounne in short order, so let us discuss what you are to do here.”

She listened to his explanations, nodded when she was supposed to nod, and bid him a cordial farewell with the promise that she’d return anon.

But in the back of her mind Aurelia couldn’t help a certain misgiving, one she knew would nag at her for some time tonight.

While she most certainly did know how to create medicines, most of the tools and components she would have used to restock her supply were not things one could find in a realm that clearly did not make use of much magitek, nor run upon ceruleum-fueled electric power. If she was careful, the contents of her kit would last for a good while, but it wouldn’t last forever. There wasn’t much to be done for it, she thought uneasily. Not right now. Not today.

Still… she’d have to figure out a workable solution, and she'd have to do so in short order.

~*~

Aurelia hadn’t had terribly high expectations in the way of Gridanian hospitality, given her cordial yet rather tense exchange with the inn’s owner and operator the night before. Thus it was with considerable and rather pleasant surprise that evening when she returned to her quarters after making use of the communal bath to find a tray with a bowl of porridge, a cup, and a teapot sitting upon the night table by her simple bed.

A few fulms away, next to the table, was a familiar large black carbonweave bag.

As she limped towards the neatly made bed with its fresh linens she saw a change of clothes laid across the coverlet: a shift dress, soft cotton undergarments, and a simple leather corset. The attire was all elezen-sized; the dress would be a bit long on her but that was easy enough to rectify.

The clothes were also in good repair, she noted, meaning they were either new or in as-new condition. The intent behind them was clear enough. Perhaps Miounne wasn’t a bad sort after all.

The Garlean allowed herself a small smile. She’d have to thank the woman at her next opportunity.

Toweling her hair dry, she slipped the undergarments on and the oversized shift, then sat down on the edge of the bed and unlatched the straps of her bag to have a look inside more out of habit than aught else. The assortment of vials and bottles and the small carbonweave belt with its set of steel tools appeared to be whole and in their proper places, not that she had particularly expected otherwise, but she was relieved to see that none of the bottles appeared to have been cracked or broken.

An additional surprise lay nestled among the synthetic reagents: a small plain wooden box that was decidedly out of place among the piles of modern medical implements. When she lifted it a piece of half-crumpled scrap paper fluttered out of one of the corners to the bedspread, having been folded and tucked into the crack between the box and its lid with obvious haste.

Frowning faintly, she unfolded the note. The writing took some few minutes to read as the straggling shapes and awkward curves of the Eorzean letters made the words difficult to decipher.

Hello Lass. If your reading this then the Sd Seedseer gave you the feild kit like I asked. Sorry my letters arnt so good. Bryn added something to & says its in the Box.

If your ever in Limsa ask for me at the Winch. Badderon will let me know.

Good luck to you miss Arelia. Hope we meet again Your Frend, Cheerful Sparrow.

The hand holding the paper trembled.

Friend.

How long had it been since she’d dared to think of anyone as a friend, a true friend? She’d had her classmates of course, and her peers in the cohort. But they had been associates, not friends - such a level of intimacy was reserved for people with whom one felt safe sharing secrets and that was just not possible in the Empire, especially not in the capitol amongst her own kind.

Not when her dreams and inner thoughts had ever ran so counter to that of the people she’d known.

Aurelia took a deep breath and opened the box.

The heavy, engraved silver pendant on its tarnished chain was one she knew all too well. When she slid her thumbnail along the groove to pop the catch that bound the locket shut, she found its contents exactly as they had been the day she had entrusted Sazha with it.

On the left, the miniature daguerreotype portrait of her mother, safely ensconced beneath glass. On the right, a single pressed flower: the last of the Althyk lavender from her girlhood garden. A bloom she hadn’t seen with her own eyes in years.

It was all she could do just to clear her throat and blink back from her eyes the tears that threatened. He hadn’t forgotten.

Thank you, Sazha. Bryn, Sparrow – all of you. Thank you. Friends, all of them. Somehow, despite everything that had happened, she’d made friends in Eorzea already.

It gave her a small inkling of hope that maybe, just maybe, she had made the right decision after all.

#chrysalispen writes #chapter 14 #reborn by fire

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house-arya · 5 years

Note

So for a prompt could you do jealous arya?

I also got a request for a jealous gendry, so I decided to combine those two together!

this past winter was still hard on everyone, but the victors finally had their first truly warm day in months. the war with cersei was finally over, and peace had settled over the realm. much to arya’s relief, the monarchy was in the process of being redesigned into a more just system.

(”good,” gendry said to her one night. “a team of advisors to guide the people will be better for everyone.”)

she was originally the one to suggest a better way to balance power, rather than bicker over the throne. though her chest swelled with pride when everyone proclaimed that to be an excellent idea, arya felt as though she was being held captive in king’s landing until the talks were completed.

(”i just want to go home,” she confessed. “and be with you.”)

as the sun swept away the grey clouds that had dominated the skies for so long, arya had agreed to help podrick practice in the yard. after all, it would be a shame to stay inside and waste away.

“you’re holding your sword too low. you must be ready to pounce like a cat.” arya gestured for him to attack her. podrick ran a hand through his mop of hair, neglecting to wipe the beads of sweat collecting on his brow. determined to get it right this time, he positioned himself correctly and held his sword steady in front of him.

he lunged and arya danced away from him, twirling in circles with her sword behind her back. with a grunt of frustration, podrick managed to bring his blade close to her, but not before she deflected it and disarmed him.

“better. now try again.”

this continued for several hours as the sun beat down on the two warriors in the yard of the red keep. eventually, when they were both coughing on the dust they had kicked up, they took a break to share a water skin.

podrick gave her a small smile: “thank you for agreeing to help me, my lady. i really appreciate it.” arya was just about to dismiss his thanks with it’s no trouble, really when she noticed a tear glistening in his eye.

her brow furrowed in confusion. “what’s the matter, pod?” her voice was tender, intimate even. he noticed the shift in her usual direct tone and hastily scrubbed his eye with the back of his hand.

“nothing…” he murmured. arya raised an eyebrow. “i just wish i had been, y’know, better before. maybe i could’ve saved more people…” she put a steady hand on his shoulder.

“listen to me, pod,” she said evenly. “you are a great fighter. and you did all that you could with the skills you had. things turned out exactly the way they needed to be.” her face softened, as did his. “we’ve both lost a lot to war. we out it to our loved ones to live our lives in their memory.”

podrick glanced bashfully at the ground before offering a smile. arya grinned, “now come here, you.” she reached her other arm around his neck and gave him a tight squeeze. “we’ll be alright in the end, i promise.” pod simply nodded, in awe of the wise young woman before him.

after a moment, they brushed the dirt off themselves, stood, and picked up their weapons to begin training anew.

the only trouble was that gendry saw the entire thing, from across the pathway to the forge.

earlier that morning, he had glanced up to see her and his friend sparring in the yard. he smiled quietly to himself and continued to watch their blades collide. he loved to watch arya do watch she loved, and it brought him great pride to know the greatest warrior in all of westeros loved him of all people.

come midday, however, he paused his work to observe the fight once more. he noticed her little hand slip up to podrick’s shoulder; soon enough they were locked in a tight hug. he frowned and chewed the inside of his lip before turning back.

that didn’t sit right with him.

when dusk fell, gendry put his work away and went to have a quick meal before returning to his chamber.

gendry had refused the title of “lord baratheon” for some time now. maybe one day he would finally accept, but only if that’s what arya wanted. until that day came, dany insisted he at least stay somewhere inside the keep. gendry knew he would be closer to arya that way, so he had accepted. typically, he was very friendly with the staff, but after seeing that touch, that lingering embrace, he was tight-lipped and curt with them.

the blonde girl, who sometimes brought him food or drew him a bath, was quick to notice. “ser, whatever is the matter?” she asked of him after he grunted in the hall. “nothing,” he grumbled. she gave him a knowing look. “let me draw you a bath. mayhaps that will put your soul at ease.”

and for once, gendry didn’t protest. weariness had seeped into his bones, his soul, and his heart.

that evening, arya strolled down the halls of the red keep. her muscles ached after the day of teaching, but in the best way possible. it was with a smile on her heart she sought out gendry.

treading lightly on the floor, arya entered his private chamber with every intention of sneaking up on him. rounding the corner, however, she peered inside to see him stripping. with a smirk, she pushed into the room but came to an abrupt halt when she saw that he wasn’t alone.

the girl was away from him, her back turned, and she had just finished preparing his bath. gendry quickly set himself in the tub and picked up the soap, but the girl snatched it away from him. “you’ve clearly had a hard day, m’lord. allow me.”

if arya had stayed a moment longer, she would’ve seen gendry refuse. seen him dismiss her gently and seen the girl leave with a little flourish. but she didn’t stay.

the tears were burning in her eyes, and she angrily wiped them away as she melted back into the hallway of the keep.

for the remainder of the night, arya lurked in the yard and stabbed angrily at any practice dummies she could get her hands on. eventually, she returned to her chamber for a feeble attempt at sleep. (it just ended in her punching the pillow frequently.)

at breakfast, she avoided eye contact with gendry; he didn’t seek her out, either. honestly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to try or not. arya found podrick around midday and convinced him to spar with her. it was not twenty minutes into their session that arya had all but pummeled him to pieces.

“my lady arya, i ask that you do not beat my squire up any longer!” ser brienne had shouted. arya stalked off in response.

as the anger (and the fear of the truth) raced through her veins, arya resolved to find gendry and - most likely - yell and demand an explanation. the only issue was she couldn’t find him anywhere.

in the end, it was gendry who found arya. he arrived at her chambers at midnight with a soft rap on the door. she hesitated to allow him in.

“arya, i know you’re in there.” gendry called. with a deep sigh, her feet padded across the stone floor. she cracked the door open.

“i heard you gave pod quite the beating today.”

“it was practice.”

a pause before he whispered, “can we talk?” gendry’s eyes looked frightened, desperate even. she nodded slowly, then gestured for him to slip in unnoticed.

they stared at each other for a moment, once securely inside. arya raised her eyebrows. “well?”

gendry summoned every ounce of courage he had and spoke. “do you not… want me around anymore? i know that pod’s a very attractive young man as well, and i’ve heard the rumors about him…”

arya’s eyebrows shot up once again. “i’m sorry, pod? whatever gave you that idea?” her lover cast his eyes to the floor, and heat flooded her. he must’ve seen their talk. “oh, gendry, no. podrick was upset and i just tried to cheer him up. that’s all it ever was.” seeing his look of relief, however, she turned on him quickly. “i think i’m the one that should be upset after your…experience last night,” she snapped.

it was gendry’s turn to be surprised. “what?”

“the girl. in your bath. with you.” arya’s gaze bore deep into him. “naked,” she added, for emphasis. gendry looked at her wildly. “arya, i…no! she just prepared the bath! i sent her away right after.” arya quirked her eyebrow. (gendry had always found that to be quite attractive.)

“i mean, she offered to help me, but i declined. that’s when she left. i swear to you arya, i could never do something like that because i…” the words began pouring out of his mouth, a desperate cascade of something getting dangerously close to the heart of the matter.

arya let her gaze soften. “what is it?” gendry turned his cheek to her, wary. one wrong word and it was all over. “nothing,” he whispered. she put a palm, coarse but kind, to his face and turned it back to look at her. “i want you to say it,” she said.

“i could never hurt you because,” he took a deep breath. “because i love you.”

and that was all arya ever needed to hear again as she melted into his existence.

#gendrya #arya x gendry #fanfic #housearya post #thanks anon!! working on the rest right now :)#ask #arya stark #gendry

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deepintoforestwego · 5 years

Text

Is there anything behind my face?

She is born knowing three things.

First is that her skin is as white as snow, her lips as red as blood, her hair as black as ebony.

Second is that seven times seven men had died so that she should live.

Third is, she shouldn't exist.

( Harsh thing for child to know, much less from moment of her birth. And harsher yet, she is right.

Were we willing to waste time in such way, we could debate about morality, about whether sins of parents transfer to children, about personal responsibility and knowledge men shouldn't wield, about whether you can blame her for what her beauty drives men to anymore then you can blame fire for burning those who get close- but that isn't kind of right we are talking about here.

It is a simple truth, written in bones of world, in lifeblood of universe, in skin of night and face of day- the snow shouldn't become person, because it is impossible.

But magic never cared about such things.)

She has feared her mother from very start, you see, and perhaps that is where trouble started, or mayhaps that saved her life. She knew she shouldn't be, you see, but very little else, as she was still just a newborn, and had never seen human before, though parts of her belonged to them, of course.

And queen may have not slept in while, and was rather cold and hungry and scared, and quite dainty woman to be honest, but she had this way of holding herself that made people defer to her, and she was all wrapped up in ermine and gold velvet and pearls, and she oozed magic like an old fish oozed stench, and child could see bargain wrapping up around two of them, and well she knew nothing of sorcery and it's limitations, so she must be forgiven for assuming this woman was deity who created her.

(Like I said, it was bad idea all from the start.)

'' My goddess. You who made me.'' Said the girl, for her mother could be clever and careful when she put her mind to it, and had requested for girl to have knowledge befitting her age and station, because everything else would have been rather awkward for her, and more importantly bad for her mother's plans.

''Not exactly, my dear. I am a human, I am afraid.'' The queen answered, after some consideration, because she did like being called goddess, even though she associated it more with her young lovers and her poor mother, but it would be quite strange for princess to go around talking like that, and even queen, as hungry for flattery as she was, was made uncomfortable by thought of girl meant to be her daughter worshipping her.

''My mistress. You who own me.'' Girl stated, slowly, drawing out words, her throat feeling quite funny, speaking for first time, as languages and social norms and concepts and table manners filled her head as flood fills empty house, for girl had no memories and experiences to trouble incoming information.

''Well! That was nicely put, though accent could use some work, but not befitting somebody of your station. Try again, dear.'' Said the queen, as her face settled down in an expression more befitting on a cat who just snatched a canary, and closed her eyes, her eyelids fluttering as she imagined her servants speaking in that delightfully obedient tone, so sure of their place, below her, defined by her.

‘My mother. You who gave me life.’‘ She says, still kneeling, and years later she will forget, or try to, bury it down, of how the queen's s smile grew when she heard those words, how she sat down and embraced still kneeling girl, and flinched when her warm hands touched cold, hard skin. It bruised her arms a bit, as if she had tried to hug a statue left out too long in winter's winds.

''Yes, my dear.'' Queen said, clutching her dark hair in her fingers, embracing her so hard that she almost had trouble breathing, and breathed in her daughter's smell, harsh and sweet aroma of pitch, the comforting freshness of newly fallen snow, the sharp smell of iron and salt.

The princess, who still didn't know what perfumes were, smelled her mother, the scent of flowers and herbs permeating her clothing, and underneath it something gross and hot (she had not yet known what sweat and soft human skin were like) and wondered why they were so different, and decided that didn't matter.

They arrive to place that girl nameless supposes is to be her home in quarter of hour, faster than the queen had ever journeyed before, for magic is ever fed by passion and from the heart, and queen had been almost drunk on pride of her success, joy from what would that mean for her, from terror and euphoria girl's beauty awoke in her, and as she hadn't slept and eaten in some time, and had almost died, her emotions running high and mad, so it wouldn't be hard for her to jump over to another country.

''This is my castle.'' The mother tells her, showing her wooden ring fortress, as they stand before wooden doors of main hall, and great noise is coming from it. Were somebody to watch, they would probably think girl emotionless, the hollow heartless thing, for she shows neither fear nor wonder (well, if she wasn't so beautiful, that is, and they were able to focus on something else other than it). But truth is, she is still far too young to know about wealth and royal power, and has seen nothing but blizzard and woman she believes to be greatest sorceress in world. There is nothing yet ingrained in her to respond.

''Inside is your father, the king.'' Now this word sparks something in her, for the queen has judged it the knowledge very important, that she must learn as soon as possible. The girl knows now, that king is the most important man in world, and that if she is to be good she will be his heir and continue to make her mother proud and powerful.

She isn't sure she wants to be powerful. But mother is, and mother wants more, and mother made her so that is probably good.

She also knows what a father is. A male parent, who names you, one whom you have to respect, obey, love... but not as much as mother.

Doors open, and noise hurts but she doesn't yet know how to react. She follows mother's lead, and steps inside.

And rest of world stops for everybody else.

***

''My weregild.'' The mother coos, almost mews as she watches seven little bodies swing on rope, their faces that awful, strange purple people call blue for some reason though it's more of grey and lilac with pinch of black and scarlet, and smile doesn't leave her face, though at one point it grows stale and uncertain.

The princess learns what brothers are only later, when she has learnt enough to recognize guilt for what it is.

She doesn't yet have name for feelings that possess her, the way her stomach churns and turns at sight of those small, rotting bodies (she has never learnt what death was, it had been built in her from before she was an inkling of thought), swaying on wind as ravens come to feast.

Were she just a spell- child, body built and operated by magic, she would have felt nothing. She would have danced and spoke as her maker demanded. Were she a changeling, or just a creature snow and blood and ebony in truth, she would have looked with curiosity, or apathy, and noted how it was unjust, and how petty and strange humans are. And were she truly her mother's daughter, she would have said it was just, for as she had no childhood, so they should be denied to grow old.

But she was neither of those, so she learnt regret.

***

She doesn't like to think about her name. Much less discuss it. If you try to ask her about it, today, well good luck. Hope you will make it out with some teeth intact at least.

She has one name, and hundreds. It is same name, but always so different, like light reflecting off from one snowflake, viewed from different angles. Run away to so many countries, run for so long, and of course it is changed so many times, of course it is translated when she has such dumb name. She hates the original too, but she hates variations even more- what right do they have to change her name, to change anything about her and her damned story? And change it they do, oh yes, cutting off parts and rearranging them, calling her Snowdrop and Snow White and Snežana and Blanche-Neige and Branca de Neve and Albanix and Sneewittchen and Schneewittchen and she can't number them all, snow and whiteness everywhere...

She is well aware that her name is literal and obvious and dumb, and if you ever point it out it won't go well for you. Only once did one person ( a beautiful princess who belongs to death and dreams like her, and almost as much to flowers and briars as she belongs to snow and blood, those daughters of woods and curses), with accidental addition of too much drink, get her to talk about that, and this is what she said.

''Don't know who called me that first. I think it came from some poor bard who burst in songs about me until he died from lack of food and sleep. Detracted from glorifying me, see. Or wait, not a bard, bard's apprentice, about twelve. Might have had some Sight within him. Or it was my father, doesn't matter.

People picked it up because it was only fitting name, see. I couldn't be saddled with normal name, I was above it- and anybody else with that name would forever think of me, and it would never feel right for them. Except that now in some countries they do use my name, or version of it as a normal name so what waste of time, right?

Anyway point is they wanted to call me by something that could properly describe me and Beautiful was far too tacky and Ebony Black weird and Blood Red is just creepy so, here we are! Cheers!

The bitch never called me anything. Just my princess, my dear, my daughter. My, my, my. Always the same shit.'' And of course, this is the lie, though one she prefers to believe.

Truth is, she forgot it. She forgot all names, and only roles remained.

***

The queen did one true kindness to her, because anything else would have been incredibly harmful for her goals, and because she wasn't wholly bereft of morals and reason, and still it hurt.

She had made it, when she cast her spell, when she screamed her wish in reality, when she bargained, that her daughter would have mind befitting her seeming age. Because stupid daughter was useless, and better no child than one that had that kind of problems (queen was biggest supporter of leaving people who were anything less than perfect, or at least acceptable, to die in woods, whether they were loving father gone senile or caring brother whose arm had to be amputated), and because she hated associating with such people- and in her mind, whoever had limping leg or trembling hands, or who had problems with reading or remembering faces was worse than animal, for animals could be useful, and toothless dogs were to be put down.

The girl had barely settled in her new form, though she walked with grace unparalleled and strode with pride and strength only queen herself could outshine, when she began changing and growing. She didn't know how to feel about that, as she wasn't normal girl, and already half way past through puberty, and nobody would ever tease her, or think her anything less but most beautiful creature they had ever seen.

(Creature. A step up from thing.)

Still, it felt strange, and uncomfortable, and very wicked to have her change and grow before she had truly had chance to enjoy her girlhood. The queen, who was very clever, and knew how to nurse man from brink of death as well as she knew how to craft a drink to paralyze an ox for six hours, explained her how everything about her body worked, and how those changes were completely natural, and how she would soon grow taller and how her face would get slimmer and more mature. In fact, she was growing up at same pace as most girls did, and that delighted queen greatly, for woman grown was an enemy, and eternally young girl was useless, and not to mention a great annoyance.

(That was part of why she waited so long, until she was ready to cast her spell. It took time to find information, and to convince everybody she had lost her reason, but she wanted to put it off as far as possible, because raising child was such dull and taxing affair, and she really didn't need additional source of wrinkles.)

The princess had never woken up her parents and nurses in middle of night with her incessant crying. She had never fallen and scraped her knee and broken in hysterics. She had never climbed tree. She had never played ball. She had never been carried in her father's arms. She had never been told bedtime stories. She had never learned to read, or been tutored in counting. Her mother had never explained to her how to comb her hair. She had never had it explained to her how children are born, nor what marriage was. She had never muddied her dress. She had never played with kittens.

(She had never needed to have dying explained to her.)

She wasn't naive (spell-girls built by men often were, inexperience and weakness and dependence of child in an adult body, but her mother had grander, more arrogant fantasies, though no less sick), she wasn't stupid, she wasn't lost. She had grown, and adapted to her world, and soon all things she missed, all knowledge and experience she wasn't born with, granted by magic, became part of her.

But lacuna where her childhood should have been remained, raw and gaping, as if somebody had pulled out all her teeth before she had chance to bite a crust of bread.

***

She learns at her mother's knee.

She learns from her father, of course, because she is made the heir, and she learns history and geography and riding and politics and swordfighting and wielding axe, but it doesn't matter that much. Her father is a pale figure in her life, and ordinary man trembling before her, dead when she is three, and her mother walks through world as if she is above it, and hemlock and lily-of-the-valley grow behind her.

There was much to learn at the queen's feet, even things no child should learn, even things queen never intended to teach her. Part of it was that such were times- in those days castles were small and wooden, and courts less formal and complicated, and queens themselves worked, mending clothes and pulling their weight. It could have lessened them, made them normal women in eyes of their subjects, but her mother knew how to wrap dignity and mystery around herself. She knew how to make people kneel.

Her mother taught her domestic arts, of course. She was good, dutiful wife, and more over not sort of woman who shrank away from her duty and hard work. But more important, she taught her daughter, though girl could never be sure whether by accident or intent, how to look beautiful when doing it, how to look powerful as she spun thread, exalted as she made her own bed. When queen mended her husband's head, he lowered his head and reverently expressed his gratitude.

She taught her spellcraft, by observance at least. It was power that queen couldn't truly have shared with her even if she wanted (and she would have rather sheared her own hair than given up one of her secrets). Her mother was skilled, learned mage, if not particularly powerful by talent alone. She drew her power from gems, herbs, potions, from rings that turned you invisible, cloaks that allowed you to fly, seven mile boots.

Snow White had leanings of witch, it seemed. Hers was power of rituals and motions, of rites and ceremonies, of dances under harvest moon that changed fate of kings, of hair ribbons cut by seven grandmothers over mountain river on which mill was built to make friendship sour... or she would have, had she ever been taught. But she had been made heir, and there was much to learn, and being witch or priestess wouldn't have been good for her (pity, she would have made a good völva, she was pretty sure). She did pick up few things, though, but it was unavoidable.

Blood and mirrors, all she learnt.

***

She wondered what it was that made her beautiful.

Her skin? Her skin, so white that it blinded, white as snow that covered ground swiftly after the last harvests, like snow in which travellers met their demise, like snow that stopped wars. Her skin, which was always smooth and tight and hard, like marble, whose touch was always cool, which didn't grow blue even when she stood wet on roof during whole winter night, which always carried chill of a dead man in itself, even during midsummer.

Her lips? Her lips, with their perfect shape, and their full colour, which never paled or chapped, as if they were painted on, colour of blood seeping from fresh venison, colour of blood gushing from child's cut arteries, lips that tasted of iron and salt and minced flesh, that left bruises on cheeks they kissed, which could withstand warmth of broth just pulled from hearth (though she despised heat to such amount that she felt uneasy to spend more than few hours in room in which fireplace was lit).

Her hair? Her hair, so long and wild, spreading out like crown of ancient tree, slipping down below her waist, and yet somehow it never got tangled up in world around it, slipping like snake through all obstacles, black as ebony, as handles of spears that pierced children, as frames of windows that kept out wind and rain. Left and right it reached, like shadow of branches, like hands of bogeys, and never it got tangled, never did it get torn or weak.

Some said that when she had been growing up, that she had never had to suffer zits, or growth spurts, or ungainly limbs, that she had simply slipped in perfect ladylike adulthood. Others yet said that she suffered all indignities of childhood, of being teenager, and yet she was most beautiful of them all.

She wondered what it was that made people beautiful. There was woman with most stunning purple eyes, like lilac blossoms, like dusk sky, and people agreed she was very beautiful, but were disgusted by sight of her shoulders, filled with short, fat, coarse black hairs. There was tall man, very strong and muscled, in way that would have drawn him much attention, were it not for his crooked yellow teeth, dull chin and broken nose. There were children who had cutest, sweetest faces, with shining eyes and soft lips, who walked with bent backs and reedy fingers. It seemed all very much strange and whimsical and cruel to her, and very much useless and foolish.

She was beautiful. No, she was fair. Were she malnourished and her face slashed and mutilated, were she turned in beast, in worm or featherless bird (those two were equally dreary things, in her mother's opinion) still she would have been the best of them. When she came to doors, though they were closed, inside men waited and stopped breathing, awaiting her. They trailed after her, excited to earn her favour. Still she was a girl, and magic inside her was settling, so she wasn't fairest in the world, but one day wars would be waged for her, because of her, in her name. One day, when she had grown bitter and harsh and so much angrier, at gaze of her people would prostate themselves, and shake from being in same room with her, and they would not sleep, memories muddled and drunk, and in dreams they would swear to her again and again, for fear and love would mingle in one.

Her mother was beautiful, and sorceress, and she had killed and fucked and loved, and she had much gold, and she could make fields prosper and cows miscarry with her spells, and men dreaded her, and respected her, and loved her. Her grandmother called her Freyja made human, and paid for it.

Snow White had been called goddess, and valkyrie, and many more things. And she may have possessed spark of that true, primordial beauty, but she was mortal still. Gods were born and could die but not like men. Snow White breathed, and slept, and she could cut herself, and she could get lost, and she had thrown tantrums before, and were you to cut her throat she would die. She was not a goddess, to rule over skies and dead, at best she was an image, a shadow, a mask, shallow surface layer of divine beauty, not enough to charm stars in kneeling before her, but heavy enough that it crushed her.

(When she was young, she saw her mother's mirror once. It's frame was twisted and strained thing, contorted in ways that were hard to look at, like a dying snake experiencing a seizure. The glass was colour of frozen mercury, and reflection in it wasn't opposite of reality, and sometimes it churned and twisted, making little waves, and always it whispered.

Most people stayed away from it, and even the queen couldn't bear to be too long in room with it, but the princess was drawn to it, like iron to magnet.

''Oh. You are like me.'' Whispered the mirror, in toneless voice that echoed in her head, and it pulsed like heart, and writhed like worms in waves, and sighed as she put her cold fingers over it's surface, neither chill nor warm.)

***

It was easy to become a king, she learnt. You had to be born a prince, or earn king's favour, or lie to enough people so they would bow to you, or kill enough of them, preferably previous king too. All in all, it seemed very stupid and unfair to Snow White, who didn't really get why people needed kings, but said nothing because she knew what was appropriate, and because she was raised to inherit kingdom and didn't really think of how unjust it was outside of random musings.

It wasn't easy to become a queen, no matter what some thought and said. Any woman could be married to king, depending on how picky he was, and how much politics demanded from him, and how much he disrespected her rights. But only few became queens, true rulers, because they were taught not to seek respect and power, because they were beaten back, because game was set against them, because they were declawed and defanged and chained since earliest age, because they were taught to find pride and comfort in being silenced and starved. It took certain rare amount of cleverness and stubbornness and dedication, and, perhaps, ruthlessness, to become queen.

But Snow White didn't have to worry about that. Her mother loved her, and worked hard to ensure that her daughter would never have to go through all the trouble and misery she had to dredge through, and still she would get so much more. It was so hard for her poor mother, after all, to stand and suggest her idea to the king as he was busy being enraptured by his daughter.

How could he refuse her? How could he name anybody else but his most incredible daughter as his heir (the queen gritted her teeth), how could he dishonour her by not offering her everything he had? And would not people rebel if anybody else ruled them, would not enemies beg to be stricken down by her? So he thought, and declared, and people were outraged and shocked until they had seen her, and then ambassadors returned to their kings weeping, telling them they have been become traitors, for never could their hearts belong to anybody but queen Snow White.

Thus, thought it was expected that she would be married, for that is what normal people did, and beauty didn't prevent people from grumbling when they weren't near her, there was never much pressure for that, and everybody understood that no man would be worthy of her, and all would be blessed to have her as bride, and they would only be consorts, never kings.

It was taken for granted that there would be no problem finding suitors for her, aside from possibly having to deal with wars that rejected suitors would bring to their footsteps ( something that would easily be dealt with, not only because the king was good warrior, and the queen even better sorceress, but because any invader would have to carve their path through whole nation of berserkers ready to die for their princess, and even more ready to tear apart any who would dare to try to steal her away). It was also taken for granted that king would have to pay no dowry, and that indeed princes would be ones bleeding their people dry in hopes of winning her over.

As was only proper, the queen had been one to choose her son-in-law, for the princess had asked her so, for her mother had assured her countless times of how much she cared, how smart she was, and how much more experienced, and she would be able to choose only the best for her dear daughter, a man whose kingdom would always provide for her, a man who would be her age and always kind to her, for those were hefty favours to ask in marriage, her mother told her. Kind husband was something you had to earn, as the queen did, but since she was such kind mother and her daughter so special, she would get all the spoils without any work.

And truly, the queen chose well. Prince was the same (apparent) age as Snow White, and he was sole heir of nearby kingdom, richer and greater than one her father ruled (so greater that only thing that kept it from swallowing up their home, aside from their king's courtesy, was the queen, who knew all plans and desires of their neighbours, and could hold off the harvest and spring for years). He was said to be canny but honest, and rather good with sword and bow but pleasant, never one to seek out bloodshed. He was honourable and fair, and though well liked by ladies, hadn't dishonoured even one.

It sounded like bullshit to her, to be honest. Even her father, who was fair and wise, had his moments- he loved brawl, especially when he broke somebody's bones. And Snow White, well, she kept herself away from people, and never harmed anybody (but never helped out either), and still she had cruelty built in down to smallest piece of herself. Still, there were no whispers, no juicy gossip, and mirror found nothing unsatisfying and dangerous about him (for her mother would never lend her greatest treasure to somebody who would damage it), and so it was that Snow White was to be engaged.

The princess had met his parents, once or twice, for they sometimes rode out near borders of her country, and she had scried them, once she learnt where she was to be wed, in bronze mirror she had and rarely used for anything else. The king was thin, wiry man, with wild graying beard and wry voice, covered in pale old scars, and missing few teeth, and otherwise utterly unremarkable. His wife, a merchant's daughter they said he married for love, was short and warm woman, as sweet and well beloved as fat, greased meal in late autumn, with face as round as apple and eyes like chestnuts, or so flatterers said.

The prince was very handsome, they said. He was of fine face and figure, strong and healthy, with teeth that were nearly white, and warm eyes like amber, with flickers of gold inside it. His skin was of warm, ruddy tone, and he moved with energetic, dangerous strength and grace, as if he had fire inside himself. With his auburn hair, like wood in fall, and his clothes, all gold and russet, he was said to be as beautiful as sunrise.

He wasn't, and she envied him for that. She envied them all, him for his ordinary beauty, his mother for her soft, sweet features, his father for being unremarkable and gray.

( Snow White was a human girl, and so she was often prey to all misfortunes that plagued them, even teen woes. But as wrapped up in magic and mystery as she was, even that had to be unusual.

Truth is, Snow White is envious of everybody. There isn't a single face, single body she doesn't desire more than hers. She desires form that some would find boring, nothing special, perhaps even funny or repulsive. She envies her mother's fallen rival, her father's former lady, her brother's mother, for she is famous for her eyes as blue as sea, but princess finds neither salt nor waves nor fishes nor thousand shades and forms of water in them. She envies the cook's apprentice, for though she is known as very attractive woman, and it brings her trouble occasionally, she can talk to her brothers without them shaking with glee as they look at her. She envies her prince's mother, who is loved and respected for reasons that have nothing to do with beauty.

She has had her fair share of crushes, never acted on because they weren't appropriate for somebody of her status, because her mother wouldn't be satisfied with her choice, because they couldn't stop drooling when she passed. And so they all died, candle flames extinguished before they were anything more than a spark, leaving her to choke on guilt and longing and bitterness, to suffocate in impossible, petty desires.

She had never desired anybody because of their looks. She couldn't, because she had never been able to perceive beauty in people, because she had herself to rate them against. She looked at finest examples of human beauty and found thousand flaws, looked at them and saw how artificial it was, how dependent on right time and place and taste. Snow White could be skinned alive and have her bones broken and her head split open and covered in dirt and yet anywhere in world they would proclaim her the most beautiful.

But she couldn't be loved or desired. She was too stark and sharp and terrible for that. She wasn't a girl whose hand you could hold, woman who you could lay against, a person to hug and kiss and laugh with. Everything in her was hard and cold, like ice sculpture. She was there to be looked at, not loved. Because even as humans adored beautiful people, they didn't love ones who had truly been beautiful.

Human beauty was shallow, false and thin. All humans were equally beautiful, and they just had to work more or less on convincing others to find them attractive. But Snow White bore true beauty, heavy as mountain, truer than her father's blade. Primordial, essential, actual, her beauty was a true, divine thing, real and defined in mutable, shapeless world of human misconceptions. She was a marble statue trapped among embroidered caricatures, and she envied them so much.)

So she held no hopes, and received a grand surprise. For though her prince's eyes seemed ready to fall out of his skull, and bliss sparkled in them as tears gathered on edges, after some time he composed himself and gave her warm, cocky smile, and bowed and kissed her hand and talked with her.

They talked. They rode on horses. He laughed at her embroidery. She rolled eyes at his jokes. They showed each other their favourite hiding places. They sparred with hands and swords. He lost to her in race and she in archery. They walked in woods and put their knowledge of animals and herbs to trial. She learnt that he was truly as good and honest as he was rumoured to be, but easily bored, and he could get lost daydreaming, and loved to go sight seeing, and fussed too much about his clothes. He learnt that she liked to forage berries, and kept falcons, and hated jewellery, and was horrible dancer. They had even argued few times!

She fell in love with him, a little. Enough that they kept contact when she ran away. Enough that he wanted to expose queen's crimes. Enough that he wanted to give her honour of burial. Enough that when he died, she walked away.

Enough that he said nothing, when she commissioned shoes for her mother.

('' I wish he'd at least pretend to treat me like person.'' She had whispered, standing alone in his father's corridors, and when she met him she believed he was somehow immune to her beauty , that he saw person underneath.

''Stop with that!'' She shouted, when men offered her their hearts, and they did, and only later she noticed that some people adored her in quiet, steadfast way, no less terrible but much subtler, because they didn't want to die for her, they wanted to serve her.

''I love you.'' She told him, and of course he said yes, of course he loved her, he had to, even as he laid dying, and years later she kept wondering whether she imagined something russet and golden running at end of corridors.)

***

When she is queen, she will keep her chambers bare.

Everything about her will be bare, and simple, and cold. They will say, her husband’s people, when they are far away from her, that it is because she comes from colder, humbler, more barbarian kingdom that she is unused to fine luxury (she likes simple things because she spent so much time in the woods, they say, not understanding how rich, how elaborate, how beautiful everything was there, roots mingling and binding each other in knotwork, impossible shapes in bark, flowers worth more than jewels everywhere around her.)

There will be no excess, no luxury in her sanctuary. No tapestries, no costly furniture, no mirrors. Only bare, chill stone and bed to uphold a minor illusion of normalcy ( a girl of ice and death born, she has slept on Forest floor, and dreamed in mines, and slumbered in coffin of glass and gold). No satin, no velvet, no silk, no gowns or embroidery or crown, for she has no need of them.

No jewellry. Nobody will again tell her she is as precious as gems at her throat.

***

She doesn't dream. She remembers. She remembers memories that are not hers, lodged in between her flesh and bones.

She remembers winter. Always, always it is with her, more crucial than breath, than her name, almost as important as her beauty. She remembers cold of Niflheimr and of coming of first spring. She remembers snowflakes forming in clouds and melting on human faces, the mountain tips lined with white, the ice covering pines, the frost on abandoned blades, the rime that gathers at hem of lost shawls, the chill creeping over river's stones, the snowdrops rising from forming poodles, the crunch of frozen ground as her mother goes to border of Forest.

She remembers having bark, which protected her from rain, and wind, from cold and bugs. She remembers having roots, digging through soil, pulling water and minerals from ground, reaching out to taste sunlight. She remembers how it felt when sap coursed through her, her branches swaying on wind, her leaves remaining green even in winter as those of her neighbours turned brown and red and fell, remembers feeding on rotting flowers and grass caressing her trunk, the seeds falling and spreading, birds making nest in her crown, the queen's knife cutting branches off, off, off.

She remembers being warm, and flowing, being inside the veins. She remembers being child crying for parents lost to plague, the leper cast out of town, the old woman begging for scraps. She remembers warm, concerned voices of mothers who aren't hers, remembers being father, and having gray hair, and being hungry, and told she is ugly (in waking world she cannot imagine that feeling bad, but in dream it is, remembers childhoods that aren't hers. She remembers being scared of bleeding, being cold, and queen saving her/him/them, of being servants and obeying all her wishes, being trusted, and she remembers the blade, the curse, flowing over figure made out of snow until it turns pink, staining and clotting upon ebony talismans.

She dreams of hands upon her throat, and dying, and melting, losing everything, going to no hall, rejoining earth and water and coldness, and it is so peaceful that she almost regrets when she wakes up...

These are terrors that follow her in her dreams. In waking world, she cannot escape seven boys, running after her like most loyal dogs, begging to serve her.

***

At edge of every kingdom there is Forest.

There is difference between a forest and the Forest, just as there is difference between beautiful person and Snow White. The first is just bunch of trees and animals, which, perhaps bit scary at night, can be cut down and cleared away. But the Forests, are so much more, existing outside of civilized world, thinking and feeling and hungering, holding darkness and treasures and monsters within. Place where secrets are born, where miracles go to die, where Quests are done.

The Forests don't like people. They say that Forests were forged from Ymir's dying curse, and therefore there is terrible, chaotic power in them. Thousands of years ago, they marched against them, marched against whole world, and in three days humanity was crushed. For the Forests were grown before intelligent life came to be, and they despised men and their accomplishments. And so no weapon, no spell, no thing made by mortal hands held power within Forests. The strongest sorcerers were rendered powerless, and sharpest blade failed to cut.

It waits for her. Castle where she grew was far away from Forests, so far away that you couldn't even see it on horizon, even as a dark line, but Snow White felt it every day. Being a human girl, somewhat, she didn't know how to feel about it, and sometimes she could ignore it so well that she forgot it's existence, and sometimes it occupied all her thoughts.

(Were she only a spell-child, she would have noticed nothing. Were she a changeling, each day she would have felt same, and knew exact reason why. But mortal she was, and thus she was plagued with uncertain heart.)

Whether she wants or not, someday she will go to the Forest. Things like her must, just as snow must fall. She is too strange and cursed, even for a world full only of witches. She is meant for legends, and some tale will dig it's claws in her, and every tale has it's beginnings in Forest, even ones who have nothing to do with them. And she dreads when that day comes, because in Forest no spell can last, and what shall happen to her then?

(They are at her mother's hidden halls, as they are at every of her birthdays. She is seven, but to rest of the world she is twenty. She rides out, and huntsman accompanies her.

She is always accompanied by somebody, of course, because she must be protected, because always there is danger she would be kidnapped, for who wouldn't want to possess her? The huntsman is young, and good looking, or so she supposes. To her he looks like washed out, boring bunch of bones and flesh, but other girls say he is handsome, and to his misfortune queen agrees. But he is young, and he wants to live, and he is smart, but he has got conscience and she is so beautiful, that he breaks down and confesses everything.

A mother willing to kill her own daughter, and eat her intestines. Sounds horrible, but once they spend some time with princess people understand, even if they believe she was born like them. To live alongside somebody so beautiful, to be outshined while you grew older, weaker, as death came closer, that was horrible enough, but knowledge that nothing you ever do will help you come even closer to impossible ideal that is Snow white is horrible enough. Nobody could live with her, no more than they could gaze in Sun for years.

And besides, beauty like that, it doesn't belong to this world, doesn't come from it, and as such isn't meant to exist there. Beauty like that, it is meant for higher, greater places, not this dreary, low world. It is meant to be a tragedy, a warning, something to mourn for forever even if we never had it. Girls like that, they exist to be beautiful corpses, because no matter what they say, it doesn't matter because nobody will care for anything else but their faces, so this way they do favour to everybody. You can't blame the queen, they say, and after all, makes sense for one who created her to be one to get rid of her.

For first time in her measly seven years of life, Snow White understands how her mother thinks. And she knows what will happen were she to face her.

She turns, and runs in heart of the Forest, in darkness, because it's monsters are at least honest.)

***

She is five hundred and sixty three years old when she sacrifices first child to escape.

Oh, not in usual sense, not yet anyway (it will be little bit longer before she drags children to crossroads at midnight and spills their blood and cooks their hearts to buy escape). Of course, she has killed young people, and somebody's children before, some of them her own descendants, but she has never sacrificed any child. She hasn't taken something innocent and powerless and blameless and cut it's life short to buy few more seconds, because that isn't how story goes. people tell it, and they believe, and souls are dragged from death to relieve it. And hers is simplest story. The queen is powerful, and she desires her death, and Snow White runs until she is caught and put in glass coffin, and then everything begins anew.

She has lived near village for some seven years by then, wrapped up in shawls and masks, because even though it doesn't stop people from gazing in awe it stops them from kneeling, because they only feel her beauty, don't see true miracle of her face. She has kept out of troubles, and even worked in mines so help the village, and she has scried lost children and horses in ice and coins, and brought them home from deep dark woods. And yet, man whose broken leg she healed heard rumours, and connected dots, and went in wide world to tell the queen. And what could she do, but take off her shawls and masks and go down, as they parted before her, as they knelt, and drag his only daughter from her home with but a smile.

''You did a cruel, horrible thing. You were hurting, and you wanted to settle accounts, so you decided to be unfair as well. it didn't help you in the end, but you decided destroying something small and blameless will make you feel better.'' The old, ugly woman with burned face and shadowed hood, dressed in grey and russet tells her, as they hide in cave, as she tends Snow White's wounds and ignores her beauty, as she holds her even as death tries to drag her down. Snow White ignores it- the world had walked over, broken and spat out Cinderella, letting her be nothing but slave, nothing but ceaseless, unpaid servant, nothing but role assigned by her story. She doesn't understand revenge because she has no hope, no happiness, no way out from her life, but Snow White won't be broken like that. Snow White will be strong for them both.

''Do you love me? Do you dare think you are worthy of sight of me? Prove it to me!'' She roars, cackles, smirks as traitor cries, as lighting races from her mother's shining rings, and girl cries and nods, laughs and bows and jumps in front of blazing magic to protect the fairest thing in the world.

For @slavicwitchling ‘s birthday, hope you like it my dear. Sequel to this drabble.

#character:snow white #Story:Snow White #fairy tale retelling #fantasy

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

Text

Athazagroaphobia (Part 9)

Ruon Jian flinches. The noise tearing from the princess’ throat is absolutely unholy. It is layered and unnatural. A cacophony of suffering and all that is wrong in the world. Overlapping her normal, rather soft and soothing voice is something much lower. There is another something that is more like a wail and beneath that, something perhaps mechanical.

Her nose and ears bleed profusely, and Ruon slinks further away. The infection...it could be in her blood. Can it transfer that way? Azula twitches and seizes.

“I told you all, didn’t I!” Bujing bellows. “We shoulda killed her. She’s gonna be one helluva vessle with that blue fucking fire.”

“Her leg…” Xuia points out.

“Those things can’t feel pain, it’ll walk.” Bujing snarls.

With a few more gurgling noises and gasping breaths, the princess goes rigid, her body seeming to lock with her back arched awkwardly and her fingers stuck halfway between a fist and being outstretched. Ruon Jian can’t gauge for exactly how long she held that impossible contortion. She seemed to have been suspended for ages and then her body drops with a considerable thud.

As soon as her head hits the floor, she begins to weep. Ruon Jian shudders, her cries are more disturbing than those screams. He thinks it is due largely in part to how human and pained her natural voice sounds beneath the excess vocal layers. The others step back even further, but he draws nearer.

“They’ve got him too…” Shinu trails off.

Do they? He wonders. Is that what it is? Is his mind his own or are they compelling him to come closer? To join them. An image flickers in his mind. A morbid grotesque thing; his body merging and fusing into Azula’s. He casts it aside as abruptly as he can manage.

He reaches a hand out to her, feeling the tension in her body slacken under his touch. Her body meets the floor. It looks so incredibly fragile and broken. She, though free from that disturbing living-flesh rigor mortis, goes completely still.

“Azula?” He tries.

He shouldn’t.

He should back away with the rest of them. If he had any sense at all, he would.

She turns her head and her lips part ever so slightly. For a moment, he thinks that she is dead. But then she slowly sits up, her hair obscuring her face. At last, self preservation kicks in and he backs away.

“My head hurts.” She mumbles. She brings her fingers to her nose and her expression seems to twist into something of pain and confusion. She looks directly at him. “You fool, don’t just stand there…” Her words are normal for her but her voice is uncanny and still holds traces of the layers. She is panting lightly. He wonders if she is even aware of the distortion in her voice.

.oOo.

“I need…” What does she need? Help? A doctor? She won’t find either of those. Reassurance, the word comes to her head. She won’t get that either, they are afraid of her. No, beyond that. They are horrified through and through.

For once it is not her own fault.

The ringing remains in her ears. “Get me something to drink.” She feels sick. She hasn’t time to fully comprehend this before she hunches over and expels what little food is in her belly. Mostly what comes up is a viscus mix of chunky, clotted blood, and some sort of thick black ooze.

It takes everything to keep herself awake and upright. She tastes rot and copper on her tongue and her stomach seems to be ripping at itself. She hugs her middle and gives a soft gasp of a cry. She squeezes her eyes shut and a single tear manages to escape.

“I’ve seen enough.” She knows that the gruff voice belongs to Bujing. “Let’s kill it before it can kill us.”

She opens her mouth to protest, put can only manage another pained hiss, it probably doesn’t help her case.

“Wait.” She thinks that it is Li. “This isn’t what the infection looks like, not entierly.”

“Then it’s evolving!” Bujing declares.

“You don’t have to kill her, Bujing.”

“And you don’t have to cater to her needs anymore, Xuia.”

Her vision blurs as the man draws nearer. “You didn’t think that she was going to last did you?” He’d have probably given her a good kick if not for his fear of making contact with her disease riddled body.

She doesn’t think that contact has anything to do with contraction.

No, whatever this is. It is a disease of the mind. She supposes that it is bad luck for, whatever they are, that her mind is already sick.

Such is her parting thought as she flops back to the floor.

.oOo.

Her first moments of awakening almost pleasant; there’s a relief in knowing that she has woken at all. But the moment of jubilation passes as quickly as it had set in, replaced by a sense of wrongness, as though the universe is just off somehow. She looks around her room, everything is as it should be, where it had been last left. The colors are the same, it isn’t inexplicably lighter nor darker.

But it is not the same.

Azula can’t place it, but it just isn’t.

She supposes it is more of a feeling than any real, tangible physical sensation. Something is wrong not just in her room, but in the world. She wishes that she could shake this feeling away and as soon as she does she longs to have it back, for that unnerved feeling is nothing in comparison to the sheer and utter panic that follows its departure.

She is alone again.

Alone and bound.

In a final moment of disbelief, she gives the leather strap a tug.

Azula jerks again with more force before letting an absolutely animalistic scream tear from her throat. Distantly, she notes that this isn’t the kind of behavior she should exhibit; that this is the kind of demeanor that would convince a person to tether her in the first place.

But she wants out, she wants out now.

Before she can go hungry again.

Before she can go thirsty.

And tired.

And completely feral.

Just at the notion of reliving her worst week, she may have already reverted into a feral state. She wishes furiously that the creature--mayhaps, may creatures--would have ripped the entirety of that memory from her.

“Let me go!” She hollers her voice is raspy and with a harsh shrillness. “You worthless pesents, let me go!” But what if they have already vacated the palace in favor of a more secure place. A trickle of nervous sweat forms on her forehead. “You can’t leave me here!” She shouts to the darkness of the hallway. “You can’t!”

She throws her head back against the pillow. At least this prison is more comfortable than the merciless ground in the Capital square. At least her position is more bearable. But she isn’t going to last as long here; there is no rain to provide her with drink and the palace is rodent free.

She watches the sun wayne and she knows that hours have gone by. Hours without a sound or a soul. She wishes that Bujing would have killed her as he had vowed to do. The night deepens and so does her resignation.

The initial shock and dismay gives way to a creeping numbness. In that numbness, that strange, off-beat feeling works its way back in. She fills the emptiness and quiet with trying to discern exactly what is not quite right about the world.

She doesn’t make much progress at all beyond noting that she is simply, somehow seeing the world through different lenses. But she still feels like Azula. She still feels as though she is in full control.

Except for that one whisper.

The one she can hear but only if she really tries to.

She isn’t worried.

That kind of thing had taken grip of her mind days prior to the comet.

Azula turns her head so that her cheek is against the pillow. She forces herself to believe that she is simply going to sleep after the stresses of a normal day.

.oOo.

“She looks normal to me.” Ruon Jian notes.

“They all do.” Bujing counters.

“That’s not necessarily true.” Says Shinu.

Ruon Jian looks to Li. The old woman seems to consider. “The incubation process I witnessed with my dear sister was much different.” She confirms. “I do hate to say it, but Bujing could be correct about an evolution.” She pauses. “A strain or possession that takes hold more rapidly.”

Ruon Jian’s stomach lurches. It was already bad enough when the progression was slow.

“So what do you propose?” Bujing asks.

“Keep her secure and see if she starts to deteriorate.” Shinu suggests.

“No.” Ruon speaks without fully forming the the reason for his aversion to this plan. The small gaggle of survivors await further elaboration. “This thing affects the mind before the body, right?”

Li nods.

“So we should let her go. We’re not going to get an accurate picture if we chain her up and treat her like she’s already gone…”

“Ridiculous!” Bujing exclaims.

“Fair.” Li disagrees. “We will let her go free until we have a reason to speculate that she shouldn’t be.” The old woman observes the cross and skeptical expressions she has just drawn. “Pay attention to how she walks…” and then she backtracks. “If she tries walking at all without crutches, that is the first sign something is amiss. If her gait is stiff, then she has been taken. If her body locks and tremors…” She slows her pacing. “I think that you understand what I am talking about. “We’ve all seen it.”

They mutter among themselves, some in agreement while others protest. “I’ll undo her restraints.” Ruon volunteers.

“Be careful.” Xuia requests.

Her eyes are eerily vacant when he gazes into them. “Azula.” He addresses and sets a try of stale food on her nightstand.

“Are you really here?” She whispers.

In way of an answer he loosens the leather straps around her wrists and lets her wiggle her hands free as he works on the ones binding her ankles and then the largest one that locks her torso to the bed.

“I thought that…” Her voice is hoarse. “You didn’t leave me behind?”

He shakes his head. “We were out all day trying to fix our barriers as much as we can. We’re not going to be able to stay here much longer. I don’t know where we’re going to go.”

Azula rolls her eyes, giving him a burst of reassurance that she is still the princess he sort of knew. “To the tribes, idiot. Like I told you.” She sits up and Ruon watches her movement closely. It is still slow, maybe some stiff. But it is the stiffness that comes with being confined to one position for too long, a theory confirmed when she stretches her arms and her good leg.

“I got you something to eat.”

She lifts it to her mouth and makes a face when the stench reaches her nose. Ultimately she eats it anyhow. “This is dreadful, did you scrape it off of a pan?”

“I’m not too worried about you.” He ignores the ungrateful commentary. “Bujing seems to think that you’re possessed, but you seem fine to me.”

“Fine…” she trails off. “I’m not fine.” She takes another bite and her face bunches. “But I’m not infected.”

“Do you want to come to the dining hall?”

“And grace my ears with Bujing’s lovely banter? No thanks.”

“I think that you should come down and show everyone that you’re still you.”

Azula sighs. “Yes, I suppose I should.”

Ruon Jian lets her finish her meal before helping her out of bed. “Shinu is working on new crutches for you. Some of our fencing was broken beyond repair so he’s using those parts to make you something that won’t break as easily.”

“At least someone is useful.” She huffs as she fights for balance. He holds her securly. “Is Chan the only one who died.”

Ruon Jian flinches. “Yeah…”

“What about my serving girl?”

“Xuia? She’s fine. Sort of, she’s not taking Chan’s death too well; they were dating.”

Azula sniffs, “only a complete dullard would try dating when the world is ending.”

“I don’t think so.” Ruon disagrees. “People need to find something to live for.”

“People need to face that there isn’t anything left to live for.”

#Avatar #Azula #Ruon Jian #Lo & Li #Fanfiction

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