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#please offer a course about any part of the northeast i am begging you
khlur · 3 years
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i am unemployed in a neolib society with 2 degrees, one of which highly encourages Corporate and the other is very against Corporate
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four-loose-screws · 4 years
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FE4 Suzuki Novelization Translation - Chapter 8 Part 3
If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!
FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations - Ko-fi
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Chapter 8 - The Birth of the Second Generation
Part 3
That night, Sigurd’s army held a strategy meeting at Sailane Castle - though it was more a discussion of the details of Oifey’s plans than a proper strategy meeting.
“We need to claim a decisive victory as quickly as possible, as it’s likely that the Zaxonian Army is also marching towards us right now. They also may have Grannvalian reinforcements bolstering their numbers. At least, that’s what I would arrange if I was their tactician. Those factors will make them a tough fight for the Silessian defense unit. We’ll need to conquer Torve as soon as possible to be able to support Silesse.
“To do so, we should first, of course, leave here and intercept the Torvian Army. I predict we will clash with them in the forest around the village northeast of here. Erinys reported that she only saw mages, but they may deploy pegasus knights in the morning as well. They can fly over water, so I think they may attack the castle directly, meaning we’ll need to leave a solid defense unit here.”
Everyone agreed to his plan, and after they decided who would be in the offense unit and who would be in the defense unit, the meeting was adjourned.
The next day, after breakfast, the offense unit left the castle and marched northeast.
They reached the forest just before noon, and saw a pillar of smoke in the distance.
“They’re pillaging one of the villages! Let’s hurry, everyone!”
At Sigurd’s order, the cavalry unit galloped through the forest at full speed towards the village.
But the wind mages were hiding throughout the trees.
Horses had terrible mobility in forests, so they had to stay put and fight close range.
The enemies’ wind magic was powerful, but Claud’s healing magic covered a wide area, so they were able to fight safely.
Sigurd saw that they weren’t utilizing any effective battle formations, and ordered, “Don’t fight one-on-one! Fight in groups of two or three!”
That strategy proved effective, and they were able to pick off the mages one at a time.
When there were a only a few mages left, the pegasus knights arrived.
And leading them was Deetvar, one of the four pegasus knights.
Maios had ordered her to cause chaos among Sigurd’s army. The goal had been to utilize the pegasus’ advantage of flight, and fly above the sea to assault Sigurd’s army from the rear.
But Sigurd’s army had advanced further than they’d predicted, and when Deetvar saw how much her allies were struggling, she decided to join the fight head-on. “Everyone! Attack the enemies below us!”
At Deetvar’s orders, the pegasus knights began to divebomb Sigurd’s army.
But against Sigurd’s army, who’d infantry unit had caught up to the cavalry at this point, the pegasus knights were like pebbles falling on their heads, and Deetvar’s unit suffered total defeat. Jamke and Brigid contributed the most to their victory, as arrows were particularly lethal against pegasus knights.
The pegasus knights slowly began to drop out of the air.
Deetvar turned towards Sigurd’s archers, and charged towards them. “Die!” She screamed, but her sword just barely missed its mark. Her pegasus tried to fly upwards, but couldn’t make it in time, and took a direct hit from one of Jamke’s arrows.
“Move, everyone! Full speed towards Torve Castle!!” Sigurd yelled.
The cavalry made it through the forest, and traveled quickly down a wide town road.
The enemies they faced along the way proved to be no challenge, and they stopped when they knew they could make it to Torve Castle by afternoon the next day. However, the bridge above the Torve River was raised.
They had no chance but to camp in front of the river.
-
Dew caught up to them that night.
Dew approached Noish and asked, “What’s the matter? It’s still light out! How can ya be done fightin’ already?”
“Take a good look at the bridge. We’re stuck here.”
“Whoa, it is out! But we ain’t stuck. It’s just been raised!”
“Whatever! It’s all the same to us. We can’t get across either way.”
“Yeah, ya can!! You can operate this kinda drawbridge from both sides!”
“Are you telling me you can lower it?”
“Yeah, ‘proly!”
“Alright then, let’s go talk to Lord Sigurd.”
Sigurd listened to Dew’s explanation, then gathered the cavalry unit in front of the bridge.
“Dismount from your horses, everyone! Don’t line up! We don’t want to send any signs of battle to our enemies! Then scatter your horses, so they all point in different directions!”
Dew walked up to the bridge, looked for the lever, and found a box on one of the support posts. It was locked, but opening the lock was easy work for him. Inside, he found the lever he was looking for.
He turned around and waved his arms in the air to signal to Sigurd.
Sigurd gave him the signal to lower the bridge, then turned to face the cavalry unit. “Now, everyone! Mount your horses, and charge!”
Once they were all ready to cross, Dew yanked on the lever.
With a loud creak, the bridge started to lower.
The moment it was down, Sigurd led the charge, with the cavalier unit right behind him.
The enemy had been so careless, that they hadn’t even lowered the castle gate.
Sigurd broke through the vanguard and rushed into the castle.
Maios had only just gotten on his armor and run out to the courtyard when Sigurd attacked and killed him with one swing of his silver sword.
Later, the village elder learned of what happened and approached Sigurd to thank him.
The elder explained that Maios had increased taxes considerably to maintain and strengthen his army.
“The villagers are so happy to hear he’s gone! We’re sorry to ask for more from you, but would you consider redistributing the tax money to the people who paid it?”
“I understand what you’re asking, but we’re from a foreign country, so we don’t have the right to decide how your tax money is used. For now, return the tax rate to what it was originally. I’ll discuss the issue with Queen Rahna next time I see her. She should be able to reach a conclusion for you.”
“Thank you! We trust that Queen Rahna would never be anything like Maios was! She’s the only person the citizens of Silesse could ever trust!”
“Really? Then it’s settled. I’ll leave this town entirely in your care until Queen Rahna orders otherwise.”
“Understood. We cannot thank you enough for your service. At the very least, we’d like to have a welcome party for you tonight.”
“We are very happy to accept your offer, but we must leave early in the morning, so please make sure no one drinks too much.”
The next morning, Sigurd left a defense unit, comprised mostly of archers, to guard the village, then left Torve Castle.
Maios and Dakkar had agreed to both attack at the same time.
However, Dakkar held off his attack on purpose. He knew how strong Sigurd’s army was, and decided to base his movements on the results of Sigurd’s battle with the Torvian Army.
When his reconnaissance pegasus knight informed him that Torve Castle had fallen, he knew it was time to strike.
‘If I attack Silesse Castle now, reinforcements from Sigurd’s army won’t arrive in time. Once I conquer the castle, I’ll fight together with the Grannvalian Army to destroy Sigurd’s army, then all of Silesse will be mine!’
Dakkar ordered another of the Four Angelic Knights, Pamela's, unit to deploy, and join the rear guard of the Grannvalian arch knights, who had just arrived.
Leading the arch knights was Duke Ring's son, Andorey.
The moment he'd been informed of Prince Kurt's assasination, he'd immediately begged Reptor to spare his life. Greedy and cowardly, Andorey's personality was the complete opposite of Duke Ring's.
Reptor looked at Andorey, trembling in fear that he might be treated guilty of the same crime as his father, and thought of a way to use him. 'He may not be strong, but at the very least, he'll probably do whatever I say.'
In exchange for being allowed to inherit the title of Duke of Jungby, Andorey swore his undying loyalty to Reptor.
Reptor's first order for Andorey was to go to Zackson Castle and aid Dakkar in conquering Silesse Castle.
The moment Dakkar saw Andorey's unit, he was rather impressed.
"Amazing, simply amazing… so this is the power of Jungby's arch knights."
Andorey beamed at the praise.
"So long as the Beige Ritter is mine, even the Silessian pegasus knights will fear me! Or at the very least, I have no reason to fear them." He said, feeling as though the arch knights were his very own power. The thought made him feel much better about his situation.
-
When Mahnya and received the news that the that pegasus knights from Zackson were coming, she went to Queen Rahna, and announced that she planned to leave to fight them straight away.
“So Duke Dakkar is finally showing his true colors, is he? Pamela is a force to be reckoned with. Please fight carefully.”
“Yes, she certainly should not be underestimated. But I am also one of Silesse’s Four Angelic Knights. I will fight honorably.”
“I’m sorry, Mahnya. I know how you feel… yet I…” Rahna had thought countless times about what if Lewyn and Mahnya married. She started to bring it up, but felt that it was not the time and place to do so, and kept silent about it.
“Queen Rahna, the only way of life I know is that of a knight. ...Try not to worry about that. Now… please excuse me.”
When Pamela saw Mahnya’s unit headed for hers, she gave the signal for her soldiers to lower their altitude. While it was more advantageous for pegasus knights to fight high in the skies, her plan was to bait Mahnya’s unit into the arch knights’ range.
‘What a fool! She knew full well that she would die if she came before me, yet she’s still keeping her loyalty to the queen. Well then, I’ll kill her and take her spot at the top of the Four Angelic Knights! Don’t have any hard feelings about it, Mahnya!’
Mahnya watched Pamela’s unit dive lower in the sky, and decided it was a golden opportunity. She signaled with her right hand to attack, and led her unit in descending.
She attacked a passing enemy pegasus knight along the way. One of the pegasus' wings flapped wildly, then both mount and rider plummeted towards the ground.
'She… was once one of my friends…' She thought, but only for a moment.
Mahnya's unit was still much higher in the air, so the fight was in their favor.
However, it only lasted for a moment. Andorey and the Beige Ritter arrived soon after. They aimed for Mahnya's unit, and shot arrows one after the other into the sky.
Mahnya's unit had their full attention on fighting the pegasus knights, leaving them no chance to dodge the arrows.
Andorey watched the pegasus knights fall out of the sky, and laughed in amusement. "Gah ha ha ha! Oh, how they fall! It's like catching bugs!"
Mahnya searched through the skies for Pamela.
Now that her unit's numbers were at the disadvantage, Mahnya thought to decide things one-on-one. However, when she turned to face Pamela, her pegasus' neck snapped backwards, and shook in the air. Mahnya gasped and pulled the reins, but felt herself begin to fall only a moment later.
'Dammit, was I hit from below?' 
Her life flashed before her eyes.
'Ah… Prince Lewyn… please take care… of Erinys…' 
The view of the ground beneath her got larger and larger at a terrifying speed.
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kissykiwi · 6 years
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money, money, money (pt. 2)
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(part one)
wherein things progress, and harry makes a bit of an ass of himself.  (mamma mia au, 4700 words)
Y/N got to sleep in the next day by just a bit.  Her Big Ben alarm clock, a gift her grandmother had picked up in a thrift store somewhere in Cheshire, rang furiously as soon as eight o’clock rolled around.  The day was to begin.
“Good morning dear.  Mr. Styles has asked for breakfast at 9 o’clock -- a pot of tea with the fixings, some toast, and a bit of fruit, if you please -- so you’ve got a bit of time to get ready and have your shower before I need you going,” her mother said, opening the creaky, light blue door to her room.  Y/N paused, frozen in her morning stretch, to stare at her mother.
“Mr. Styles?  You mean Harry Styles?  The travel writer?”
Dee sighed, and suddenly Y/N understood why this information had been so carefully hidden from her.  Harry Styles was her favorite author.  He’d been around half the world and had quite a knack for colorful descriptions and vivid storytelling alongside a cutting humor.  Though she’d never gone farther than a bit into the mainland, his work made her feel like a proper globetrotter.
“Yes, that Mr. Styles.  And you are absolutely forbidden from badgering him about his travels.  He’s come here for a respite from all that, and I won’t have you stressing him out and running him off the island,” Dee said warningly, shaking one beringed finger.  Y/N tried not to pout.
“Okay, heard.  Toast, tea, and fruit, and absolutely no mention of the fact that he’s been to every place I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Exactly.  Now, up!”
Y/N watched her mother go, and then rolled out of bed.  Today wouldn’t be too much of a day, overall -- a few check-ins who would probably fall straight into bed from jetlag and Harry fucking Styles were her only priority.  She might even have time to read on the stairs or make it down to the beach in the slow moments.  A pair of old cutoffs and one of her tee shirts should do the day.  One quick shower later, and her neroli scented soap had her feeling refreshed and ready to take on the day.
“Gooood morning, Helena!” she sang, throwing herself around the doorframe into the kitchen of their main guest building.  At the stove, the lady who did the cooking for the Muse turned to grant her a smile.
“Can you believe this new guest, huh?  Toast and fruit!  Is he a traveler or a hummingbird?” she said, half to Y/N and half to herself.  Helena believed strongly in meals that would stick to the ribs, and clearly their new guest was already not quite up to snuff.
“We’re only here to provide what they ask, Len.”
“Well he had better start asking for a proper breakfast before he wastes right away.”
Y/N laughed and picked up the tray of food.  Helena had been careful to set out cream and sugar alongside the teapot, and they’d even gotten out the nice jadeite tea set that grandma had sent her mom from Myanmar (it had still been Burma at the time).  She’d also sliced apricots nectarines and thrown a few cherries onto the plate, even added a little pot of lemons in case that was how he preferred his tea.  A few slices of Mr. Alexandrou’s local whole grain bread had been toasted to a perfect golden brown and were placed delicately to the side with a small pot of local butter.  Despite it not being Helena’s preferred fare, it really seemed to represent the best of Kalokairi and her environs.
“You’re an artist Len.  I’ll be back for my coffee!”
Y/N trotted away as quickly as she could with a tray full of food (and alright, so maybe it was a bit more of a slow walk), headed to the stairs that carried the kitchen up to the dining balcony.
The dining balcony.  That was number two out of Y/N’s eleven favorite spots on the island, with a view that could almost rival the staircase.  Though it was just a little rectangle sticking out from the second level of the cliffside building, it had always made Y/N feel like a princess staring over her ocean kingdom.  The far left side of the building, facing the north of the island, peeked out upon Calliope’s Beach where this side of the island went to swim.  If you faced the building on that side, you could see just past into the citrus orchards where Y/N had spent her childhood munching on oranges and reading fantasy books, and even further in, the houses of some of the locals.  Though almost no one who ate up there knew it, the entrance to Euterpe’s Grotto was hidden at the very end of the beach where the island curved northeast.  The west view, looking straight off the cliffside, was more of the dazzling blue of the Aegean Sea, and the east peeked into the docks and the little markets that sat behind them.  It felt as though all of Kalokairi was encapsulated in a single turn.
“Good morning Mr. Styles,” she said cheerfully as she came up upon the curls she had seen the night before.
He looked up, eyes even greener than they had looked on his book jackets and framed by angirly furrowed brows and purple bags.
“I was told my privacy would be respected when I came here,” he all but snarled.
Y/N tried not to visibly recoil as she set his tray down, though she heard the clink as the tea set jerked slightly.
“Well of course, I mean-- we’re not going to go about on social media screaming that you’re here.  But all the same, I’m the daughter of the woman who checked you in last night, and we make a point of greeting our guests by name.”
He stared at her a moment more, gaze both analytical and totally disinterested, and she wondered for a moment if she was actually a ghost. She took a deep breath.  He grunted dismissively.
“I did want to ask, Mr. Styles, if you had any questions about the island or what we have to offer here.  If you don’t mind me saying so --”
“I do mind, actually,” he started, cutting her off.  “Can’t a bloke get some bloody peace around here?”
Y/N’s jaw snapped shut so hard that the canals of her ears hurt faintly.
“Of course.”
She was not ashamed to say that she fled the space after that, taking the stairs in a sprint with cheeks burning like the cherry of a cigarette from sheer fury.  It was only the telltale cadence of Georgie’s footfalls at the bottom of the stairs that kept Y/N from running face first into her.
“Who pissed in your coffee?” Georgie asked, grabbing her by the elbows to steady her.  Y/N rolled her neck.
“Haven’t had it yet.  Did you know we have Harry Styles gracing our humble establishment?” Y/N laughed, clenching her fist.
“You mean your favorite author?  The guy whose books I’ve bought you for the past three out of five Christmases?”  Georgie asked.  Y/N could tell she was confused.
“The guy’s an asshole.  Steer carefully around him,” Y/N scoffed.  Georgie was frowning at her, face clearly sympathetic, and Y/N wanted to scream.
“I’m so sorry rosie,” Georgie said, stroking her hand softly down Y/N’s arm.  Y/N frowned.
“I’m only warning you George.  We’ve got him for three months, and whatever his books were like, he is not.”
There was more Georgie wanted to say, that was certainly visible on her face, but she nodded instead.
“Wanna talk about this over coffee?” she asked softly.  Y/N didn’t, not really, but it might be easier if she did, so she turned to the worn wooden table and chairs for employees set up in the kitchen.  A steaming cup of coffee was set in her usual  place, alongside a plate of Helena’s breakfast hash.
“So Harry Styles sucks?” Georgie prompted, taking a mouthful of potatoes.  Y/N took a bracing drink.
“Of course he does.  He’s massively rich and has met a million interesting people and seen half the world.  What time does he has for us small folk?”  
Georgie’s eyebrows raised high.
“Not that she’s bitter.”
Y/N glared.
“For the past six years I have lived the rest of the world through him and how funny he is.  Now he’s here to stay with us and I find out it’s all an act.  Forgive me for my sour grapes.”
Georgie waited for the next shoe to fall.
“It just feels like...” Y/N scrubbed her hands through her hair.  “I don’t know.  It just feels like everything happens outside of Kalokairi.  And when it happens here, it can never be the same.”
“Oh c’mon Y/N.  I’d bet you half my paycheck that he’s like that everywhere.  You know how rich people are, they forget what it’s like to be ordinary like us.  The ants can’t help but bother him,” Georgie pointed out.  She poked Y/N’s plate, trying to remind her to eat for the rest of the day, and Y/N managed a morose forkful.
“It’s to be expected.  Here I am working my ass off just to keep the walls of this place upright and he’s too high on the fumes of a few euros to be nice to people around him.”
“Never meet your heroes.  By the way, he’s already sent down some laundry to be done,” Georgie replied.  Y/N groaned and laid her head next to the plate on the table.
---
So Harry may have been a little mean to the cute girl who brought round his brekkie.  In his defense, he certainly felt bad about it.  He was just feeling so rotten between how tired he was and the start of the morning.  There’d been this stunning sunrise he saw lighting up his balcony, and when he went out to watch it he felt so young and inspired and ready again.  He’d grabbed his typewriter (which was a bitch to lug around, but always worth it) and set up on the little wrought iron table, and-- nothing.
It was like a million different words were pounding on his chest, begging to be let out of a door that his fingers could no longer be.  It was infuriating.
So he’d gone to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling again, and by the time he’d marked down for breakfast, he was properly full to the brim with ire.  And then the girl had known his name and he was just so bloody sick of being Harry Styles, Travel Writer that he’d snapped at her.  He’d been even angrier when she’d had a reason for knowing it and he realized how rude he’d been.
He rather wished he’d let her speak too, because he didn’t know a stitch of Greek or where he ought to go now the day had begun, and he was a bit too afraid to risk running across her in the registration house.  For now, he thought, he’d explore the resort.
It was a precious place, he had to say.  The hotel complex itself was basically a square of buildings around a divided courtyard.  The structures themselves were all very Greek, covered over with a pale stucco and roofed in with terracotta tiles.  All of the doors were a soft shade of blue that matched the walls of the rooms.  He was in the building to the north, the longest one, which connected to a dining balcony with one of the most breathtaking sea views he’d ever seen -- and he’d seen a few.  The north building turned an L, so that it covered a half of the east side.  There was a wide gate heading out of the courtyard that led onto a small, red dust lot, and that was where he’d entered the night before.  The other east building on the lot had a spillover of more rooms (the least expensive ones, he assumed, since they looked out on trees and the road down to the markets and the docks).  What must have at one time been a goat house was now a bit of storage for food and miscellany, according to the owner, Dee.  
Beautiful though the buildings were, Harry could see the wear.  In some places the stucco was chipped, and it was more of an off white than the pure, bright white that most Greek tourism brochures tended to picture.   On the registration house he’d started in the evening before, on the very south side of the square of buildings, he could see tiles missing in the roof and how nearly all of the blue paint had peeled off the attic window shutters.  Nevertheless, every worn patch had a cheerful flower to match it, and the food and comfort of his surroundings was undeniable.
Harry had already gone to inspect the flowers crawling the walls (he was almost fitfully delighted to see that it was an old, lovingly cared for bougainvillea plant), and noted with joy that the little box under the attic window was decorated with a carving of all of the muses and bursting with brightly colored blooms.  
The courtyard had a slope to it, and it split like a step in the middle.  Dee had explained to him in the ride up to the place that people had kept tripping over the damn thing, so she’d built a wall to make it safer because she wasn’t about to be liable.  Then she’d found out that if you closed the gate and it made a suitable dance floor that went well with the courtyard’s outdoor bar, and it had kind of gone from there.
Though there was something almost magical about sitting under the clotheslines heavy with laundry on the east side of the gate, he’d seen stairs on the cliffside as the ferry came sailing in, and he thought that the gate on the southwest side of the courtyard may lead to it.  It’d been closed all day, but he didn’t think that meant it would be locked.  Those stairs, he thought, would probably be a good place to crack open the book of Ginsberg poems he’d grabbed as he was leaving New York.
To his surprise, the door of the gate he had seen was now open.  His hunch had been totally right, he saw.  There were the stone steps, and he could smell the faint aroma of cypress on the otherwise salty sea breeze.  
He started down them, already thrilled by the view expanding in front of him, but froze when he noticed a head of familiar hair.  It was the girl.  She had a book in her lap and another stack to her side, and he noticed with a start that one of his was atop the stack.  
It was a paperback version of Haggled History: Viewing Europe’s Past on a Budget, one of his prouder works.  It was rather dense since it covered quite a few countries, chapter by by chapter, and how best to learn their histories with only a few euros in pocket.  It was also less trendy, he supposed, than much of his other work.  Apparently, his usual reader wasn’t much for history reference based jokes.  He very rarely found himself signing it on his book tours-- and yet there was her version, tattered and well loved.  Pages were marked with washi tape, seemingly in the place of a dog ear, and just about a whole pad of post it notes had found their way into the four hundred odd pages.  As the gentle wind coming off the water blew her copy open, he could see it was highlighted and marked with a heart next to whatever city it was open to, margins crammed with notes.
Feeling suddenly vaguely ill, Harry turned around and decided that maybe sleeping off his jetlag would be the best use of his afternoon.
---
Georgie, the traitor, had told Dee how Y/N’s meeting with Mr. Styles had gone.  Y/N tried not to be too irritated by the fact that her mother was largely unsympathetic -- “he’s just another guest, my rose, and his euros have the same value as anyone else’s.  I don’t care what his personality is like.”  Still, Dee knew how much his books meant to her (even now, having met the asshole), and Y/N would have liked a smidgen of understanding.  Unfortunately, her mother was right.  Harry Styles’ money was metaphorically green and all that, and he was giving them quite a bit of it.  So Y/N could be nice.  Or polite, at the very least.
Alright, she could prevent herself from being openly hostile.  Y/N really thought, though, that that should count for something!  It wasn’t as though he was being a peach.  He’d been here two weeks, and the entire time he’d been surly and frowning.  He’d even had the audacity to ask Dee to switch his mattress, as though that was the reason he was sleeping poorly.  It hadn’t helped, either, because every time Y/N brought his breakfast (or any other meal.  Or an extra pillow.  Or had the nerve to even look in his direction), he was still as nasty and short as he’d been that first day.
The worst part though, easily, was the fact that she seemed to be the only person gifted with his special attentions.  Her mother had insisted that he’d been a total sweetheart about asking about his bed, Helena declared that she liked him, despite whatever his breakfast choices might be, and even Georgie said that he really wasn’t all that bad.
Y/N was reeling with enough betrayal that this Thursday already felt pretty sour.  But then the morning had started unpleasantly, moreso than usual.  Big Ben had decided to take a day off (looked like she would have to bring it round to Mr. Hatzidakis to fix, again), so she’d awoken to her mother yelling through her door that she had 15 minutes before Mr. Clark would like his breakfast at 7:30.  The food had been ready since Helena worked like an atomic clock, but Y/N’s hastily dealt with hair and puffy eyes were still a dead give to her own tardiness, and Mr. Clark was kind enough to let her know as much as she set down his cuppa and two eggs, scrambled, with sliced tomato and cottage cheese to the side.  From there she’d been dashing up and down the service stairs to fill every ridiculous request from the latest batch of uni kids (and who on earth could drink three frappe’s in the space of an hour without their heart beating itself out?), never having time to eat or even get a sip of coffee in, until suddenly it was nine.  The worst part of her day.
“Good morning Mr. Styles,” she said breathlessly, setting down his usual plate in front of him.  She didn’t have his paper yet (they tended to get a variety of english options sent in for the guests, but this morning’s ferry was running late), but it would be on the way just as soon as she got that damn uni student his fucking Lucky Charms.
Styles grunted in response.  “You forget I asked for the Guardian?” he asked mulishly, picking up the container of cream.  Y/N sighed, feeling the simmer of anger in her chest roar to a boil.
“No, I-”
“Oi!  Miss Waitress!  I asked for that cereal,” called one of the Chads from the next table over.  His friends snickered, and Y/N felt her fingers twitch at her side.
“-have to do that.  I’ll bring the paper with his cereal,” she ground out, wiping an errant piece of hair from her forehead.
“Don’t see why it would have been so hard to do now, but alright,” Harry muttered, and Y/N felt the angry blood in her stomach crawl up her neck.  She turned and left.  Georgie grabbed her on the stairs.
“Listen, I know you don’t like Styles, but if you’re going to push any of them over the cliffside, pick the frat boys.  They keep talking to me as if I don’t know english, and they say it’s because I ‘have an accent’.  So do they!  It’s just one of those English ones!”
“Duly noted.  Have the papers come in yet?”
“Nik is running them up now, should be within five minutes,” Georgie answered as she jogged away.  Well, Mr. Styles wasn’t going to love that.  Now that the school groups were coming and going, Y/N found that he made a concerted effort not to linger over his breakfast.  Helena, with her usual artful arrangement, had set out the cereal and milk alongside a bowl on a tray for Y/N to take, but Nik was nowhere in sight.  Unfortunately, the food really couldn’t wait.  The university boys seemed to get a kick out of complaining to her about every little thing, so the less room the better.  Y/N turned and hauled herself back up the stairs.
“Cereal for you boys,” she said, voice distinctly more cheerful than she was feeling.  She set the tray down and was ready to head back to see if Nik was around, but one of them grabbed her wrist.
“Pour the milk, won’t you?” he said, grinning, and Y/N heard her own knuckles crack.
“Of course.”
She poured the milk, trying to ignore the fact that her hands were now literally shaking with suppressed rage, and was once again ready to leave the balcony and maybe punch a wall, when she heard her name being called.  It wa by Mr. Styles, who had a face like a thundercloud.
“Thought you said you were bringing my bloody newspaper up.  I’ve been waiting all morning, and I understand that you might be busy flirting with England’s finest over there, but I would think you’d still be able to do your job,” he hissed as she drew up near him.  
Oh, that was it.
“Listen.  I know that in your tenure as one of the unnecessarily rich and stupidly famous airheads that wander this earth of ours, you’ve forgotten that the sun does not, in fact, revolve around your inflated head.  Let me remind you though, that you are a guest here, just as they are -- in fact, very much like them since you’re in the running for ‘who treats the service workers worst’ -- and I am only one person running about to help just under eleven of you, all making rapid fire requests.  So you’ll forgive me for not pulling the newspaper out of my own asshole just because you request it, but I’d just like to let you know that even if I could, I wouldn’t, because I’ve never had a guest who was less pleasant to be around and a greater disappointment of a person.”
By the end of her monologue, she knew, she was yelling.  She just couldn’t help it.  Two weeks of berating at the hands of someone she’d admired, someone who was regularly listed as one of the kindest celebrities in his tax bracket, and three days of those fucking university students (which, frankly, was enough).  She was just so sick of being kind and amiable and patient with people who treated her like shit.  From behind her, a throat cleared.
“Brought the paper up, Y/N.  Nik rushed it since the boat was late, but I that didn’t really help,” Georgie said, voice torn between laughter and concern.  Y/N turned around, snatched the paper out of her hands, and slapped it in front of Harry Styles so hard that the table shook.
“The Guardian, as per your request,” she snarled, and then she was gone.
---
Harry may have deserved it.  “It” being the dressing down he got in front of two amused couples, four first year frat boys, and two lone guests at full volume at 9:10 in the morning.  He knew he’d been pushing her, he supposed.  But wow, had she gone off.  Harry couldn’t help but be angry that she even looked good when she was screaming at him.
Still, it was a pretty shit way to start the day.  He’d been unfair to her the entire time he was here, but again, Y/N could have let him know the ferry was running let.  She didn’t have to make an ass of him.  Although he supposed, again, that he hadn’t really given her the room to let him know.  Whatever.  Whatever, it had happened, and he planned to relax on the beach to soak it all off, since writing seemed as though it still wasn’t an option.  (It was possible, he thought, that the persistent writer’s block was probably a big part of his shit attitude.)
It was only much later that evening, as Harry went to sit on the steps in the dying summer sun and read with ouzo and two small glasses (Helena had insisted, saying it would keep him from looking like an alcoholic), that he realized how different Y/N’s life really was.
There was a little landing in the stairs, just a storey below the resort itself, that had a pathway to the cellars.  Harry knew from the chats he’d had with Helena in the courtyard that the little door on the side was rarely used thanks to the stairs from the kitchen, but now he could hear voices from where it was hanging ajar.
“... cannot believe you would ever speak to a customer that way!  As a hotelier, you know better than that!”  was the first thing Harry heard, Dee’s voice angrier than he had ever heard it.  There were muffled sniffles in the background, and not for the first time, Harry felt like a proper asshole.
“I’m not a hotelier mom.  I live in a hotel and I help, but I’m not a hotelier.  That’s what you do.  I’m just here.  And I’m sick of being treated like it.”  That was Y/N talking, so lowly that he could only barely hear it above the sound of the waves on the rocks below.
“Well while you’re here, a hotelier is what you will act like,” Dee responded, tone unforgiving.
“And how long is that mom?” Y/N was yelling back now, and Harry realized quietly that she had quite the temper on her.  “How long am I here?  Because I have begged until I was blue in the face to go to college, or Italy, or even Athens, and you’ve never let me!  How long do I have to pretend like Kalokairi is all I’ll ever want when we both know it’s not?”
Harry held his breath.  There was a long moment of silence.
“Y/N, you know that I don’t have the money for that --”
“I will take out loans for school.  I will hitchhike, I will stay in hostels or camp illegally, I will sell everything I own, I don’t care.  I just want to see -- fuck, something!” Y/N gasped, begging now.  Another long moment.
“Y/N, I need you here.  And I need you to do your job, the way I know you can.  I’ve told you so many stories, dear.  It’s not that much different out there compared to those,” Dee tried to be light in telling her story, but the tone was obviously clipped.
“Mom, I want to explore.  I want to meet people, and see things.  I want to make my own stories,” Y/N pleaded.  Dee sighed.
“And you’ll have them, my rose.  One day.”
“When?”
This time Dee didn’t respond.  After another long period of quiet, Harry heard the sound of steps walking away, followed by harsh sobs.
Harry felt really, really awful.  Here he’d been, so trapped by the weight of his job, that he’d forgotten how much it was that he got to do.  Just like Y/N had said.  So lost in his own thoughts, Harry didn’t realize that the door was opening on a tearful Y/N until they’d looked up and made eye contact.  The anger he’d become so used to settled in on her face.  Oh boy.
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sheikah · 6 years
Note
Sansa x Pod with “Can I Hold your hand?” Is on the prompt list :)
This was supposed to be a tiny little drabble but it turned into a super long, sappy thing. (I’m going to write a second part with smut because I can’t help it with these two haha.)
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You won’t find Father down there, you know.
Sansa frowns at the statue of her father, chewing over her sister’s words from earlier that day. Arya had caught her stealing away to the crypts after supper–a habit she now indulges with growing frequency–and attempted to deter her with the blunt, almost cold declaration.
“I know that,” Sansa had insisted, a bit wary. Arya’s detached attitude about death is peculiar to say the least; but then, Sansa has changed, too. Everything has.
Winterfell isn’t the safe haven of her childhood, not anymore. It is almost unrecognizable after the rounds of destruction and repair, with new defenses on its perimeter and new faces housed under its roof. It is an entirely different place without her mother and father, without the sound of Rickon’s laughter and the glow of Robb’s smile.
But for everything they have lost, there is something new to try and fill its place–stronger and higher battlements to the Northeast, unfamiliar lords and ladies populating the halls, and new responsibilities on Sansa’s shoulders.
So while she knows better than anyone that her father’s spirit isn’t waiting to greet her in the solitude of the crypts, Sansa retreats there anyway for a rare respite from the clamor of the court and the obtruding eyes of its people.
Down here it is dark and damp, and a few years ago she would have been frightened by such a macabre setting. Now, it is the only place where Sansa can find some peace and quiet, where she can be alone without any weapon shipments to approve or Winter rations to calculate.
Even after all she has been through, though, standing before Father’s statue–however poor the likeness–sometimes erodes at her resolve.
I miss you so much. Winterfell needs you more than ever. I need you.
She cannot help but wonder what the great Lord Eddard Stark would think of her now, ruling in his stead as Lady of Winterfell. She had never been groomed for it. She was meant to be the wife of some high lord, raising his children and keeping his household. Father had wanted that for her.
When you’re old enough, he’d vowed, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, gentle, and strong. Sansa cannot imagine such a future anymore. She had once dreamt of finding that man, a valiant knight like someone from the songs, who would whisk her away from the dull North to a fantastic life full of passion and adventure. 
Now her dreams are replaced with nightmares that are all-too-real, and she hopes only for the strength to keep four walls around Jon’s subjects for one more day, to keep food in their stores and wood in their fires. It affords her a new respect for Father, learning all that he had managed every single day.
The pack survives, he had said to them once. Sound advice. Without Arya and Bran, Sansa doesn’t want to imagine what might have become of her with Jon away in the South and Baelish circling her like a shadowcat stalking its prey.
But their pack is smaller than before, and she finds that even during her busiest days, she is as lonely as she has ever been.
She gazes steadily at Father’s statue, trying to fill in the sculptor’s gaps with her own memory, to visualize the lines of his face. He had often been a dour man, her lord father. But his grim expression had easily given way to smiles and laughter, an exuberant sort of joy he reserved just for his family. There is nothing in the world that Sansa wouldn’t give just to see him again, chuckling behind his hand when Arya arrives late and caked in mud to a feast. Nothing she wouldn’t trade for the simple pleasure of letting her mother brush her hair at the vanity in her old room.
It is only when her vision goes blurry before her, the light from the torches distorting into a fuzzy, orange glow, that she realizes she is crying. It seems senseless to weep for them now, after all that has happened. But she was never allowed to mourn them properly, and it is more trying than she imagined, being back in her home–their home–without them in it.
Sansa removes her leather gloves with a sigh. Tucking them away in her cloak, she raises her fingers to swipe the tears from her eyes, collecting herself. She ought to be getting back soon, and as lady of her house, the last thing she needs is to show weakness to the dissenting lords.
Before she can make her exit she hears approaching footsteps, the padding of boots on the moist earth echoing throughout the dark chambers. A figure heads toward her from the hall at her right, bearing a torch that casts bobbing shadows against the walls and ceiling with every step.
Her chest clenches with panic at the sight. The appeal of the crypts has always been their distinct lack of people who might intrude on her introspection, and Sansa is wholly unprepared to be observed in the act of weeping and hiding when she should be overseeing the castle.
As the visitor draws near, Sansa recognizes him as Brienne’s squire, Podrick Payne. Of all the inhabitants of the castle who might come calling, Podrick is perhaps the least threatening. But that does nothing to temper her frustration at being interrupted in such a state, and by the time he steps up alongside her before the statue, she’s bristling with anger.
“My Lady,” he greets her, his voice soft and hesitant. He walks a bit bow-legged, no doubt the result of riding on horseback day and night on the journey home from King’s Landing. There are still snow flurries melting in his dark hair, as if he’s come straight from the saddle to her side.
“I see you’ve had a safe journey,” Sansa observes dryly, looking away so that Podrick might not see her tear-stained cheeks, the red in her eyes.
“Ah. Um, yes, My Lady. Lady Brienne sent me to notify you that we’ve returned.”
“Good,” Sansa replies, sniffing and clearing her throat. “And what of my brother and Daenerys Targaryen?”
Pod shakes his head and shrugs.
“I don’t know, My Lady. If they haven’t arrived then I suppose they delayed before their sea voyage.”
She frowns. More bad news. The sooner Jon returns the sooner he can resume his duties as king, and the sooner they can both formulate a plan for facing the threat marching their way from the North.
“Very well,” she nods in Podrick’s direction. “Thank you.”
She says it with the sort of finality that ends a conversation, hoping that Podrick can take a hint and leave her with her dignity still intact. But he doesn’t budge, and Sansa can feel his eyes on her, peering closely through the faint light of the torches.
“Lady Sansa,” he murmurs, daring a step closer. “Are you well?”
“Of course,” she snaps, still tilting her face away from his prying eyes. “You can go, Podrick.”
“You’re crying, My Lady. Is everything alright? Do you need–”
Sansa wheels on him, blinking back stinging tears as her patience snaps like a banner in the wind.
“Seven hells, Podrick, can you please just leave me alone? Go!”
He winces like a beaten dog at that, but still finds the courtesy for a perfunctory bow before taking his leave.
A sharp jab of guilt threatens Sansa then, as Podrick turns and strides away with so much haste that she has to double-take to be sure he isn’t running. After all, it isn’t his fault her family is gone. He isn’t to blame for her years of repressed grief and loneliness. She cannot fault him for trying to do what he was told, as he always does. And Podrick is a decent, even kind man, truthfully.
Sansa’s mind wanders back to a night in the Red Keep long ago, when Podrick had heard her crying after Mother and Robb were killed. He appeared unexpectedly at her chamber door bearing a tray of fresh lemon cakes and a flagon of sweet plum wine. When she had asked if Tyrion had sent him, Podrick had confirmed that yes, it was her lord husband who had ordered him there. But the following morning, when Sansa had thanked Tyrion for the kind gesture, he hadn’t known what she was talking about. It had been Podrick’s own doing all along.
And then there was the day that Brienne had come to her rescue when she and Theon had faced a grisly fate at the mercy of Ramsay’s hounds. Podrick had been there, too, fighting–albeit clumsily–to protect her. And when she had forgotten the words to swear Brienne into her service, he was standing by, ready to come to her rescue again.
So the sight of his forlorn, retreating form tugs at her heart, and Sansa calls out to stop him.
“Podrick, wait. Wait. Please.”
He stops short, turns back, and even at this distance she can see the hope and relief on his innocent young face.
“I’m sorry,” Sansa announces, eager to fill the silence, offering him a watery half-smile. “That was unkind of me.”
“It’s alright,” Podrick assures her, making his way back through the darkened hall. “You’re upset.”
Yes, Sansa muses to herself. And why must that be so shameful? She wears strength like a coat of armor but it gets heavy after particularly rough days, and sometimes she longs to shrug free of it. Podrick seems as safe a soul as any to bare her heart to.
“I am,” she agrees. “I miss them.” She gestures to the crypts around her, the resting place of the bones of her father and little brother, the ghostly memory of her mother, of Robb.
“And it’s hard,” she continues, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. “To carry on as if nothing has happened. To pretend that I’m strong like Mother was, or a leader like Jon.”
“Begging your pardon, My Lady, but you are,” Podrick interjects.
She scoffs, casting him a dubious glance.
“I’m not,” she argues, shaking her head. “You don’t need to say that just to be kind.”
“That’s not it,” Podrick says with conviction. “When Lady Brienne and I were camped outside of Winterfell before you escaped, watching out for your signal, we were there for months. And we heard things. What he did to people. The kind of man he was,” he explains, pausing to assess Sansa’s darkening expression carefully. “To go through that as you did, to endure it and escape … You might not be a warrior like Lady Brienne, but you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
The corners of her lips tug up in earnest at Podrick’s sweet words, even if they are just flattery. But Sansa suspects that shallow compliments are not really his style. He is too sincere, too polite, too wholly good to be so superficial. She feels her throat constricting with emotion, overwhelmed with gratitude for him in that moment; for his tactful omission of Ramsay’s name, for taking the time to lift her spirits even after she had just scolded him like a unruly servant.
“Thank you, Podrick,” she whispers.
“It’s only the truth, Lady Sansa,” he presses on, emboldened by her smile. “And His Grace will be very proud of how well you’ve done when he returns. Lord Tyrion always used to gripe about how hard it can be to placate all of those nobles at court, but you’ve done it so well that many of them want you for their queen.”
“Oh, yes,” Sansa agrees sarcastically. “Jon will be thrilled to know I’m trying to take his place in his absence.”
“But you haven’t,” Podrick protests. “You’re loyal.”
Sansa turns to face him properly now, stunned by his praise. It is comforting and fortifying at the same time, hearing someone support and validate her this way–honestly and without agenda.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Podrick fidgets under her stare, rubbing his free hand at the back of his neck bashfully.
“I - It’s nothing, My Lady,” he stammers. “I just wanted you to know that you shouldn’t doubt yourself. It’s my pleasure to serve under you.”
“Is that so?” Sansa asks him slyly, arching her brow.
No sooner do the words leave her lips than Podrick’s face colors redder than the crimson of his gambeson, and Sansa cannot hold back her snort of amusement at his mortified expression.
“Or - I mean, I’m proud to squire for someone in your service,” he corrects himself hurriedly.
“The honor is mine,” Sansa replies. She is rewarded with a beaming grin from Podrick. A nice grin, she decides. One that warms her from top to toe.
“We’d best get back upstairs for the evening,” she suggests.
Podrick nods quickly, and she collects her torch from the sconce on the wall before heading back toward the entrance.
Sansa stays near at his side as they walk along. Carrying the torch in her left hand, her right dangles close upon his, and every now and again his knuckles brush the backside of her palm. She half expects the jumpy and unfailingly proper Podrick to flinch away and put a more appropriate distance between them.
Instead she feels him wiggling his fingers reflexively, and he clears his throat into the quiet, preparing to speak.
“Can I hold your hand, My Lady?” he asks, his voice unusually high and strained, as though the words are a great burden he’s struggling to lift.
Sansa is taken aback at the strange question. She can’t recall anyone ever asking her permission for such a thing before. Yet the trauma of Ramsay’s abuse casts a pall over her still, and even now–over a year later–she isn’t especially fond of being touched. Podrick is one of the few people aware of what she suffered, and it occurs to her that he is trying to be considerate of that, even as he–
What is he doing?
Taking pity on her? Comforting her? Flirting with her?
Sansa doesn’t know, but reasons that it doesn’t much matter. The thought of holding Podrick’s hand is unaccountably appealing, so she gives him her answer by slipping her palm around to his and taking his hand. He trembles with the barest hint of a shiver at her touch, but his skin is warm and pleasant, and she can feel the rough calluses on his palm from hours of unforgiving practice at swordplay.
Podrick laces his fingers through hers and grips her hand a little tighter, the pulse in his wrist pounding out a nervous beat against her own. She chances a peek in his direction, only to find him already looking her way. The instant their eyes meet Sansa drops her gaze, blood racing to her cheeks. It is foolish, childish even, to be flustered by something so insignificant. She can feel her heart pounding so hard she is sure even Podrick can hear it in the silence.
But when Sansa sneaks another glance at him out of the corner of her eye, it is as though she really notices him for the first time. It isn’t that Podrick is exceptionally handsome. He doesn’t have the fine features or roguish confidence she used to admire in young men like Loras Tyrell. But there is a comeliness in his brown eyes that charms her. He is barely taller than she, but what he lacks in height he makes up for with the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his strong arms. And the longer Sansa peers at him, the more she fancies the soft look of his lips.
As a girl she had ignored him almost entirely, measured him nothing more than a silly boy who happened to share a name with that vile, leering Ser Ilyn. But walking hand-in-hand with Podrick now, there is a giddy flutter in her belly, a tingle where their fingers are clasped.
When they emerge from the crypts she releases his hand quickly lest someone should see them. With the light of the moon and the many torches illuminating Winterfell’s yard, it all seems a bit award now.
“Will you be alright?” Podrick asks timidly.
“I’m much better now, yes,” Sansa assures him. “Thank you.”
“Good evening, Lady Sansa,” he says, dipping forward into a parting bow.
“You as well, Podrick.”
For the rest of the night, Sansa doesn’t once feel lonely or anxious. Lying awake into the small hours, her busy thoughts have nothing to do with quarreling nobles or shortages of grain.
She had nearly forgotten what it even felt like to be excited by a man after all these years living in fear of them. Perhaps that is part of Podrick’s allure, for Sansa knows he would sooner fall on his own sword than harm a lady. He is a safe bet, but one that still manages to intrigue her.
And when she drifts off to sleep at last, her dreams are fraught with a dark-eyed knight who can do all sorts of things with that stumbletongue of his.
I hope this isn’t terrible! I’ve never written this for this pairing. I’ve never even written Sansa haha! Thanks :)
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