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scribbling-dragon · 8 months

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Crown of Antlers

Chapter 8: The Damned Kingdom

summary:

What’s the point in stars when you don’t even know their names?

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Scott was…satisfied with the outcome of their meeting. It had lasted longer than he first anticipated when he visited the marshy lands of the Cod Empire, but that extra time spent was not for naught. The Codfather is certainly the character that every other empire swears he is – quoting him as impulsive and reckless, yet passionate and only ever acting on what he thinks is for the best – though Scott had very few opportunities to ever observe him properly.

The rumours are somewhat accurate. Some are so incredibly outside of reality that he cannot help but laugh at them; Cormac had agreed with him on those, xir disbelief at some of the more unsavoury rumours surrounding Jimmy had certainly overstepped some boundaries. And Scott places all of his money on those rumours being started by Jimmy’s Council.

Such thoughts are only at the back of his mind as he stands, rather patiently, and allows Axen to flutter around him anxiously. His advisor pulls at some of the layers of clothing, muttering about the heat as they run their hands over the fabric of his cloak, smoothing it out so it sits more comfortably on his shoulders.

Only when they reach to adjust his gloves does he halt them, circling one hand gently around their wrist and pulling it away.

“I do believe I am capable of adjusting my gloves myself, if I see fit.”

“If you were trusted on matters like ensuring you are presentable, then we would have you arriving in Mezalea looking like you had been hauled through several bramble bushes.”

“You overexaggerate.” He almost rolls his eyes at Axen’s fussing, only pausing because he’s rather certain they’d smack him for the disrespect. Aeor stands further back in the room, not having said anything; and yet He still manages to positively radiate amusement.

As a child, Scott had been a firm believer that animals were less adapted to communicate feelings based on expressions. Deer, he found, were rather inexpressive unless you studied their eyes or body language closely. Aeor destroyed all of those beliefs, presenting him with the knowledge that a deer can look incredibly smug when it wants to.

“I most certainly do not,” Axen protests, attempting to adjust something else with their still free hand before Scott manages to capture that one too. He can hear several elves snickering behind him, like the children they often are. “Do you not remember the most recent Mythland coronation? How you and your brother had to be wrangled into looking halfway presentable? There were so many resignations over the course of your fittings I worried there would be no tailors left to finish your clothes.”

“Again,” he releases Axen’s hands and steps back, carefully outside of fussing range. “You overexaggerate.”

Axen looks like they're going to continue. Scott ignores them easily, turning to where the rest of his Court stands, all of them abruptly straightening up as though that would disguise how they’ve been stood there snickering for the past few minutes as Scott was subjected to the torment of Axen’s last-minute fretting.

“I assume we are all ready to depart?” He clasps his hands neatly in front of him, feeling rather than seeing Aeor come to stand at his shoulder. The warm breath of the deer brushes over his cheek as he surveys the elves in front of him. Their luggage consists of only the bare minimum, Scott warning them that they were not to impose upon their hosts for the duration of their stay. “Fantastic,” he doesn’t wait for a response. “Now, I know a few of you dislike this method of transportation, but it beats having to travel by horse, hm?”

There’s a small round of assenting hums and quiet yeses, though no-one looks particularly pleased about the concept.

“Then we shan’t delay any further-“

“Sire,” Leukos interrupts him, looking rather out of place in the stark light of day rather than the muted tones of their library. “Please, let’s not make a grand entrance out of this? I don’t think any of us can cope with it after the last time.”

“Last time was not as bad as you all made it out to be,” he scoffs. He’d been a lot younger, and far more inexperienced with this specific talent. It had not been his finest moment, but at least he hadn’t been left to suffer it alone. “And I can promise, this time will be far less embarrassing.”

He ignores the murmured comment from Cormac about seaweed and fish, closing his eyes instead and feeling for the humming in the air around him. It reaches out to him easily, aided by Aeor’s close proximity.

It responds quickly, the sound of crackling ice travelling over stone reaching his ears. He tugs a little harder, a little harsher, and the sound of wind roars up around them, buffeting his clothes and drowning out any other noise.

It disappears just as quickly, leaving a wave of warmth behind it as he peeks first one eye and then the second eye open, looking around at the red sands of Mezalea gleefully.

“See?” He turns to his slightly dazed Court, a few of them looking rather pale. “What did I say, nice, non-dramatic entrances.”

“I think you’ll find that’s still rather dramatic.” Someone kicks at the ground behind him, and he turns with a smile to greet the Mezalean King. He’s nudging at the edge of the frozen ring of sand disdainfully, before looking up at Scott. “How am I meant to clear this up? Your ice doesn’t melt.”

“It will eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough,” the King crosses his arms, looking more annoyed than angry. “I quite liked this bit of ground. Nice, not too much sun, not too much shade. A rather pretty spot with a good view. And now it’s covered in ice. What am I meant to do with all this ice?”

“You could use it as ice cubes in drinks.” Scott suggests.

“Ah, yes,” the man nods along, looking thoughtful. “A new trend – take the ice from the sand and put it in your drinks. It won’t ruin it at all, with the bits of sand stuck in it, why would you ever suggest such a thing?”

“Do you make it a habit to harass all of your guests?” He asks, voice dry. The warm air is beginning to make him feel overdressed in all of his layers, something that is normally not a problem suddenly rearing it’s head and making him feel uncomfortable in the heat.

“Just you,” the King smiles up at him. “Special treatment for my favourite person.”

Mezalea and Rivendell have never had great relations. What had started out as Mezalea distrusting anything magical, had quickly turned into them vehemently denying the existence of any magic. It was enough to break off the alliance between his great-grandfather and the King of Mezalea that had been ruling at the time. Such an event has been misconstrued and even stricken from records, leaving the actual cause of such a falling out to become blurred over time. The resentment has faithfully been upheld, however.

“Why, I thank you for your generous hospitality,” he presses a hand to his chest, bowing himself forward a little. He notices, with slight glee, that it does nothing to put them at eye level. “Though, some of us have a little baggage. Is there anywhere we would be able to leave this?”

“Your rooms are with everyone else’s,” the King jabs a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the steady flow of people heading in one direction. It’s an interesting mix of people, with all the different colours and clothes of other empires mixing in together. He sees a few flashes of House Blossom lavender and whirling Grimland greys and blacks. “Someone’s waiting for you to arrive, and they’ll guide you to your rooms.”

He sounds bored, like he’s rattled the speech off a thousand times already. He likely has, judging by the sheer number of people that have arrived. Scott thought he might be pushing it by bringing the entirety of his Court, but his group seems like the smallest here.

…Ah, well. It simply means other people have a higher chance of embarrassing their empire.

He has to shove his way through the crowd none too gently, most of the people standing and speaking to their friends rather than actually moving towards their destination. Really, he cannot understand how someone can bear to move so slowly, inching along at a snail’s pace – do they not realise walking faster means they reach their destination earlier?

The “rooms” with everyone else that the Mezalean King had mentioned is actually several buildings specifically built with the idea of hosting people in mind. Rivendell hosts it’s guests in the Palace, with a specific quarter dedicated to visiting dignitaries and diplomats.

But Mezalea’s Palace is rather unfinished still. He can see workers scurrying over one of the domed roofs like ants, passing materials and clambering over the scaffolding. He hasn’t kept track of how many years this project has taken, but it’s something that had been ongoing for several generations of rulers at this point. It was being handed down like some kind of inheritance, but one that acted as a burden on their resources rather than anything actually useful.

Still, he much prefers sleeping in something with a completed roof, so he’ll take the accommodation they’ve been provided with happily.

“Elvenking,” one of the workers greets him. “And other esteemed guests. I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult.” The poor woman looks bored out of her mind, eyes drifting around the room as though looking for something more entertaining to occupy herself with. He wonders if they had to draw straws for which group they would receive. And which empire had the shortest straw assigned to them.

“Oh, it wasn’t too terrible.” He smiles, “A little cold, certainly, but nothing we aren’t already accustomed to.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” Her tone of voice suggests she couldn’t care less. “Right this way, please.”

They're guided up a grand and winding staircase in the centre of the room. He may dislike everything Mezalea stands for, but they really can make a rather grand staircase. She stops them on the second floor, handing out keys she fishes out of her pockets seemingly at random.

She disappears a moment later, a shout from downstairs summoning her. She gives him what he assumes is meant to be an apologetic smile, but comes across as more of a grimace before she descends again, leaving him alone with his Court.

With the outsider gone, they begin squabbling again over who is sharing rooms with who. And then it devolves into squabbling over which rooms they wish to be in. He sighs and reaches for Cormac when xe look as though xe are about to wrestle a key from Ophelia. He admires xir bravery, but he prefers his Head Mage in one piece.

“Alright,” he yanks the keys towards himself, pulling them together with the minimal cold lingering in the shaded corridors. His grasp over it is weaker than usual, driven by Mezalea’s refusal to acknowledge anything other. Disregarding the fact that their land is nourished by a magical tree. “I will be assigning rooms to each of you, seeing as you are unable to keep your manners intact for more than five seconds.”

He pauses at the sound of footsteps on the staircase behind them, turning his head slightly to watch the Crystal Cliffs diplomat meander their way on up, eyes set in a far-off look, not even seeing them. He waits until they're gone, far out of earshot, before he returns to berating the elves in front of him.

“You are representing Rivendell right now, I do not care that this is a celebration of an engagement. You will not be getting drunk and making a fool out of yourself where the other empires can watch you. Whilst we are here, we are the ones that make Rivendell look good and I will not hesitate to send you home if I think you are not taking this seriously enough, alright?”

“You sound like our mother.” Calla comments, snickering as he turns to look at them. “Sorry, sorry, I was just saying what everyone else was thinking.”

“Alright,” he takes a deep breath in, reminding himself that he would definitely be heard by everyone else in the building if he raised his voice any more. “Ground rules, yes? Those are always a good way to make sure there is no confusion on what I expect from you, is that clear?”

“Aeor above,” Cormac mutters, “he really is acting like our mother.”

Scott gracefully ignores xem. “I expect you to exercise the entirety of your court training, meaning I expect there to be impeccable manners and for you to be polite. Please, I beg of you, be polite. I do not need to be defusing any situations because you riled up the wrong person and their ruler took it personally. And,” he overrides Sorin before he can even think to protest, “I do not care if someone else started it. You are all much, much older than them and therefore know better. You might act like children, but you are certainly not, so please, be the mature adult if someone else is determined to be the child.”

“You take all the fun outta these things,” Cormac huffs. “What’s a little scuffle between friends?”

“It’s the difference between keeping peace and stoking conflict.” There’s enough conflict looming in their future, he hardly needs anything more on his plate. He has been bored as of late, but overworking himself in an effort to maintain semi-peaceful relations is not the solution for that boredom that he envisioned. “Now, room assignments.”

He hands the keys out to people, ignoring Cormac’s protests when he pairs xem with Axen rather than Leukos. He silently apologises to his advisor, but Cormac needs someone to keep an eye on xem, and he certainly doesn’t need to hear whatever it is that xe do with xir boyfriend.

Leukos accepts it quietly and with far more grace than their partner. That is the way that he expects his Court to behave while in the public eye.

He manages to have a room entirely to himself, slotting the key neatly into the lock and ignoring the beginnings of another squabble behind him. It might be his circus and his monkeys, but he is far past his threshold of tolerance for the day, and it’s barely past noon.

It is with a barely restrained sigh of relief that he shuts the door behind him, blocking out the worst of the noise.

His room is nice, spacious enough for his three-day stay here, at least. He sets his bag down at the foot of the bed and pulls his cloak off a moment later, feeling far too warm still.

“You should bring fewer of them next time,” Aeor says.

“Yes, yes,” Scott sighs, shaking his head. “I expected them to be better than this really, I would have thought our last incident would be enough to dissuade them from acting in such a manner.”

When he looks up, Aeor is wavery and opaque, almost entirely see through with how little of Him seems to retain a solid form. He wisps away into smoke and mist at the edges, looking for all the world as though He would disappear with a small breeze.

“You should not hold a physical form if it will be a drain on you.”

“It does not drain me,” Aeor sniffs. “It simply weakens me. As though I am stood on the other side of a door rather than in the room with you.”

“Not exactly a comforting metaphor.” He comments. “Nor one that fills me with any kind of hope.”

“It was not meant to make you feel more hopeful, only to make it so that you understand the situation. To send you forward with false information would be foolish, if you were to find yourself wedged into a corner, you may reach for power you do not have access to.”

“Yes, whatever,” he sits down on the bed with a thump, toying with the edges of his gloves. He almost takes them off, just to see what Mezalea is doing to his hands. “I thought it had been getting better? When we visited for the coronation-”

“The current King’s claim over the land was not fully settled,” Aeor interrupts. He flickers out of view for a moment before He consolidates Himself into a deer once more. “The Mother Tree was still recovering from the loss of her previous child, and he was still growing accustomed to the matters of the throne. It is not surprising that whatever protection She has placed was not yet functioning at its fullest potential.”

He sighs, staring down at his upturned hands. “Shame.”

“Oh?” Aeor’s hooves do not make a sound against the tiled floor as He steps closer, but Scott can see the sparks of frost that sparkle for a moment before fading away. “Did you have something planned?”

“I don’t always have something planned,” he rebuts. “I had simply thought that Her protection for the land was failing – She could have been dying for all we know. Can you imagine the state of things if she simply began withering and nothing could be done for it?”

Aeor hums. “I see your point. However, if it got to that point, someone would be able to bring in a mage to heal Her. If the She begins to die, so too does her protection. If that protection dies, then magic can once again be performed on these soils.”

“Hm.”

“You can simply tell me to stop talking if you grow bored,” Aeor’s nose nudges at him. Where he would normally feel a slightly wet sensation and the pressure that comes with being touched, he only feels the whisper of cold over his skin before it disappears again. “I do not wish to lull you to sleep.”

“I am simply thinking.”

“About what?” Aeor asks, ever persistent. Scott has seen His realm before, on the few occasions he’s been invited into that landscape; it’s possibly the most boring place he’s ever seen, with everything a sterile white and glowing slightly, stretching on for miles and miles of nothing but the same white expanse. He would prefer to bother whatever Champion he had chosen too. “No, don’t tell me, actually, allow me to guess.”

“I don’t need to tell you if you're right.”

“You can’t bear to let someone go uncorrected. Now, let’s see if I can get it with my first guess: you're attempting to decide whether to go looking for your dearest ally.”

He continues to stare at his gloved hands, but his non-answer is apparently enough to amuse Aeor. The faint sound of bells fills the air as Aeor laughs, shaking His massive head in disbelief. “Are you sure he is right for it?”

“I am rather sure,” Scott replies. “He’s been around for several years, settled comfortably into his power and influence for just as long.”

“And yet you never interacted with him before now.”

“Interacting with him wasn’t something that mattered. I was simply watching him. He is a rather interesting being, don’t you think?”

“Oh, there are many interesting things about the Codfather. Which one is it that you wish to discuss with me?”

“None of them.”

“Not even his purpose? Not even the reason why you had chosen to accept his proposal when it promises nothing but calamity for you? Did you think about the possible repercussions of your actions before you agreed to assist him in his ill-planned revenge plot, or were you simply considering what he could do for you?”

“You make me sound so shallow.” He complains.

“I did not call you shallow, I am saying that you rarely do anything without some ulterior motive. Forgive me for being doubtful of your motives in this situation.”

“You already know the motives.”

“Do I now?” Aeor laughs, again. “I may know a lot of what goes on inside of your head, but I don’t know everything, dear Champion. Are you sure your mind will remain clear during this alliance, and that it won’t be…polluted by whatever infatuation he has with you.”

“Infatuation is so offensive.”

“And what else would you call it? He has watched you at every single meeting for the last few years – the entire time he has held the title of Codfather, he has seemed to hold some level of attraction to you.”

“I am aware.”

“And do you intend to act on that?” Aeor continues to prod. His voice hasn’t changed at all, but the tension in the air grows, becoming heavy like the moments before it begins to snow. “Guiding someone because they find themselves attracted to you is a new low, even for you.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, curling over it slightly. “Right through the heart, that one. You wound me, really.”

“I would find that easier to believe if you injected even a little emotion into that.” Aeor pauses, as though waiting for his response, before sighing, “Mortals are fragile little things, their hearts especially so. Did you know they can die from a broken heart?”

“I am just as capable of doing so.”

“Which is why I am warning you of this.” Aeor forces his way into Scott’s field of view, forcing him to look his God in the eye. “You are valuable to me, no matter the outcome of this plan, but seafolk are a fickle species, as prone to change as the tides are. Do not let yourself be led astray by your heart when you have more important matters to focus on.”

“I am not being led astray, sometimes I am able to act upon my feelings without compromising anything. It’s called balancing something. Have you ever heard of it?”

“I have yet to see you successfully put it into practice.”

“Gods, sometimes I am almost glad my mother died. I don’t know how I would cope with two of you attempting to mother me at once.”

Aeor makes an offended noise at that and promptly disappears, leaving Scott to stew in silence until the celebration in the evening – he doesn’t understand the point of holding a celebration for their engagement when they're getting married tomorrow.

Apparently it’s a Mezalean tradition. Everything wrong with the world seems to be a Mezalean tradition.

=== === ===

He has discovered that it does not cool down once the sun sets. He had been hoping for some relief from the stifling heat once the sun disappeared below the horizon, but no such relief has been granted thus far.

The stone all around them seems to radiate heat, having absorbed it during the long day and only now releasing it into the environment. He can be a little thankful, at least, about the celebration being hosted outside. He cannot imagine it would be pleasant inside one of those furnace homes at this time.

It seems they often host celebrations outside, at least, as there is an entire courtyard outfitted to host a part of thrice their size. He’s heard tales of the parties the King is apparently willing to throw, with noise complaints coming in from their neighbours due to how late these celebrations seem to run.

Scott can’t think of one thing that Mezalea has done recently worth celebrating.

He and his Court arrive a few minutes late, just enough to not be the first people there and thus awkwardly standing around as they wait for more people to arrive, but not late enough to offend their hosts. One of which already holds some resentment towards him.

Jimmy does not hold the same qualms as his allies, brightening up as he sees Scott entering the courtyard, passing beneath an intricately weaved flower archway. It’s rather impressive, unfortunately.

Jimmy waves at him, turns back to his allies, and then breaks away from the group to come towards Scott. Huh. He had expected Jimmy to stick with his allies, perhaps to keep the peace for the evening when one of his closest allies holds so much obvious disdain for him. Apparently, though, he has no such qualms about displaying their not-yet announced allyship.

It seems this evening will be the time where this alliance is announced informally. The entire courtyard of people seem to hold their breath as Jimmy comes to a stop in front of him, tilting his head back slightly to look up at him.

“You clean up nicely,” Scott compliments, if only to watch the way Jimmy immediately averts his eyes and goes a little pink in the cheeks. Cormac makes a gagging sound behind him.

“Ah, you look nice too.” Jimmy responds, still averting his eyes. Scott makes eye contact with the Mezalean King for long enough to see him roll his eyes hard enough that he almost falls over. He’s only saved by his fiancée grabbing onto his arm and keeping him upright. She sends a tight smile in Scott’s direction. “I like the, uh, gloves.”

Scott looks down at his gloves. They're different to the more practical leather ones he usually wears, these ones more delicate and made from silk. He turns his hands over slightly, looking at the gloves from all angles, as though he’s never seen them before.

“Thank you.”

“Ah-hah, yeah,” Jimmy pauses. “Did you want a drink?”

“A drink would be lovely, thank you.” Jimmy nods at his response and promptly flees, getting to the nearest refreshments table as quickly as possible without running and looking like an idiot.

“Must you stand and stare at him the entire time?” He turns on his Court, switching to elvish so he can berate them in relative privacy. “He is nervous and you watching on like a flock of hungry vultures hoping for a good meal does not help.”

“He’s pathetic,” Calla says, with some amazement in their voice. “Like a little, cold cat. One you’d find on the side of the road in a cardboard box because no-one else wanted him, and then you can’t help but be drawn in by his sad eyes and general pathetic aura-”

“Thank you, Calla.” He interrupts. “I think we got the idea.”

“Only doing my job.” They chirp, before disappearing as well. Ophelia follows behind them with a quick promise to look after the youngest of their party.

“The walls are thin,” is Cormac’s parting statement before xe leave with Leukos, the librarian giving him an amused look as they link their arm with Cormac’s. He grimaces a little at the thought that forces into his mind, doing his best to banish it before Jimmy returns.

He just about manages, focusing instead on the different details of his outfit – all the ways it differs from what he normally wears. It doesn’t help much, drawing his attention to the cut-out windows of fabric that frames his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.

He averts his eyes, taking his drink from Jimmy with a murmured thanks and immediately downing half of it.

“I didn’t know you liked Mezalean wine so much,” Jimmy laughs, cradling his own drink close to his chest.

“I don’t.” He responds, reminded immediately of why he dislikes it so much when the sourness of it floods his mouth. It’s something to do with the type of berries used and the way it’s fermented out in the heat rather than in a cellar. He had searched for answers after the first drink that had left him feeling discontented rather than elated, a sour taste invading his senses rather than a sweet one.

He drinks a little more of it, if only to ignore the way that Jimmy’s hair has been braided intricately, enough so that he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself and thus would have required outside help…

“Do you know when the dancing starts?” He interrupts his own thoughts with the first question that comes to mind, hand tightening momentarily around his glass, before he looks at Jimmy again.

“Uh, pretty soon.” Jimmy’s eyes meet his, darker than usual in the rapidly approaching nighttime. “I think. I didn’t really ask, actually. Do you want me to?”

“No, no,” he sips at his wine again, unable to help the nervous response. “I was simply wondering if you would like to dance with me when it does start.”

“That’s a rather formal way of asking me, don’t you think?” Jimmy tilts his head to the side, still smiling in that utterly disarming way of his. Everything about Jimmy sets him at odds with himself, leaving him off-kilter and utterly unsure of how to respond to him. “What happened to spur-of-the-moment actions?”

Jimmy must certainly know what he’s doing, watching him from beneath thick eyelashes, idly rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rim of his glass. It’s horrible etiquette to hold your glass in such a manner, but Scott ignores it easily as the wine he’s just drunk turns thick and syrupy in his throat, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t swallow and glance away for a moment.

“I am of the kind to plan my movements out with immense detail. To impose a plan onto someone else without their consent when the purpose is for enjoyment would not be…productive.”

“Wow,” Jimmy blinks, once, then twice. “Did you eat a dictionary before you got here or something?”

“I- no?” He has to resist taking another sip of the wine to fill the silence, regretting the several mouthfuls he’s already had as sourness continues to coat his tongue. Jimmy’s sincereness makes him feel almost dizzy, the sour taste in his mouth intensifying the longer the silence drags on. It’s been no more than a second before he speaks again. “Why would I choose to eat a dictionary? The paper would certainly be rather unpleasant-”

“It’s a saying,” Jimmy laughs. “A joke, I thought it was funny.”

“I am aware. I was responding to your joke with sarcasm, re-emphasising how ridiculous and outlandish your initial statement was.”

“Alright,” Jimmy holds a hand up, his wine sloshing dangerously close to the edges of his glass, threatening to spill over. Scott jerks back, imagining that wine staining his pristine incredibly white clothes. “There’s something up with you, you don’t speak like this outside of meetings.”

“This is technically a meeting.”

“This is a party.” Jimmy sighs, looking immediately like a kicked puppy- and Aeor dammit, he can see the pathetic cat comparison Calla made earlier. He’s never getting that out of his head now, Aeor above. “You're meant to have fun, relax and all that.”

“I am aware.” He swallows, the sour taste in his mouth persisting. Aeor wavers into being behind Jimmy, just over his shoulder, before disappearing again. Scott’s not even certain that he actually saw Aeor and that it wasn’t just some figment of his imagination. Some kind of reminder. “Parties…aren’t my thing.”

“Not…your thing?” Jimmy tries the words out while Scott tries not to shrivel up from embarrassment. The party hasn’t even truly started yet, and he already can’t stand to be enclosed within this courtyard for much longer. These things are far easier when he’s the one hosting them and able to disappear to a secret corridor for a few moments.

“Please don’t speak so loud,” he presses a hand to his head, rubbing at his temples. “It’s not something good for my image.”

“One of my Elders is already drunk.”

“That is besides the point.” His Court knows he’ll strangle them if they get drunk here. “Though I do extend my condolences.”

“Thanks.”

The music bursts to life between sentences, catching both him and Jimmy off-guard by the sudden surge in sound around them. Lights flicker on, too, bright and colourful. It sets a cheery atmosphere that is only bolstered by the happy couple already on the dance floor, hands entwined and practically leaning against each other.

“That’s definitely loud,” Jimmy laughs, releasing Scott’s sleeve. He hadn’t even realised Jimmy was holding onto him. “Jo- uh, he was worried about it not being loud enough.” Jimmy nods his head towards the Mezalean King.

“I think he can be assured that it is plenty loud enough.” He grimaces as a particularly high note is hit, burrowing into his skull in just the worst way possible. He’s been nursing a headache ever since they arrived in this damned place, reeling from the almost complete severance from Aeor’s presence and suffering with the heat that permeates this entire place.

“Why don’t we get out of here?”

Scott looks down at Jimmy, narrowing his eyes. “How will they feel about their most treasured ally leaving them?”

“They won’t notice,” Jimmy says. “Really!” He insists, when Scott continues to look doubtful. “C’mon, they're all wrapped up in each other, all cutesy. I think we’ll be lucky if they notice when the music stops. They're not gonna miss me.”

“That’s rather hard to imagine.”

“I know the best places around here, too.” Jimmy assures, jerking oddly, before slowly reaching his hand out. He offers it palm up, hiding the scales that dot the back of his hand from view. Scott’s own hand hovers over the top of Jimmy’s for a moment, not quite touching, not quite closing the gap between their palms.

His hands are cold. Always have been and likely always will be. There is no way around that fact, and he’s learned to be rather grateful with the gifts that have been bestowed upon him. The leather of his normal gloves does much to disguise the chill that radiates from him, but the silken gloves he currently wears will do nothing to block that.

Jimmy’s hand is bare, warm and inviting below his frigid palm.

He joins their hands together with a held breath, preparing for Jimmy to shout and jerk away at the burning cold of their hands meeting. For him to draw the attention of the crowd towards them, exposing them for their…whatever their small moment in the corner of a party is. He feels almost embarrassed at the thought that people have laid eyes upon them in these moments that they’ve shared.

Jimmy doesn’t react. His fingers curl around Scott’s hand, humming happily as he uses their joined hands as a way to pull Scott along behind him.

They duck back beneath the weaved archway, the fragrant petals brushing over them as they sneak through like children sneaking out. He hunches over awkwardly to fit his antlers beneath the bushes, twisting his head and neck so he doesn’t get caught on the bush.

The Mezalean King certainly didn’t take him into consideration when designing this ridiculous thing. Possibly on purpose, now that he thinks about it, hoping to catch him acting a fool and stuck in the vines like some stupid animal.

“Welcome,” Jimmy glances back at him, eyes reflecting the lights from the engagement party. Scott couldn’t care less about the engagement party right now, or the fact that his advisors could be doing whatever they please with themselves without a care for how it reflects on him. All he can think about is the way that the lights reflect in Jimmy’s eyes and make it seem as though he’s cradling the entire night sky in them. “To my favourite spot in the entirety of Mezalea.”

It doesn’t take much for Scott to realise why this is his favourite spot, looking around himself first, before glancing upwards, and…

The sky is breath-taking. The polar lights are missing here, their colours not filling the sky in the same way, but the shimmering canvas of velvet blue and pale cream is enough to leave him in awe, head craned back so he can take the entirety of it in.

“Fan of the stars?”

“I appreciate them on occasion.” He replies, returning Jimmy’s smile more easily now that they are alone. The wisp of Aeor’s presence at the back of his mind disapproves, but it’s easy enough to brush Him away, as weak as He currently is.

“And by appreciate I assume you mean study them intensively?” Jimmy questions, poking further into him with a smile. The ease with which Jimmy now talks to him, almost an entirely different person to the one that had first approached him with the proposition of an alliance, is exhilarating. He can’t seem to get enough of it.

Maybe there is something wrong with him.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, glancing down for a moment, if only to make his head stop spinning. The sight of his hand in Jimmy’s doesn’t help with that. “My brother was far fonder of the stars than I was; they could name every single one within sight, tell you all the stories they held. It was fantastic, the idea that someone looked at the very same stars I did, and found some kindred spirit in those lights that can only watch over us.”

“Ah,” Jimmy clears his throat, hand beginning to retreat from where Scott grasps it. “I'm sorry.”

He tightens his hand around Jimmy’s, unwilling to release this new warmth that he’s found himself. “Whatever for?”

“Your brother,” Jimmy refuses to look at him, strands of hair drifting over his face as he glances downwards. Scott only barely resists the urge to brush it away, reminding himself that Jimmy is a skittish thing, even if he boasts confidence with everything he says, and too much may scare him away for good. “I didn’t mean to re-open old wounds.”

“Ah, yes, well.” The sour taste of the wine returns, though he had been certain that the lingering flavour of it had long disappeared. “It has been a rather long time since then. I choose not to dwell.”

Jimmy’s silence speaks volumes.

Scott sighs, “I do not believe they would wish for me to mope every time I sit and look at the stars. Perhaps they would not be proud of the person I have become, but they would not wish such grief upon me for so long. Such a burden would send anyone to the grave.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“And I am telling you there is no need.” He squeezes Jimmy’s hand, and waits until he feels the tension in his shoulders loosen again. He looks up at the stars again, studying. No matter how many times he looks, he can never find the same stories that his brother had told him in hushed whispers. “I think they would have liked the stars tonight.”

#juno.writes #crown of antlers au #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #empires smp #empires smp fic #flower husbands #empires smp s1 #empires scott #empires jimmy #solidaritygaming #solidarity gaming

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jacandersonscloset · 2 years

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#jac anderson #jaq anderson #jac #jaq #jac and scott #jac and scotty #scott sire #scott and jac #scotty sire #jaq and scott #scotty and jac #jaqueline #jack and scoot #jaqueline anderson #scoot and jac #scott and jaq #scott sire and jac anderson #jacquelyn

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house-of-slayterr · 3 months

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Scott Pilgrim, except Scott’s just a Vampire Hunter and the 7 Evil exs are just Romona’s sires he has to kill to get to the vampire queen.

#scott pilgrim vs the world #Scott pilgrim #ramona flowers #vampire headcanons #alt au

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thetomorrowshow · 10 months

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the gambler, he broke even

cw: major character death, grief, heavy amounts of grief, talk of death, references to dead bodies

"I don't want to," Scott says, turning back to his work.

Ilphas sighs. "My lord, I understand that this is a difficult moment for you. However—"

"Don't give me that 'difficult moment' bit," Scott says, a little more venom in his voice than intended. "We don't know that—"

"The facts of—"

"There aren't any facts, it's all speculation—"

"The facts of the matter are," Ilphas says over him, "that you need new mourning robes. Whether or not the Codfather has passed."

"But he has not passed," Scott insists. "If he had, our enemies would boast of the victory! I am certain that he—"

"My lord, the Ocean Queen requested the body this morning."

Scott's breath freezes in his lungs.

He can't make his voice work. He can't ask the questions that are suddenly barreling through his mind.

What does Lizzie know?

What did the enemy tell her?

Will he truly have to face the body of his betrothed?

"Did—" he manages, before his voice gives out.

Ilphas, somehow, knows exactly what he's trying to ask. They shake their head just slightly. "No response yet. But sire, the Ocean Queen is already in mourning, despite your lack of conviction. You must think of how your people see you."

Scott honestly couldn't care less about how his people see him. He opens his mouth to say something of the sort, but Ilphas cuts him off.

"If you are not in mourning, they will believe that you care not for your own betrothed, sire. How do you think they will perceive your care for them?"

Ilphas is right, of course. They're rarely wrong.

It just already hurts so much. Scott doesn't want to acknowledge that Jimmy might be—that—

He can't think on it or he'll cry again, as he already did this morning.

And he knows that fitting for the dark robes will be even worse.

"Can I not just wear the clothing from my parents' death?" he asks, his voice thin and unfortunately pitiful.

Ilphas shakes their head. "The death of a betrothed is entirely different from the death of a parent," they say patiently. "The clothing will be different. Besides, I recall hearing that you . . . burned that set."

True. He forgot he did that.

He's not going to get out of this, is he? His advisors have been pushing for him to recognize Jimmy's . . . to recognize it for the past three days. He's thus far been able to redirect the conversation to more urgent matters, what with there being a war and whatnot, but Ilphas cornering him in his office wasn't a move he expected.

He doesn't have time to argue about this. He has a war to fight.

"Fine," he says after a moment. "When should I call for the tailor?"

"I, of course, know not your schedule," Ilphas says dryly. "But the tailor is already at the palace, waiting for you to see zem. Would you like to send a messenger with a time for today?"

He might as well, Scott thinks dully. After all, if Lizzie has requested a body, then she expects to meet with Mythland within the next week. He'll probably need to accompany her.

"Send a messenger, tell zem I'm available at any time," he waves off.

He thinks the conversation is over. It really ought to be, with the way he picks his pen back up and stares down at whatever this supply plan is that he's meant to be reviewing and signing off.

But Ilphas lingers, half-turned away. "I am . . . truly sorry, my lord. Your rule is too young for wars and pains such as these. If there is anything we might do to ease your burden. . . ."

"I'm not a charity case," Scott mutters. "I'm the king."

"With all due respect, you are a person," Ilphas says gently, "just as any other person. And you have lost more than many persons."

Scott doesn't respond, and after another moment, Ilphas bows and shows themself out.

They're right. Scott's the youngest ruler Rivendell has ever had, forced into the rule by the early deaths of his parents and the banishment of his brother. Their deaths, his frequent 'illnesses' and 'accidents' (read: assassination attempts by his brother) when younger, and now this war and its consequences.

He has to practice thinking it, at least.

Jimmy is—

Jimmy—

No. It—

He swallows back the lump in his throat, angrily dashing a hand across his face when a tear spills from his eye. He's fine. Everything is fine. He just has to get fitted for mourning robes for his fiance, is all. He's fine.

Who is he kidding?

Scott slumps over his desk, doing his very best not to cry all over these official papers. He's not the first person to lose someone. And he's not the first person to fight a war. He certainly isn't the first to do both at once. He's nothing special.

As much as he tells himself that, it doesn't make it hurt any less.

He allows himself a single, tearless sob before sitting back up, straightening the papers before him. He needs to sign off on this supply plan. He sequestered himself in his office to do precisely this and nothing else, because it was technically due before he returned from his tour of the country, and it's several days overdue now.

Unfortunately, the plan is about seventy pages long, and he's only halfway through, and he can't just skip to the end because there are random pages throughout that need his signature and seal.

So Scott turns the next page, even as his heart crumbles a tiny bit more.

Before he can finish, he's summoned away for fittings, and he leaves his office feeling much too young to be in such a position, and much too old to feel such sharp pain.

Two days later, Scott and Ilphas and his small guard sail (accompanied by Ocean Kingdom dolphins, for speed) to the Crystal Cliffs, to meet with King Sausage of Mythland.

The Crystal Cliffs had been the decided-upon meeting place by Lizzie and Sausage, after Gem had offered it up as a temporarily neutral ground. The meeting is officially occurring to discuss 'eventualites and possibilities for the future of the Codlands', but everyone knows that it's really just an inquiry after the fate of the Codfather.

Scott arrives at midday (he's greeted in the hall of the school of magic by Gem, who hugs him and whispers "you are so strong" in his ear) and barely has time to change into his newly-made mourning clothing (a soft, black robe with a high collar, puffy sleeves that gather at the wrists, a black leather waistcoat and a matching open-front surcoat—and there would usually be a veil, too, with his specific situation, but the court still hasn't ruled as to whether or not he and Jimmy were still betrothed) before he's whisked away to the meeting room.

Lizzie's already there, sitting at the head of the table, a green-skinned woman whom Scott assumes is one of her counselors sitting beside her. She holds her head high, face stern and hair pulled back in a tight bun under her coral crown, her dress made of layered shades of grey.

Scott nods to her, self-consciously adjusts his signet earring (all other jewelry having been discarded as part of his mourning vestments), and takes a seat at her open left hand (a chair made specifically for him, missing its back to make room for his wings), Ilphas sitting beside him.

Nobody speaks, even when Gem slides into the room alone and sits across from Ilphas. Scott stares straight down at the dark oak table to avoid looking in anyone's eyes. He doesn't want to see pity in Gem's eyes, nor see Jimmy in Lizzie's.

He swallows.

He wishes, harder than he's ever wished for anything, that he didn't have to be here.

And then the doors open, and two guards of the Crystal Cliffs escort King Sausage of Mythland (followed by two Mythland knights in full armor) into the room.

He's dressed in black and red, accents of gold thrown in here and here. His tunic is black, a gold belt cinching it around his waist, a red surcoat laced up over it. A red cape hangs from his shoulders, chunky pieces of gold clasping it around his chest. His crown, golden and polished, sits purposefully a little crooked on his greased-back hair.

Nobody rises to greet him. They sit and stare as the man nods to each of them, a lazy smile playing on his lips.

Scott has never wanted to kill anyone more.

And that's saying a lot, because he saw fWhip push Jimmy off the edge of the world, and he wanted to kill that man pretty badly then.

Scott forces his hand—resting flat on the table—to stay still. If his fist clenches, it'll only give Sausage the satisfaction of knowing that Scott is angry but can't do anything. He isn't going to give up that power.

Sausage takes his seat at the opposite end of the table from Lizzie, leaning back as if he owns the place. Gem rolls her eyes.

"How's it going, guys?" Sausage says cheerfully.

Scott could dive across the table and throttle him right now. He could stab him through his stupid red surcoat, knock the shining crown off his head, slit his throat and watch him choke on his own blood.

They're nice things to imagine. Scott rather thinks those images keep him calm better than any other self-discipline.

"Thank you for joining us, Sau—Lord Sausage," Gem says stiffly, turning to face the man. "I believe Aundrea of the Crystal Cliffs Academy will be taking notes on the meeting, is that acceptable for all involved?"

Lizzie nods primly. Scott purses his lips, gives a short nod. Sausage shoots a thumbs-up.

One of the Crystal Cliffs guards steps forward and takes a seat, setting down some paper and a pen in front of herself.

"All right," Gem says. "Present at this meeting is me, the Wizard Gem, and two knights-slash-students of the Crystal Cliffs Academy, Aundrea and Matteo; her majesty Queen Lizzie of the Ocean Kingdom and a member of her council, Kilisaltana; his majesty King Scott Smajor of Rivendell and a member of his council, Ilphas; and his majesty King Sausage of Mythland accompanied by two Mythland guards, Ephraim and Levi. Are all present ready to begin?"

More nods around the table.

Gem nods as well. "All right," she says again. "Remember that I am a neutral party in this discussion, and I am only here to mediate. Lizzie, if you—"

"We're meeting about the future of . . . the Codlands, right?" Sausage interrupts, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes," Lizzie says, speaking for the first time. Her voice is cold, controlled. "I am inquiring—"

"Right," says Sausage. "I figured. You want the Codlands, don't you? Since it's basically a part of the Ocean Kingdom, anyway?"

Scott stares at the fingers of his left hand, still relaxed on the table. The Codlands, of course, is not a part of the Ocean Kingdom. Sausage knows exactly what he's doing. It's petty and ultimately will achieve nothing to snub the Codlands, but such is politics.

Lizzie, of course, keeps her cool. "Oh, of course—as one from Mythland, I wouldn't expect you to know much of the developed lands beyond your borders. The Cod Empire is its own kingdom, ruled by the Codfather."

Scott's eyes flick up to watch Sausage. Sausage's lip curls just the slightest bit.

"I don't know about any Codfather right now," he says, tone airy. "It looks like I'm the one ruling the Cod Empire."

"It appears so," Lizzie says, with a brief inclination her head. "And what," she says carefully, face stoic, "has happened to the Codfather?"

Scott takes a slow, silent breath at the way his heart jumps. Here's the confirmation. This is the question that all his hopes and fears rest upon.

He doesn't want to hear the answer. He doesn't want to know, he doesn't want confirmation, he wants to live in this horrible purgatory forever where he never knows if Jimmy's alive but at least there's still a possibility that he isn't dead.

Sausage stares Lizzie in the eyes, gaze piercing and dark. "He's dead," he says simply, obviously forcing away a grin. "My armies killed him and vanquished his people."

Scott's stomach drops out of his body.

No.

No no no no no—

Lizzie clears her throat. "As his next of kin, I request the body of the Codfather."

Gem blinks.

Sausage gasps, then giggles. "Wait, you guys were related? That makes so much sense!"

Lizzie doesn't move. She waits, eyes hard, until Sausage gets over his surprise. Scott isn't really sure why he's surprised. He's fairly sure Jimmy mentioned their relationship at the wedding. Of course, it's just like Sausage to not listen.

Jimmy's never going to make a speech again.

No. This can't be true, this has to be one of those horrible nightmares—

"I don't have it," shrugs Sausage.

He doesn't have—he doesn't have the body? How can he not—

"I know for a fact that he's dead—saw the body myself—but we made a mass grave and threw all those Cod savages into it. If you want to go digging around until you find a maggoty Jimmy, be my guest!"

Scott's going to kill him he's going to vomit he's going to break down right here—

"Use his proper title," Lizzie snaps. "He is the Codfather, the ruler of the Cod Empire, and will be respected."

Sausage raises an eyebrow. "Right," he says, voice dripping with doubt. "We all know his claim to the throne was . . . less than legitimate. And I have the Codfather Head, so that makes me ruler, right?"

Nobody responds. Scott swallows, trying to calm his rebellious stomach, trying to hold back tears.

He flexes his fingers, just slightly, just enough that his hand doesn't curl into a fist and sock Sausage in the jaw.

Sausage has conquered the Cod Empire. He is, technically, the ruler, as much as Scott hates to admit it.

"So," Gem says, after the silence grows too long. "Queen Lizzie, what is your suggested plan for the future of the Codlands?"

Lizzie steeples her fingers, leaning on the table. "My suggested plan," she says, voice once again calm and careful, "is the release of the Codlands into my stewardship, with the promise that those people will not take up arms against Mythland for the remainder of the war. In exchange, I will release those of Mythland that the Ocean Kingdom has claimed as captives."

Sausage clicks his tongue. "Hm. How about you surrender to the Great Ruler Xornoth, and then we'll give you minor reign over both the Ocean Kingdom and the Codlands, reporting directly to Xornoth?"

It's Lizzie's turn to raise a brow. "In your dreams, respectfully," she says, precisely and politely.

"In Scott's dreams, more like," mutters Sausage. Scott just swallows again, stares hard at a point above Lizzie's shoulder. He'd known that those had been more than dreams.

Xornoth has the power to invade his dreams, fight him without even crossing the border. How are they meant to win?

"Well, if you won't accept that, how about you give up all captives of Mythland, the Grimlands, and the Lost Empire?" suggests Sausage.

Lizzie frowns. "Neither Count fWhip nor Emperor Joey are present at this meeting, and I will not bargain with them."

Beside her, Kilisaltana nods approvingly. She leans over to Lizzie, whispers something in her ear.

"Lord Sausage of Mythland," Gem addresses, "are there any other conditions that you will accept under this compromise?"

"Nope!"

Kilisaltana leans back; Lizzie nods and shifts her attention back to Sausage. "A different compromise, then," she says. "Mythland maintains a presence in the Codlands, but the empire is technically under my government and the people of the Ocean Kingdom and of the Codlands may move freely between the two empires. Additionally, the return of my Mythland prisoners."

Sausage's lazy smile doesn't drop. "I don't think so," he says. "Y'know, I kinda like ruling those swamps! We're going to turn the people into respectable, educated folks—we don't need the Ocean messing that up. How about this, though—I'm in charge of the Cod Empire, but trades remain open between the Ocean Kingdom and the Codlands, and you return my loyal Mythlanders to me!"

Again, Lizzie confers with her advisor—and surprisingly, Ilphas pushes back their chair and quickly steps over to join the quick little council. Scott leans in as well.

"He needs the trades," Ilphas whispers. "Mythland alone cannot support a war-ravaged country."

Kilisaltana nods. "We can bargain him down to just the trades, then?"

"I believe so. Perhaps more."

"Counter-proposal," Lizzie declares to the table. "The trades remain open, and a prisoner exchange commences—you return to me my subjects, and I return yours. Would that be sufficient?"

Sausage's lips twist down a little, clearly displeased, but he actually pauses to think.

It's a good compromise, even if it's not what they want. It benefits the both of them, while opening up a route for escape for the Cod.

Sausage nods shortly. "I have the Codlands, you have trades, we both have our soldiers back. It sounds . . . acceptable."

"Perfect," Gem says, clapping her hands together. "For the remainder of the meeting, we will work out some of the simpler matters of the trade arrangement, then adjourn. We can hold more meetings over the next week to get the details down, and then commence the arrangement once that is complete. Is that possible for both involved parties?"

Both nod.

"Why is Scott here, then?" Sausage asks innocently. "Here to surrender?"

Scott doesn't allow his fingers to curl into a fist. He forces his hands and shoulders to stay as relaxed as possible.

Thankfully, Ilphas speaks up. "His majesty Lord Smajor has the right to assist the Ocean Queen in the rites and stewardship of the Codfather and his possessions, and as such is present."

Sausage rolls his eyes, looks to Scott.

When Scott speaks, his voice doesn't shake. He doesn't stumble over his words. He doesn't lose his composure.

"I am here, Lord Sausage, to confirm the fate of my betrothed," he says, colder than Rivendell on a winter morning. "The Empire of Rivendell declares its loyalty to the Ocean Kingdom and the Cod Empire—and their successive, rightful leaders, as Queen Lizzie is and Codfather Jimmy was—forever. And," he continues, and he has no idea where these words are coming from, from some power beyond him— "by burying the body of the Codfather in an unmarked grave, you are in violation of section 4 subsection D under the heading 'Respect' in the House Blossom Peace Accords, where it states that, dead or alive, in war or peace, the rulers of the twelve empires must be granted full respect. That is all I wish to say at this time."

Sausage harrumphs. Gem, not quite smiling, gives Scott a subtle thumbs-up.

"Thank you for your comments, Lord Smajor," she says. "And I will be following up on that law with Lady Katherine of House Blossom personally. Shall we move on?"

The meeting wraps up after nearly half an hour of Sausage arguing against every one of Lizzie's suggestions, with barely any progress made. But they both agree on a day for the meeting this week, and Sausage is escorted out by his two guards and Gem's two knights, waggling his fingers at them over his shoulder.

Gem gathers up the papers that Aundrea had left behind. Lizzie stares at the closed door.

Scott looks down at his relaxed hand, cold and pale on the table.

He's not sure if he's looking for comfort or to give it, but after a long moment of silence, he reaches forward and takes Lizzie's limp hand in his own.

He squeezes tightly, even as Lizzie doesn't move, trying to send every thought that he's thinking her way—an endless stream of I know I'm here it hurts I'm here please help we have to go on I know.

Lizzie sits motionless, expression stony, and as Scott watches, a single tear rolls down her cheek.

Jimmy's gone. He's really, truly, gone.

Buried indistinguishably among the bodies of his people, in one grave together.

And really, Scott thinks, while he would've wanted to honor his fiance, he thinks that Jimmy would prefer it like this. He'd never been one to raise himself above his people. He'd never seen his own worth as greater than anyone else's.

Scott wonders, suddenly, if Jimmy had any sort of funeral arrangements made. Surely the Cod Empire has traditions for their rulers, but was there anything specific that Jimmy wanted during the memorial service? A particular song sung, or speech given?

Where will such a service be held, in the middle of a war, when the land of the deceased has been conquered?

He's crying, Scott realizes vaguely, nose burning and face wet.

He just grips Lizzie's hand tighter and lets his heart shatter.

And Lizzie, after a moment, squeezes back.

"When are you leaving?"

Scott tugs at the itchy high collar of his mourning robe. "Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow morning if the seas are rough."

He doesn't mention why the seas might be rough. Gem, tactfully, doesn't either.

"Do you think you have time to check out something I found?" she asks, finishing up the braid in his hair before starting on another. "I was going to call Katherine down to look at it with me, but I could definitely use your help."

"Check out what?" Scott says suspiciously. He adjusts his position a bit, trying to keep his legs from falling asleep.

He and Gem are in her room, Gem on the bed, Scott kneeling on the floor beside her, while she braids his hair. Ilphas had initially refused to let Scott out of their sight, but it had only taken one glance at Scott's tired, teary eyes for them to sigh and nod.

"I found . . . a library," Gem says eventually, combing her fingers through his hair to pull out the braid she'd been working on, then starting anew. "Crystal Cliffs has always been a place of knowledge, you know? We collect history and magic from all over the world. And this library looks old. Like, centuries old. And you're looking for an old book, right? To defeat Xornoth?"

Scott nods, then freezes when it tugs on his braid. Gem tsks and starts over again.

"Yes," he says. "I've searched every library in Rivendell, however, and all of those would be about that same age. I can take a look before leaving, though, if you like."

Gem hums in affirmation. "We can go before supper. You can bring a guard if you need, it isn't a secret. Knowledge should never be a secret."

Some knowledge ought to be a secret, Scott thinks to himself, remembering the revelation he'd had while traveling.

He's Aeor's Champion, probably.

Best to not think about that when he knows Xornoth has direct access to his brain, is it?

So, something else. Something else to think about.

Right. There's really only one other thing to think about.

"Jimmy braided my hair, once," Scott says quietly.

Gem's hands stutter, but she doesn't say anything. She just keeps working, fingers gentle in his hair.

"It was when we were betrothed," Scott continues. "It had been a long day, and I told him I was tired, and he had me sit on the bed and he stood behind me and . . . he just braided. Really intricate braids, too. They were beautiful. I left them in for three days."

He kind of wants to cry.

"I didn't know he could braid," Gem murmurs.

Scott shrugs. "Me neither," he says. "He told me it was Cod tradition, and that there are people who actually work as just . . . braiders. There's different kinds of braids for different occasions. He said he only knew how to do a couple kinds. He was . . . he was embarrassed. Because—because he did birthday celebration braids in my hair."

He doesn't know why he's saying all this. A tear drips down his nose, and he leaves it there.

Gem giggles a little. "So you walked around for three days with the Cod equivalent of a birthday hat on your head?"

"Well, nobody saw it," Scott defends himself. "I was wearing my betrothal veil. But—" and now he's really starting to cry, chest shaking with the effort of repressing it— "but he said that he would learn the marriage braids. So that—so that when we got married, we—we wouldn't have to go to a—a braider. Because of—of the veils. So that no one—no one would see us before the wedding."

"Oh, Scott. . . ."

"Sorry," he manages, wiping a hand across his face. "I'm fine, I-I promise, it's only. . . ."

"It's hard," Gem says, tying off the braid. "It's okay. I can't even imagine what you're going through right now."

Scott takes in a shuddering breath, trying not to make any embarrassing sounds. "Do you—do you think," he asks after a moment, "do you think he's . . . in a better place? Do you think he's—he's h-happy?"

"I think so. I think he's right here watching over you, telling you that it'll be all right, that he'll see you again one day. What do you think?"

Scott sniffles. "I—I hope he's not hurting anymore. He was—he was always hurting. I hope—I hope his scars are gone, and, and his scales are back, and he's happy."

Gem cards her hands through his hair, soft and careful. "Me too," she says, her voice shaking just the slightest bit. "He deserves it."

Scott nods vigorously, the lump in his throat suddenly too large to speak. If anyone deserves it, Jimmy does.

He really hopes he's happy.

He just wishes that would be enough.

It's elvish belief that there are different levels of an afterlife, with the most restful and happiest being only open to elvish royalty and legendary heroes—the stars of whom make up the Crystal of Rivendell constellation in the skies.

Even if Jimmy is happy, Scott will never see him again. Not unless an exception is made, and one never has.

Jimmy wasn't a legendary hero.

He wasn't elvish royalty.

He was just Jimmy.

Scott lets himself cry, feeling as if his heart is being torn out of his chest, for several minutes there on the floor of Gem's bedroom. He lets it hurt. He lets it wash him away, lets himself sink into it, until nothing exists but the pain.

It's cathartic, or something like that. Jimmy deserves the tears.

"You did amazing, earlier," Gem tells him when his sobs devolve into hiccups, when he starts to pull himself back, his head barely above the sea of pain again. "During the meeting. If I know Sausage, he was hoping for a big reaction. You and Lizzie were incredible in there."

Scott manages a wet chuckle. "I just imagined killing him," he admits. "It helped quite a bit."

"Oh, I used to do that all time in Wither Rose Alliance meetings. Super therapeutic."

Scott wipes his eyes on the stiff fabric of his sleeve cuff. He's not done crying, by any means. He probably could cry all day and not run out of tears.

But he has responsibilities to take care of.

"So," he says, after a profoundly teary sigh, pulling himself up to sit beside Gem on the bed. "Where's this library?"

They meet Katherine there, an hour later, halfway up one of the cliffs that the empire is built around. She squeals when she sees Scott, gives him a hug.

Scott has never hugged Katherine before in his life. He'd laid down the ground rule early on that he wasn't okay with hugs, and she'd accepted that immediately (unlike Gem, who had never seemed to learn).

But he's gotten more accustomed to physical touch over the past months, and he barely even freezes up before returning the hug, squeezing her tightly.

"I didn't think you'd still be here!" Katherine says excitedly when she pulls back. "Is Lizzie still here?"

"No, she left already," Gem cuts in. "Scott's leaving after supper, I just wanted him to see the library."

"Oh, right," Katherine says. "Scott, I've been looking through all of the libraries in my empire, and I haven't found anything."

"That's all right," Scott tells her. He'd asked her, months ago now (as well as every other empire he was allied with), to search for anything that could destroy the demon. "I haven't found anything, either."

"Well I found this library!" Gem says proudly. "I've already started looking through it, but I felt like three heads would be better than one."

And with that, Gem goes behind a boulder. "This way!" they hear her call faintly.

Scott looks at Katherine, then the two guards who had accompanied them, then back at Katherine. She shrugs, gossamer wings fluttering behind her.

Nothing left to do but go in, Scott supposes. He moves past Katherine, ready to squish through the tiny entrance that Gem had gone through, but Katherine catches his shoulder.

"I'm really sorry, Scott," she says, and to his surprise, there are already tears gathering in her violet eyes. "We weren't very close, but I was one of Jimmy's first allies. Do you know when the funeral will be?"

Scott bites his lip and shakes his head. "There's . . . there isn't a body," he says after a moment. "So Lizzie may put it off for some time. Thank you."

Before she can say anything else, Scott turns away and starts moving through the strict passage between the boulder and the cliff face.

It's tight, and his feathers get pushed all the wrong ways, but Scott scrapes through, heaving and pushing against the boulder until he finally manages to come out the other side.

On the other side is a dark tunnel through the cliff, a little patch of light visible at the end.

Scott reaches out blindly for a wall, fingers landing on roughly-hewn stone.

He follows it along, twenty, thirty, forty strides, as the light looms larger and larger, and then he's stepping through the other end of the tunnel—

Whoa.

This—this is a library.

This is an old library.

It's a dimly-lit, dusty, high-ceilinged area, shelves going up twice as tall as Scott, books crammed into every space available. He maneuvers his way between stacks of books and curling parchment paper, through a tiny footpath that leads deeper into the library.

It gets more claustrophobic the deeper he goes, wings held tightly to his back to avoid accidentally knocking something over, like one of the lamps hanging from the sides of the bookshelves. That would be bad. Or one of the precarious piles of books next to the lamps. That would possibly be worse.

He passes by hundreds of books, the titles on the spines in languages that he doesn't speak and several he doesn't recognize, and the titles he can read are old and rubbed-off—Great Tales of Haddenbur, one reads, yet on another he can only make out F l di a r or el.

He can't figure out a system. One book looks like a collection of adventures, and the next one like a cookbook. It's not alphabetical, either—he sees a Z title right next to a D, next to an H.

It's confusing, and strikingly mazelike, and Scott mentally marks a couple of notable-looking books (overly large, or brightly colored, or hanging dangerously off of the shelf) as landmarks, a way to get back to the entrance.

He finds Gem fairly deep in, between two rows of shelves that form a little alcove against a wall. She's flipping through a book, and when she sees Scott, she holds it out.

"Can you read this?"

Scott inches sideways past a stack of parchment rolls and straightens out in the alcove, gingerly taking the book from her.

It's a form of elvish, but not exactly like Rivendell's. The words on this page make some sort of sense if he stares at them long enough—that one surely says 'herb' and the one beside it looks kind of like 'medicine', so maybe some kind of healer's guide—but the characters aren't quite right. To his surprise, it's recognizable as Old Elvish.

He's run into a couple of books like this in his searches, most of which are sorted into their own sections, with Old Elvish scholars from the university available upon appointment to read them aloud to library patrons when necessary.

He'd gone through every Old Elvish book that he could find in the City, having the titles and chapter headings read to him, and occasionally passages. None of them had proved fruitful, despite them being the most likely place to find any instructions on how to defeat Exor and his champion. The older the book, the better the chances.

Scott wishes he'd paid more attention in his youth. He had taken Old Elvish classes as part of his childhood tutoring, but he hardly remembers any of it.

He knows enough to slowly decipher titles, though—enough to, at least, know whether or not it would be relevant to his search—and with time he could sort through all of these books and decide which ones might be useful.

And he wants to, as well.

Something feels different, here.

"Do all of them look like this?" he asks, flipping open the book.

"Look like what?" asks Katherine, coming up behind him.

"All the ones in this section," Gem answers. "It's some kind of elvish, I can't read it."

"It's Old Elvish," murmurs Scott, closing the book and tucking it under his arm. "I can kind of read it. I'll need time."

Gem grimaces. "You have to get back to Rivendell. Maybe—"

"I can stay three days," Scott decides on the spot. "I think . . . I have a good feeling about this."

He can't describe it further than that. He just feels . . . a pull to these books, a spiritual connection that he can't explain. There's something here that he needs to find, something too important to hand off to someone else.

Aeor wants him here.

"That's—that's great!" says Gem. "Should we go get supper, then, and start on it tomorrow? Do you need to call your council?"

He doesn't want to leave. Not with this pulling at his soul. Not with this invisible string tying him to something here.

But he does need to call his council, quickly tell them his visit has extended, and then hang up before they can complain. And he's pretty sure his communicator doesn't have any connection out here.

"Supper, then return tonight," Scott says decisively. "Can we do that?"

So, that evening, after messaging his council to tell them of the extension and then turning off his communicator before getting a response, Scott and Gem and Katherine head up to the secret library to begin the search, accompanied by four guards assigned to sit in the dark passage and wait.

Scott quickly sequesters himself in the Old Elvish section (or, the section that seems to be majorly Old Elvish, with random other books thrown in where there's extra space), handing a book in Old Elvish each to the girls so they can search the rest of the library for matching letters.

Then begins the long and laborious task of reading what he can of the titles and chapter headings of every single book in the section, in addition to the occasional one that Gem or Katherine carries over.

It's exhausting, and his eyes burn, and he feels too warm in all these layers, but he leafs through page after page and forces himself to focus.

Scott makes it through maybe twenty useless books that evening before the other two drag him away from his work to go to bed.

He does kind of need it. Maybe he can attack the books with a renewed vigor in the morning.

He hadn't brought a change of clothes, so Scott wears his travel clothes to bed that night and puts his mourning things back on when the dawning sun wakes him, too bright in his still-burning eyes.

He eats breakfast alone, Gem and Katherine in some official meeting that hadn't pertained to him. They join him when it's time to head to the library, bright and early, both hopeful and smiling beside Scott's dark presence.

It feels strange.

It feels sad.

Scott spends hours alone that day, skimming through books upon books upon books, interrupted every once in a while by Katherine having him get up and walk around for a minute, or Gem telling him it's time to go eat. The three of them usually fly down for meals, leaving the library guard to change out while they eat. Then they fly back up, eliminating the fifty or sixty minutes it would take to climb back up. They don't have much time, after all. Every minute saved is priceless.

And those priceless minutes find Scott sitting on the hard stone floor, staring at books about every possible subject except the one that he so desperately needs.

And his soul still itches. There's something here. Buried among these thousands of books is something useful.

So he keeps looking.

It's getting to be late that evening when Scott, setting a book into his pile of discards (there's only two books that he's set aside to take home, neither of which look very promising), stands to get the next book and pulls a tome off the shelf that doesn't look at all right.

It's old, certainly. Scott's no scholar, but he'd probably date it back around a thousand years. It isn't bound with leather, but with something grey and oil-stained, the pages stiff and a pale green. The writing on one of those old pages (so old that Scott has to take extra care so as not to break the page, as brittle as it is) is blue, hard to see.

And Scott doesn't recognize the letters at all.

"Hey, Gem?" he calls (his voice breaks a little on her name, but he swallows and pushes through), after staring blankly at it for several moments. "Can you come look at this?"

He hears shuffling of piles and a book fall over, which means she's on her way. Scott closes the book, turns it over in his hands.

No title on the cover—he's found that only about fifty percent of the books he looks at have anything on the cover. Unlike anything he's seen so far, though, hanging from the spine by a cord is a drawstring pouch about the size of Scott's palm, made of the same material as the book.

"What do you need?"

He looks up, sees Gem smiling tiredly, Katherine standing behind her. He hands her the book.

"Do you know these letters?"

Gem opens it up, frowns. Looks closer. Turns the book upside down.

Scott waits patiently.

"It kind of looks . . . Oceanic," she says after a minute. "Just from how big it is, and how strong the lines are. And this kind of looks like glow squid ink, and maybe a seal cover. Should we give it to—oh!"

As she turns it back upright, a thin book falls out of the back and tumbles to the floor. Scott picks it up, carefully flips it open—yep, same make and script, but clearly a different author, and maybe a bit more recent.

"Right," Gem says, and Scott realizes she's peering down at the smaller book as well. "Should we give these to Lizzie?"

Scott puts them both in his satchel with a nod, then goes to grab the next book—but Gem catches him by the arm.

"Let's go to bed, how about," she suggests. "You have two more days to find it. Maybe it would be best to come back in the morning with a fresh, well-rested mind."

She's probably right.

Scott just feels that if he doesn't totally exhaust himself, he'll lie up all night, trying hard not to think about why his bed feels so lonely.

But he packs up the two Old Elvish books he'd found, and then puts away his discard pile (after marking with a slip of paper stuffed between books where in the shelves he'd left off). Then he follows the other two out, taking a moment to stretch his stiff wings before taking flight and returning to his suite of rooms.

And just as he assumed he would, he lies awake in bed for hours, until he finally cries himself to sleep.

As it turns out, he doesn't have two more days.

His council contacts Gem, and tells her in no uncertain terms that Scott had better be on a ship to return the next morning or they'll crown a new king.

Scott's pretty sure they can't do that, but it's best to play it safe.

So he puts on his mourning robes again (they smell fresh and are folded when he picks them up, which means that Gem had found a way to have his laundry done overnight, which might just be the kindest thing ever and no Scott isn't crying—) and skips breakfast to go to the library early, Katherine and Gem reluctantly grabbing food for the road.

He's been working all day—he also skipped lunch to keep it going, brain absolutely melting as he stares at another page of a language he doesn't really understand—when he hears his name in the girls' quiet conversation that's become background noise.

He freezes, cross-legged on the floor with a book in his lap, and strains his sensitive ears to listen.

"—is he doing?" Katherine's saying.

Gem sighs. "He's not doing great," she says. "I don't think I've ever seen Scott cry, you know?"

"Me neither. That just sounds . . . wrong."

"Mhm. He didn't cry at all for that . . . that stupid meeting, though. He and Lizzie both. They just sat there, all . . . cold, and imposing. Have you ever seen Lizzie angry?"

"I don't—wait, yes, at the End. She was scary."

A little chuckle from Gem. "Yep. She was like that—worse, maybe. But after Sausage left, she and Scott just kind of . . . held hands and cried. It was bad."

"Wait, so what's this about there not being a body? Scott said something about it, about how the funeral might be delayed?"

"Yeah, because Sausage is an idiot," Gem says heatedly, then quieter, "I don't know why he did it—he should be smarter than that—but he just—he just threw Jimmy's body in a mass grave. Like he wasn't even an emperor. Like he wasn't anything."

"Wait, that violates the House Blossom Accords," Katherine says instantly. "Under 'Respect', section—"

"Yep, Scott brought that up. But Sausage was just—ugh, he was being so weird and racist! He basically said because the Cod people are 'savages' and 'uneducated', they didn't deserve better than a mass grave."

"Gross. Jimmy's been—or, Jimmy was a ruler almost as long as he's been one, he should know that they're not any different from other people."

"Right? Sausage never used to act like that. I don't know what happened to him." She huffs, and Scott hears a book get set down. "Anyway, I'm not going to ask Lizzie or Scott to dig through a literal pile of bodies to find Jimmy, you know? Especially since it's been at least a week, and bodies start to decay pretty quickly. . . ."

"Totally. It's going to be hard without a body, though."

"That's what I was thinking. I think—not that Scott has to move on right away or anything, but I think it'll be really tough to do it without a body to bury."

"He needs that closure."

"Mm."

They fall silent, and Scott looks down at the book again to see a tear fall on the decrepit page. He whispers a curse, presses his cuff to the splash of water.

He would feel offended that they were talking about him behind his back, but he mostly feels embarrassed. And sad.

They're right. Scott hadn't even thought about it, but he thinks that if he had Jimmy's body, he wouldn't feel quite so large a hole in his heart. At least then he could say goodbye. At least then, he could maybe fix his hair so it isn't sticking up like it always is, grip his lifeless fingers one last time—

Scott swallows back the sob, letting out a little shuddering gasp in its place. He can't—he can't cry here, when Katherine and Gem are right over there and he has very limited time to find a very important book—

"Let's give him some space," he hears one of the girls whisper, then some shuffling and shifting of papers and footsteps.

"Scott, we're going to go get some fresh air," Gem calls from somewhere. "You should take a break at some point, okay?"

Scott doesn't respond, and after a moment, he hears their footsteps recede down the passageway.

He closes the book and sets it in the discard pile (it had been about grammar or something, probably something he needs but not at all what he's looking for), then clears a space on the floor and just lies there on his side, wings pulled tight against his body. He doesn't want to accidentally knock over any books or damage them by leaning on them or something, and he feels so tired, and he just wants to lay there and cry, and he doesn't have time for any of this—

A sob tears from his throat, and Scott covers his face with his hands, trying to stifle the sounds.

He shouldn't be this emotional, especially not in public. If he lets himself break down every time someone so much as mentions Jimmy, he'll be nothing but a weak wreck who isn't worthy of his rule.

And maybe it's a sign of his weakness that Scott lets himself cry a minute longer.

And maybe it's a sign of his unworthiness when he almost immediately slips into sleep.

Blood drips down his fingers and onto the shining white coat of the stag that he loosely clutches to. The stag walks on, carefully stepping around knobby tree roots and over lumps in the earth that might make the journey even more painful for his many wounds.

Scott's entire body hurts, pulsing from head to toe. He can feel a missing tooth, a broken rib. His left arm hangs uselessly to the side. His right arm is covered in blood.

The stag walks, undeterred, even as Scott's head slumps against its neck, even as his body becomes more like deadweight than anything else.

It's peaceful in his pain. Grass is pressed down into the ground with every footstep the stag takes, springing up behind it. There's the light tune of a chickadee singing somewhere in the woods, the rustling of a small animal in some brush they pass.

It's gentle, almost, and Scott sighs and just exists at the most basic level possible.

The ground becomes softer, the stag's hooves leaving imprints in the earth. Then there's a puddle of water, here and there, then mud squishing underneath each step. A bullfrog croaks off to the left, singing to the gentle song of flowing water and dripdrops from leaves.

And then the stag stops.

Scott really ought to look up, see why it's stopped. What it's trying to show him. But his head is too heavy, his body too pained.

He can't even begin to muster the strength.

The stag, then, tips its head down—down, down, until Scott's hand slips free of its tenuous grasp and his bleeding body starts to slide. He tumbles slowly, between the antlers, and falls, almost silently, into a dark pool of water.

Red billows up in clouds around him as Scott falls deeper, the cool water washing away so many aches and injuries. It feels nice, clean despite the murkiness. It's healing, and relaxing, and he can just release any breath in his chest and let the water take him.

He sinks in slow-motion, allowing the pond to carry him deeper, until his toes hit the sandy bottom and he hangs there, almost suspended.

Something swims up to him—a cod, he realizes after a moment. It pokes playfully at his nose, then swims above his head.

Scott's eyes follow it, then turn past it as he can see, standing on the distant surface of the pool, the white stag.

As soon as Scott is looking, the stag prances across the water, and he watches even as his eyes grow heavy and begin to close.

Still it prances, a tiny beast traveling across the inside of his eyelids—and when he opens his eyes, across an old, stone floor, up a pile of books and across a shelf, cantering along until it stops beside an unassuming brown leather-bound book.

It looks at the book, then back at Scott.

CRASH!

Scott starts awake, sitting up, frantically reaching out to catch whatever had fallen.

"Sorry!" Katherine whisper-shouts. "I knocked over some books, sorry. You can go back to sleep."

Scott rubs his eyes, blinking around at the dimly-lit library, Katherine and Gem standing frozen a couple of feet away from him.

"How long was I asleep?" he mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Gem exchanges a look with Katherine before shrugging. "Maybe twenty minutes? We were going to give you twenty more before waking you up, sorry."

"No, no—I need to be up," he says. "You should've woken me."

Another look exchanged. "Look, Scott," Katherine says gently, "we think you should maybe take a break? We could go eat something, come back for a few more hours before setting the library aside? Gem can keep looking, and you can come back in a couple of weeks—"

Scott stops paying attention, remembering the stag . . . across the floor, up the stack of books over there, across the shelf. . . .

Scott stands, trips over a book he'd left on the floor, catches his balance against a bookshelf before Katherine can rush forward.

"Scott, you need to rest," says Gem firmly. "I'll find an Old Elvish translation dictionary or something and go through these myself, okay? I want you to go home and take care of yourself."

Scott continues to ignore her, pushing past both of the girls, shifting aside a stack of books to find the shelf that he'd seen in his dream—

There's the book. Exactly as it appeared in his dream.

Scott grabs it, tugs it off the shelf, even as Katherine and Gem both voice their protests.

On the leather cover is a simple, golden stag.

Scott flips it open, barely registering as the other two fall silent. The title page is instantly familiar, one of few that Scott has actually seen in Old Elvish before.

The Tale of the Two Stags.

He pages through it quickly—it's long, far longer than the story usually is, and it's been annotated. There are handwritten notes in the margins, in a form of Elvish more recent than everything else here, close enough to the current form that Scott can mostly read it.

The mountaine in the este?, one note reads, underlining a sentence. How did Conal finte it? Will the same mountaine suffise?

These are notes from Alinar himself, Scott realizes, as he reads a few more, sudden chills encompassing his entire body.

Alinar held this book.

Alinar wrote in this book.

He flips to the final pages, those that would be blank, to find that they are covered with precise notes written by Alinar. He catches the word daemone several times, something about a cristyl, what appears to be some kind of a plan, complete with a diagram. . . .

"This is it," he says quietly. He looks up; Katherine and Gem are staring at him, mouths slightly ajar. He snaps the book shut, holds it up. "This is the book."

He knows it, too. Not just because Alinar had handwritten notes in it, not just because he was led to it. But he feels that pull, that spiritual connection. It's strong, unfathomably strong, binding him to this book in his hands.

"Scott, how . . . how did you know where that was?" Gem asks slowly.

"It was behind other books," adds Katherine. "In a section that you haven't even started on."

Scott shrugs. He really isn't sure how to answer without telling them that he thinks he might be Aeor's Champion, which isn't exactly something that he wants to be advertised. What if word got around, and then he utterly lost against Xornoth? He doesn't want to give false hope.

And maybe, perhaps more relevantly, saying it out loud comes with more revelations that he doesn't want to face.

"I had a good feeling, I suppose," he says.

Gem gives him a dubious look. "That's not a 'good feeling'," she says. "That's magic. Is that what elves' magic is like? Really good intuition? I've been trying to get an elven teacher for the Academy so that I can learn more about—"

"It's not really something we can teach, or learn," Scott interrupts. Maybe best to let her believe that it had been his inherent magic (which really isn't that impressive, seeing as all it really is is the ability to make some powerful suggestions or commands, and their promises are a bit more binding than others, the magic diluted as the generations pass from Alinar's rule, the last generation of great favor in Aeor's eyes) that led him to the book.

"Oh, so it's more instinctive! So is it a conscious—"

"Gem, how about we go eat now, and you can quiz me all about fae magic when you take me back to the Overgrown," Katherine suggests. "That way, Scott can get home before his advisors send assassins after us."

Right, he does need to get back home.

"And maybe he can get a change of clothes," adds Katherine.

Scott's stomach drops a little bit. There'll be another set of mourning clothes waiting for him, more likely than not.

And then there'll be other, harder things. He'll have to release some sort of statement of mourning, and if the court decides that he and Jimmy were still betrothed, he may have to declare a day of mourning for the entire country. He'll have to work with Lizzie to pull together some sort of memorial service, if possible. He'll have to sit through all sorts of official people giving their condolences. He'll have to run a war.

Maybe, if he asks nicely, Gem will let him stay a little longer.

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pavukvaleria · 3 months

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Introduction to the Coterie

Our player characters are a group of neonates, all raised not directly by their sires but by a mysterious Gangrel named Adrian who offered them shelter. They are all very forward-thinking and like to solve conflicts peacefully (via Dominate and Presence, of course). Their coterie has been around for only about six in-game months but they made a name for themselves by unraveling secret plots made up by older vampires and not letting them wreak havoc all over the city.

Now, let's get a little more up close and personal

The slim man in the muted blue suit and red tie is Scott Mullen, if that's his real name. He came to Portland a couple of years ago to work as a private investigator but has no prior credentials, no ties to the police, no family or friends and his home looks completely un-lived in. If you didn't know him personally you'd think he never existed... or wants someone to believe that. That's right, he's just another paranoid Malkavian... or is he?

The totally stylish Tumblr girl is none other than Ophelia, the infamous video blogger. She's a self-made online star and craves every bit of attention, be it love or hate. Come to think of it, she's probably more used to provoking hate with her hot takes bordering on trolling, but that's what drives engagement. And for this Toreador, it works just the same in the Camarilla.

The middle-aged man with research papers is Leopold Blanc, PhD. He's a professor of physics in PSU who recently got a grant from a private sponsor. In exchange for a hefty sum of money he's going to create a unique device for his sire to alleviate a curse that he suffers from. Yes, his sire. Becoming a Ventrue vampire was a part of the deal, so was protection for his wife and son. It's all going as planned... for the time being.

The stylish young guy is Benjamin Myers. As in, Myers of Myers Real Estate, subsidiary of Myers Investments that belongs to his father, Harold Myers. That's all in the past though. In a hostile takeover, Ben lost ownership of his company to the only man he could call a friend, maybe even something more... He didn't realize that it was the Blood Bond between them that made him feel that way about his future sire. But he'll be back on his feet in no time.

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm chronicle #portland postmortem #ttrpg

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blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

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O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand!

- Sir Walter Scott, Lay of the Last Minstrel

#scott #walter scott #quote #scottish #tartan #femme #beauty #poem #poet #highlands #scotland #nature #outdoors #wanderlust #mountains #hearth #land #belonging

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yyunari · 1 year

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STUCK BY GLUE — PROFILES: RED FOUNTAIN

SYNOPSIS. When Jungwon is sent to the Alfea school for Fairies for a week to work on a project for his midterm, he didn’t expect he would enjoy it all that much. After all, he had gotten dumped by an Alfea fairy not too long ago. However once he arrives, he’s immediately infatuated with a girl who he figures is the girl of his dreams. Even after finding out that she’s the Princess of Domino who’s supposed to be married off to someone else in the future, Jungwon can’t help but be stuck to her by the glue.

JUNGWON’S SPECIALIST GROUP !

JUNGWON (@ jungcat )﹒recently broken up with by a fairy named Eui, which made him very bitter to all fairies.

SUNOO (@ sunsunoo )﹒red fountain’s resident nice guy, even people from other school’s know him for being nice.

RIKI (@ nikiriki )﹒bonds with minji over scott pilgrim except he defends scott 🤢

INTAK (@ tikitaka )﹒hasn’t seen the notebook. beomgyu always begs him to watch it and he says no everytime b/c it’s ‘too cheesy’.

BEOMGYU (@ beomnuts )﹒is always seen begging intak to watch the notebook and cries when he says no.

SUNGCHAN’S SPECIALIST GROUP !

SUNGCHAN (@ jung.sungchan )﹒childhood bffs with y/n. he doesn’t really like being apart of the royal life but he’s good at it, so he just accepted the fact that he’s next in line for the throne.

SHOTARO (@ tarotaro )﹒sungchan’s sire/right hand man, and cares a lot for his best friend. shotaro does everything to keep sungchan happy <3

HAECHAN (@ haechanhaech )﹒met cici when she visited red fountain and he’s been in love with her since .. even tho she always rejects his advances 😋

TAKI (@ takotakii )﹒best friends with yun and he hates her — in a loving way ofc. usually dancing with riki and shotaro in his free time :)

☰ previous masterlist next

🐰 ‹ taglist ! ｡ @muhwaa @hoori @yizhoutv @ja4hyvn @carayat @one16core @enhacolor @haerinz @soobin-chois @en-boyz @ohmy-fandoms @yeongwonie @yjwonz @yunki4evr @strwberrydinosaur @duolingofanaccount @iichaeyj @eundiarys @enaus @eulris @amakumos @yenqa @jennaissantes @lcv3lies @trsrina @taejays @harperwasstaken1 @hafsa-hoofsa-heefs @leaderwon @mangobee @seosracha @vanicogh @jseobsky @neozon3nha @officiallyjaehyuns @naddii @renchai @yngjungwonlvr ꜜ

#💌 ─── ( stuck by glue ! )#enhypen x reader #enhypen smau #jungwon x reader #yang jungwon x reader #enhypen jungwon x reader #jungwon fanfic #jungwon fluff #jungwon smau #yang jungwon #jungwon x y/n #enhypen jungwon #jungwon #yang jungwon x y/n #yang jungwon x you #enhypen yang jungwon #enhypen x y/n

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eneiryu · 14 days

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Thinking very strongly tonight about a fic where the pack realizes after multiple pack sleep-overs and countless reports from Alec and Derek of Theo's often bouts of violent clawed and fanged nightmares that Theo tends to sleep longer, deeper, and sounder when he can give the pack a head count with their heartbeats and smell them nearby and going out of the way to try and team up and trick him into joining more frequent pack sleepovers after the nightmares get particularly bad and damaging and he doesn't sleep consecutively for a few days at a time before giving in and sleeping before ultimately waking up a few hours later. Imagine Alec claiming that he has nightmares of his own and his apartment feels too lonely sometimes as excuses to sleep on Theo's couch and Theo too sympathetic to send him away, Derek staying over late discussing strategy or something and complaining about an apparent malfunctioning elevator and not wanting to take the stairs and Theo too tired to argue, the High School Crew staying over into the early morning and not wanting to go home and Theo too used to their shenanigans to dispute it, until it somehow cumulates into somebody telling Scott about it and as a Responsible Pack Alpha that just won't do, and it all going downhill (or is it uphill? it depends on who you ask) from there. But he's definitely not part of the pack!! No siree, he just likes to be in control of every situation, that's why, no other reason.

Y’know, I don’t hate the idea of revisiting my i know all sorts days and Theo’s sleeplessness/the pack’s reactions in particular. That whole idea of Theo’s nightmares and how they’d be perceived by others was pretty formative to me first figuring out how I see Theo, and holds true today (six years later, what!).

I’ll play around with the idea and see if anything develops, but folks should also feel free to see if they can give me the “seed” of the story, from which the rest of it could grow!

#eneiryu ask

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

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Crown of Antlers

Chapter 5: Hallowed Halls

summary:

An introduction to the Halls of Rivendell. A newcomer guided by a careful hand.

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(9,092 words)

Ailwi and Alfsol are waiting, as he instructed, just outside of the Cod Empire’s borders. Their horses are tied to nearby branches, though that action is more to prevent them from tripping over their loose reins or becoming caught on a nearby bush rather than any worry that they might escape- the knots are far too loose to do anything and they are also too well-trained to even attempt it.

Jimmy’s eyes widen when Ailwi and Alfsol reveal themselves from the underbrush, and Scott takes a moment to consider how this might look to him. His lips quirk up at the edges as Jimmy glances at him, pupils slitted as he stares at him.

“Did you think I walked here?” He asks, gesturing to the horses. Jimmy’s eyes remain wide, even as he nods slowly, watching his guards as though expecting them to lunge forward and attack him. Really, is there so little faith here? “I would hardly have made it on time if I walked here from Rivendell.”

“I…well, I suppose not,” Jimmy says. “I just didn't expect-” he waves at Alfsol’s turned back “-the guards.”

“Can hardly leave without us, hm?” Alfsol yanks on her horse’s saddle as she speaks, slipping a few fingers under the girth and testing how tight it is. She frowns a moment later, muttering something under her breath before she continues, “Tawaren would pitch a fit, and then we’d all have to deal with that.” She snorts, shaking her head.

Ailwi has remained silent throughout this encounter, nervously looking between him and Jimmy, then back again. The question is clear in their eyes, though they look far too worried to actually voice their thoughts. He shakes his head when they choose to meet his eyes, holding the gaze until they turn around, pulling themselves onto their horse.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’ve found myself becoming rather fond of them, and their company is bearable when the trip is long and slow.” It would be far quicker for them to simply push their horses to their limits and arrive as quickly as possible, but to do so would only end in him arriving windswept and unkempt; not at all the impression he ever wishes to make, especially not when he was meeting the highly esteemed Cod Council for the first time. They have done a rather good job of keeping out of his sight for this long, but, judging from their regard of Jimmy, perhaps he needn’t have worried so much.

“You flatter me, sire,” Alfsol says, pulling herself into her saddle easily, though perhaps not as gracefully as Ailwi. “I’ve found myself growing rather fond of you too. Though your attitude could use a little work.”

“Never just a compliment with you, hm?” He untwists his own horse’s reins from the branch he had looped them around a few hours ago, tugging her closer to him, smoothing a hand over the side of her neck. She turns to bump her nose against his shoulder, snuffling about in his pockets for any treats.

He turns back to Jimmy, almost expecting to turn and find that the Codfather had disappeared back into his swamps, deciding to take his chances there rather than with him. He’s pleasantly surprised to find him still stood there, watching his horse with open fear, as though she’s spontaneously grown a second head. He looks back, checking on her. He’s rather fond of her really; Glorandal is a wonderful example of his empire’s horses, with strong legs, thick enough to rival some tree trunks. She blinks at him now, breath hot through his gloves when he raises a hand to stroke at her nose.

“She won't bite,” he promises. “She’s rather lovely, really.”

Jimmy continues to watch her with apprehension, eyes raking over every inch of her, as though studying her. His voice, when he responds, is quiet. “I've never ridden a horse.” He looks faintly embarrassed, the fins he has in replacement of ears twitching backwards, flattening almost to the sides of his skull before the movements stop completely.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you won't actually be riding her, hm?” He loops the reins over Glorandal’s head before releasing them, knowing she is far too good to move. He slips a hand into the crook of Jimmy’s elbow and guides him forward with a soft touch. He ignores Alfsol’s scoff, focusing on pulling Jimmy closer to the horse.

The man seems as though he’s a mere moment away from startling and disappearing into the swamp, never to be seen again. And Scott would really rather that they return to Rivendell while it’s still light and the mountain paths are slightly less treacherous. His hand slips from the crook of Jimmy’s elbow to his wrist, gently uncurling his fingers and pushing his hand forward.

Jimmy tenses as Glorandal sniffs at his hand, fingers twitching when she almost begins nibbling at the tips of his fingers. Truly, what does he expect her to do? Rip his entire arm clean from its socket as easily as breathing? She’s hardly Mary, who would sooner eat your fingers than let you ride her.

“See?” He keeps his voice quiet, just between the two of them as Jimmy brushes a hand over Glorandal’s nose again, a little more confident than he was before. “She’s really quite nice. All I need you to do is make sure you don't fall off, and even then I will catch you before you can even begin to slip.” Jimmy shudders as his breath ghosts over the delicate webbing of his fins, and Scott tucks that particular detail away for examination later; he ignores the bell-like laughter in the back of his head, and the way Ailwi turns their head away, as though embarrassed to watch him.

He slips around Jimmy, hand slipping over his wrist, touches still light and fleeting. Jimmy follows after him anyway, watching as he hooks a foot into the stirrup, pulling himself up in one fluid movement. His cloak sweeps over Glorandal’s back, and Jimmy flinches away, squeezing his eyes shut as though preparing for an impact. When nothing comes, he squints his eyes open, watching Glorandal with all the caution you would approach a wildcat with.

He leans down, extending a hand towards Jimmy. Jimmy takes his hand immediately, not pulling his gaze away from Glorandal’s face for a long moment. When he does, he seems almost surprised to see their hands joined, eyes darting up to meet his. The palm of his hand is warm, even through his gloves, and he’s certain Jimmy can feel the icy chill of his own skin too. If he does, then he does a rather good job of hiding it, face not even twitching with slight discomfort as he looks back up, seeking directions.

Scott brushes Aeor’s quiet murmurs away, focusing back on Jimmy. “You can step on my foot, if you would like.” He offers, “Or I can direct us to a rock or fallen log to help you get up.” Glorandal is quite a tall horse, and Jimmy’s shoulders just barely come up to her own.

“Step on your foot?”

He smiles at Jimmy’s reaction, the small squeak in his voice. “I assure you I won't feel it, steel-toed boots are certainly not something to scoff at.” He readjusts his grip on Jimmy’s hand, slipping over the bones of his wrist as he grips more at his arm than his hand, preparing to aid in pulling him up.

“I, uh, I suppose not.” Jimmy still looks rather nervous, bouncing on the balls of his feet before he seems to decide just to go for it without a single warning being sent in Scott’s direction. Scott leans back to assist Jimmy with hauling himself up, as well as avoid bumping their heads together. The bells on his antlers chime as he leans backwards, matching almost perfectly with Aeor’s laughter. He can see the faint glowing of gold, just beyond Ailwi, but he refuses to look in the God’s direction.

At least Alfsol will feel better about her horrendous lack of grace when mounting and dismounting, Jimmy has truly put her to shame.

Scott shuffles back slightly, adjusting for the extra space that Jimmy is taking up. There really isn't space for them both in this saddle and the leather of it digs into him uncomfortably. Jimmy shifts in the saddle as well, spine digging into Scott’s front as he leans backwards. He stiffens a moment later, breath turning a little harsher, loud and slightly rasping as he breathes.

Scott slips his arms around him, sliding his thumb along the leather of the reins as he readjusts his grip. He nudges Glorandal forward, encouraging her into a brisk walk with a small squeeze. Jimmy’s breath hitches as she moves, jolting at first, then relaxing as she settles into the gait and adjusts to the added weight. He’ll have someone check her when they return to Rivendell, but he’s certain the extra weight won’t have done her any harm.

“I need you to be as still as possible,” he murmurs to Jimmy as they walk through the thick forest, quickly slipping onto a dirt path. “Any movement you make, she will feel, and if there’s two of us moving, it might confuse her.”

Jimmy nods, the tickle of his hair brushing along the underneath of Scott’s jaw. He’s tucked himself rather securely against Scott’s chest, even if he remains as stiff as a metal rod.

“If you continue to tense like that, this is not going to be a pleasant ride,” he says. Glorandal snorts as he nudges her a little faster, not quite trotting but also not very far off. Jimmy stiffens further in the saddle, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the pommel.

“How else am I meant to sit?” Jimmy hisses back. “Do you want me to fall off?”

He laughs, head dropping, chin almost bumping against the top of Jimmy’s head. “No, of course not. I would catch you before you fell, either way. Just…relax a little. Move with the motions.”

“Oh, yes, because that’s so easy,” Jimmy snorts. Scott finds himself smiling at the biting edge in his voice, much preferring this version of Jimmy rather than the one that refuses to speak in front of him. “Just relax, while riding the massive animal that could trample you to death without even thinking.”

“Glorandal would not trample you to death. She refuses to step in puddles, she’s hardly going to step all over you. She’s far too fussy for that,” Jimmy doesn't respond, and he sighs, sitting a little taller so Jimmy’s hair stops tickling at his face so much. “Just go with the movements, imagine it like you're in the water- when you get pulled into a strong current do you fight against it?”

“I- no. That’s how you die, and I quite enjoy living.”

“Then just think of it like that, if you put too much energy into remaining tense, you're going to grow tired quickly and slip off far easier.” Jimmy goes lax so quickly that he does almost fall off the side of the horse, slipping just slightly before Scott is pushing him back into the centre of the saddle. “Perhaps not that much, but that is better.”

He gives Jimmy a few more moments to find the balance between relaxing too much and too little, before nudging Glorandal forward a little more forcefully, bridging the gap between walking and trotting. It becomes far bumpier then, Jimmy stiffening against him initially, before realising that it’s far less sickening to sink into the saddle. In fairness, it is far easier to sink in like that with stirrups than it is without, so he is already putting Jimmy at a disadvantage.

Glorandal keeps tugging at the reins, trying to yank him forward and give her more slack so she can pick up the pace. He cannot tell if she’s simply eager to gallop or return to her stable. He keeps at the slow trot for another few minutes to make sure Jimmy isn't sick when they begin to go faster. It is almost silent, the only sound around them the crunching of gravel beneath hooves and the wheezing breaths Jimmy keeps letting out.

Jimmy doesn't look green around the gills when he checks on him, and he’s remained mostly relaxed so far. The only incident so far was when Scott’s chin collided with the top of Jimmy’s head, leaving both of them grunting in pain and shying away from the other. He pretended not to hear Alfsol laughing at them for that one.

When he’s certain of Jimmy’s ability to hold onto his lunch he nudges Glorandal again, heel digging into her side as she slackens the reins, giving her the space she’s been craving. She pushes her head forward almost immediately, pushing forward into a canter. The bumpiness smooths out as Glorandal finds her paces, though Jimmy takes several minutes longer to settle into the new speed.

He’s gripping Scott’s wrist rather than the pommel of the saddle now, but he doesn't seem to have noticed this yet. Scott doesn't comment on it, far more focused on the way he can feel the heat bleeding through his sleeves from the singular point of contact. It’s far hotter than anywhere else they're touching, leaving him almost dizzy with the sensation.

He shakes it off a moment later when he almost gets a branch to the face, ducking at the last moment and praying his antlers don't get tangled again. The trees around them blur into a mass of green and lime, the colours melting into one another as they continue to pick up speed, gravel skittering behind them.

He can hear the hoofbeats of Ailwi and Alfsol’s horses behind them, keeping pace at a respectable distance. Though not so far behind that they risk being hit by a stray spray of gravel.

They veer to the left when the path forks. It takes them away from Mythland’s capital, deeper into the forest bordering Mythland and Gilded Helianthia. Jimmy clings to his wrist so tightly he can almost imagine his bones grinding together. It’s nearly enough to stop him from guiding Glorandal with slight twitches of the reins, keeping her on the centre of the path.

Did Jimmy not believe that he would save him from falling? Did he simply lack that much faith in his newest ally? But if that were the case, then why would he agree to ride to Rivendell with him? He could have easily declined politely and suggested an alternative meeting date, where the Codfather could travel to Rivendell himself. Or is he really that desperate for whatever information Scott might be able to give him, desperate enough to follow him even when it places him at a disadvantage. There is no advantage with following him into his domain, especially not when Scott has his name. Perhaps there is some truth in calling the Codfather impulsive- more likely to swing first and ask the questions later.

He leans further forward, ducking his head until his lips are close enough to brush against the delicate fins adorning the sides of Jimmy’s head. They shiver as he exhales, the fine membranes quivering as his breath ghosts over it. He smiles at the repeat reaction, satisfied that it wasn't just a one time thing from their proximity. He inhales slowly, pushing the further thoughts away as they attempt to invade the front of his mind again, before speaking. “I am going to start galloping in a moment. I would recommend you hold onto something.”

Jimmy stiffens in front of him, spine digging into his ribs. It makes him too uncomfortable to lean over in this way, and he’s forced to pull back until Jimmy is no longer wrapped so securely between his arms. The jostling of the horse hardly helps, Glorandal’s wide strides pushing them into one another.

They cross the border from Gilded Helianthia into Rivendell.

And he feels the exact moment they leap across the invisible barrier, Glorandal launching into a gallop as he encourages her forward. The ice sings in the air around him, the cold stinging in his cheeks as it brushes icy hands over his face, welcoming him home, even after such a short absence. The cold sings in his blood and he grins at the feeling of it sparking through his veins.

Jimmy shivers in front of him, curling in on himself slightly. He still holds Scott’s wrist, though his grip is less bone-crushingly tight than before, giving him a larger range of movement. Scott huffs out a laugh at Jimmy’s reaction, before leaning a little further forward, close enough that Jimmy’s hair brushes against his face again.

The small points of contact between them make him shudder, something warm slithering down his spine. Those small points of contact are far more noticeable than the warm weight pressed against the front of his chest, though he’s not certain how such small points of contact manage to elicit such a reaction when they're already pressed so closely together.

He swallows down the words he was going to say, finding that they have turned to syrup in his throat, sticking there and making his tongue feel heavy and useless. The words in his mind swirl around each other too, refusing to order themselves in a sensible way. He can hardly even remember what he was going to say anymore, losing the words in the sticky tangle of thoughts currently clogging his throat.

The first gate they pass through is small and old, creaking as it opens. The guard inside of the tower takes several, long moments to respond to Alfsol’s shout. Scott cannot see into the dark recesses of the tower beside the gate, but he does manage to spot the flash of the soldier’s armour, as well as hear the sudden rattling as they realise just who, exactly, it is waiting at the gate.

They're ushered through rather rapidly after that, and Jimmy looks around them curiously at the small village they pass through. He slows, briefly, as they cut through the town centre, so as not to startle the children playing some complex-looking game beside the well.

They pause to wave at him, several of the children running up to grin at him, but still keeping a respectful distance from the horses. He smiles back at the small elves, waving back at several of them as they pass through. The elves stare at Jimmy, as well, some of the adults pausing in their business to take in the codfolk riding with the Elvenking, before recognising the mask pushed back on the top of his head.

Then they're through the village and picking up the pace again, careful to remain within the bounds of the hedgerows surrounding them. He’s not certain what is being planted in the fields around them currently, but several look as though they've already been harvested, only stubble left behind.

“I didn't know you grew things here,” Jimmy says, sounding slightly out of breath as he speaks. The rocking of the horse has decreased, but the motion would still be uncomfortable for someone not accustomed to riding. “Doesn't everything just…die?” He makes a small, choked-off noise in the back of his throat a moment later, shoulders stiffening as he waits for a response.

Scott frowns at the reaction, straightening his own back to avoid the way Jimmy’s spine digs into his ribs, made even more uncomfortable by the jostling of the horse. “No,” he says. He can hear the small amount of amusement in his own voice, even as the wind does its best to snatch the sound away from him. “But we only grow specific crops, ones more resistant to cold. Like over there,” he nods, towards one of the only fields still filled, brimming with shades of crimson and red. “Poppies are rather good at surviving.”

“Huh,” Jimmy says, small and quiet. Scott doubts he’s even meant to hear it. “The more you know, I guess.”

The fields gradually turn to houses, the beaten dirt track beneath them transitioning into cobbles. And then they really do have to slow, their winding path up the mountain coming to a rather abrupt halt as they reach the first of the larger gates.

Alfsol yells up to the guard in the tower in elvish, asking for entry through the gates. The guard peers down a moment later, a flash of silver from the dark recesses of the tower and a brief sound of metal on metal. He tips his head back, bells jangling as they shift on his antlers, swinging in the breeze. The guard disappears rather quickly after that, and the gate swings open promptly, quiet on well-oiled hinges. Seems he really does need to see what’s going on with the outer villages, then. Or at least find some better soldiers to station out there, if the ones currently occupying the small village have begun to slack off.

There’s three more gates before they begin ascending the final slope up to Rivendell’s capital. This slope is far steeper than the previous ones, being the more private entrance to the stables than the public entrance. Which takes far longer to climb, both due to the crowds and the gradual sloping nature of it. But it means their food arrives at their door with little trouble, no produce rolling from the carts and taking a plunge off the side of the mountain.

Jimmy continues to shiver, his bare arms breaking out into gooseflesh as he leans further back into Scott. He’s far more tense than he was at the start of the ride, which is quite something, because he doesn't think he’s ever met someone quite so scared of a horse as Jimmy is.

Their arrival into Rivendell is quiet and subdued. Just as Scott likes it. They dismount the horses with little fanfare, other than Alfsol getting her foot caught in one of the stirrups, almost falling flat on her face as she attempts to dismount, with at least some of her dignity intact. He turns away from her, pressing a closed fist to his mouth and reminding himself that she will punch him if he laughs at her, again, and that those punches tend to bruise for weeks. He’s not risking it.

Scott dismounts first, cloak sweeping heavily behind him as he steps back from the horse, holding out a hand for Jimmy to take. Jimmy only hesitates for a moment before he places his hand into Scott’s awaiting one, carefully slipping from Glorandal’s back. A stablehand is waiting nearby already, and Scott beckons him over, instructing him to check her over, to ensure that riding with two people hasn't done her any damage.

The stablehand nods, before taking the reins and leading Glorandal away. Alfsol and Ailwi are already waiting for them, prepared to walk them further into the city and back to the Palace. Jimmy continues to shiver, and it’s then that Scott truly registers how unsuited his clothes are for the near-top of a mountain. Scott frowns at him, at the way he’s tightly holding himself, as though he’s attempting to physically cling to every scrap of heat.

Jimmy jumps as Scott swings his cloak around his shoulders, settling it comfortably around his neck and tucking the ruff away from his face and ears. Jimmy stares at him with round eyes as he clasps the front of it, tugging it forward a little further when it goes to slip backwards.

“It’s slightly too large,” he frowns, watching as the bottom of it almost trails in the dirt behind Jimmy as he walks. “I do apologise.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s fine,” Jimmy goes to shrug the cloak off, even as his teeth continue to chatter. “I really don't need it, I swear.”

“I would really rather you didn't keel over where you stand,” Scott clasps one of Jimmy’s hands between two of his own, halting his efforts to remove the cloak. “Please, just keep it on, if only for my peace of mind.”

Jimmy hesitates for a moment longer, before slowly pulling his hand out from between Scott’s, tucking the cloak around himself a little more tightly, wrapping himself snugly inside the folds of fabric. “Alright.” He nods, slowly. “Thank you.”

“Splendid, now, shall we continue?”

Ailwi is looking away again, face flushed a light shade of pink and refusing to meet his eyes. Alfsol has no such qualms, twisting her face into a mocking grin and making a rude gesture. “If only for my peace of mind,” she mocks, slipping back into elvish.

“Shut it,” he snaps back at her, though it has no real bite behind it. And she must sense this, as she simply laughs at him. Jimmy watches them carefully, eyes dancing back and forth between them before looking away again. Scott’s rather relieved he chooses not to ask whatever question is lingering in his mind, as he’s uncertain of what his own response would be.

They draw more than a few stares, curious eyes lingering on their small party for longer than is strictly polite. But no-one makes to stop them, and they slip through the drifting crowds easily, aided by the two royal guards forging a pathway through. Jimmy looks around the surrounding buildings with interest alight in his eyes, tugging Scott’s cloak tighter around his shoulders.

There is nothing more than a little scrutiny towards their group, which, he supposes, is understandable from an outside perspective. Two royal guards, a codfolk, and the Elvenking walk through the streets late at night. It sounds like the beginning of one of those bad jokes Cormac is so fond of.

The Royal Library is still open, doors cracked just slightly and allowing the golden glow from within to spill out into the steadily approaching dusk. The students coming and going don't even spare him a second look, either too tired to register their surroundings or too used to him slipping in and out of the library when the fancy takes him.

He nods, politely, to the guard stationed at the door. It’s done more for formalities and for the peace of mind of the scholars that maintain the books within its walls. Hardly anything catastrophic will happen to a building in such close proximity to the Palace, but Leukos insisted, citing that the scholars would drive them insane if Scott refused to take action. And Leukos is rather good at their job, and it would be a hassle to find a new Librarian.

Jimmy’s breath hitches as they enter the atrium, head tipping back and fingers loosening their tight, almost strangling grip, on his cloak. He looks…strange, swathed in the colours of Scott’s empire and bathed in the gold light that the library has. It makes something in his chest shift a little at the sight, and he’s forcing himself to look away before he can linger on the emotion for too long.

“When you said you wanted some books to reference, I thought you meant, like…an office,” Jimmy finds his voice again, head dropping back down to look at Scott. He looks rather unimpressed, eyes flat and voice even flatter, even as he continues to look around. “Are you sure you're gonna be able to find the books we need?”

“Of course,” he should feel a little offended at the question- really, for Jimmy to question him in such a way. He could navigate this library with his eyes closed and hands bound behind his back, though he would certainly look an idiot whilst doing it. “The library is organised,” he says, “meaning that it is arranged in a logical sense making it easier for those using its services to find the books that they might require, whether that be for leisure reading or more academic pathways of-”

“Alright,” Alfsol’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, pulling him down a little bit as he has to compensate for her height. “I’m sure we all know what something being organised means, yeah?”

“I would hope so,”

“Good, great,” Alfsol pulls her hand off his shoulder, dusting his shirt off before dropping them back to her sides, an entirely unnecessary action as her hands weren't dirty in the first place. She smiles up at him. “Does that mean we’re relieved of our duties? Only because it’s rather late in the evening, and I had this wonderful date later on, really, the things she does with her-”

“I don't want to know that.” He holds a hand up, cutting her off and praying she doesn't continue. “If you continue to torment me like this I will send you to etiquette lessons.” Alfsol’s face scrunches up at the threat but still continue to grin, looking far too pleased with herself for it to be healthy.

He sighs, heavily. He almost casts his eyes skyward, looking for help from some benevolent God. He glares, instead, at the place where Aeor stands, looking far too amused for a creature that has no eyebrows. Or any way of visibly communicating His amusement. “You can go,” he waves his guards away.

He walks further into the library, smiling at the students that look up at him as he passes, dragging their eyes away from their stack of books and references to greet him momentarily. Only one set of feet hurries after him, almost tripping over his tail as he sweeps it to the side.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Jimmy asks, falling into step beside him, hands twisted in the fabric of his cloak again. He seems to rather like it, or perhaps he simply likes the comfort of having something in his hands. “What if something happens?”

“If something were to happen, I assure you, it should not be me you are worrying about.” He smiles pleasantly as he speaks. The bookshelves come to an abrupt halt and he steps out from the stacks, eyes set on the desk tucked away into the back corner of the library. For such a large building, Leukos seems to have chosen the smallest desk in existence. And the desk only looks even smaller with the papers stacked on it.

Scott’s certain that he’s never seen the actual wood of the desk, with it perpetually covered in books and tomes and stacks of paper that need to be filed and sorted. And really, they should be looking into obtaining an apprentice. Especially as they never seem to be at their desk.

He taps a finger against the edge of the desk as he thinks, looking around, waiting to see if Leukos is going to appear out of thin air in a few moments. They do it sometimes, appearing in the most unlikely places; he’s certain it’s an attempt to scare him witless, but they never seem to realise that they shuffle their wings far too much to be considered at all subtle.

“Are we…doing something?”

“In theory,” he responds, looking around and giving them a few more seconds. “Come on, let’s go find our missing librarian.” Jimmy makes a small noise at that, as though he’s going to ask a question. Scott doesn't give him the opportunity, rounding the desk and pulling the office door open.

There’s a loud sound of commotion when he sticks his head in. Leukos looks up at him guiltily, holding a hand of cards. Several of those cards are set between them and the other occupant of the room.

“Cormac,” he greets, slipping back into elvish. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Hardly,” xe laugh, lounging back against the small sofa. Xe hold a hand of cards too, though xe have far more cards than Leukos does. Feathers are scattered across the floor, black and white mixing together, as though a storm recently ripped through the room. “I'm here quite often, actually.”

“Sire,” Leukos stands from where they were sat, abandoning their cards on the floor. They brush their clothes down hurriedly, fixing their collar as subtly as possible, as though Scott hadn't already noticed the way it was nearly ripped open. “And…guest.”

“Yes, yes, guest. On other matters, do you have those books ready for me? The ones I reserved.”

“You have a guest?” Cormac perks up, abandoning xir cards too to crowd in the doorway, leaning over Leukos and around Scott to peer at Jimmy. “My oh my, you sure do move fast, hm?” Xe grin at him, leaning a little further out of the doorway to wave at Jimmy. “He certainly does look rather nice in blue, doesn't he?”

“I hadn't noticed,” Scott lies through his teeth. “This is the Codfather,” he introduces, moving back to Common for Jimmy’s benefit. “Codfather, this is Eilianther and Ingolmondur.” He gestures to them as he introduces them.

“Nice to meet you,” Jimmy says. He smiles, though his eyes look like a prey animal’s: darting around and looking for any means of escape.

“Oh, yes,” Cormac pushes forward, nudging Scott out of the way not-so-gently. “Really, it is always so wonderful to meet someone new, especially from so far away. Codfolk, right?”

“Yes?” Jimmy’s eyes glance over to Scott, before he looks away again just as quickly, staring at Cormac with a strange intensity. “Does Codfather mean nothing to you?”

Cormac laughs, “Oh, Scott, I like this one.” Xe pat Jimmy on the shoulder, ignoring his confused look.

“I’ll get those books for you,” Leukos says, slipping away from the small gathering, further into their office to retrieve their reserved books. Scott watches them go, not missing the small tug at the edge of Cormac’s rather rumpled shirt. He gives xem an unimpressed look.

“I'm off-duty,” xe defend. “School day’s over, even if they're all intent on working themselves to death in here.”

“Eilianther is not off-duty, even if you are.” He reminds. “You will see each other plenty later, can you not contain yourself?”

“Well, I came here with good intentions,” Cormac says, then stops, xir eyes darting over to Jimmy. When xe continue, it is in elvish rather than Common. “I received a note from one of my apprentices earlier. The guest you wanted to greet has arrived and is waiting for you.”

“Is it time sensitive?”

“No.” Xe shake their head, more hair coming loose from its tie and falling across xir face. “They can wait several more days, if needs be.”

He considers it for a long moment, studying Cormac’s face, watching for any twitch of muscle that might betray that xir words are not completely truthful. Xe watch him back calmly, gaze not wavering.

“Good,” he nods. “I will be by tonight, make sure they are prepared for greeting me.”

“Of course,”

“And here are your books,” Leukos doesn't waste any time thrusting them into his arms, leaving him to grunt from the impact and the sudden weight, adjusting himself to hold them more securely. He’s watched them bring several students to tears over a bent page before, and he’s hardly daring enough to damage a book directly in front of them. “Please do not disturb me for the rest of the evening unless you've managed to set something on fire, thank you.”

“Your service is impeccable as always.” All three of the books he had wanted are here, each of them on a similar topic but written by different authors. He’s rather certain two of these authors threatened a duel over the contradictory information in their books.

Cormac rests a hand on Leukos’ shoulder before they can duck back into their office and away from the outside world, murmuring something into their ear. Leukos stiffens for a moment, before meeting his eyes and nodding. Wonderful.

“Have fun with your new…ally, make sure you treat him nicely!” Cormac calls, just as Scott is several paces away and certain he was safe. He refuses to turn back to look at xem, knowing it would only give them more satisfaction.

The books make a satisfying thump as he dumps them on a nearby table, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. Jimmy sits opposite him, laying his hands carefully on the table as he eyes the books in front of them.

“Ta-da,” he gestures at the books, “a solution to your problem. Or, at least I hope they are.” He taps at the closest cover, a thick book, bound in blue leather and painted with swirling designs. “This author is rather good with most of their environmental examinations, but it is always best to have more than one source for something, hence, these two.”

“These are in Oceanic.” Jimmy says, pulling one of the books towards himself, the furthest from Scott.

“Well, they are written by seafolk,” he says, “I would be surprised if they chose to write in Common when this is a distinctly water-based problem.”

“You know Oceanic?”

“I can read it, yes. Though my spoken leaves much to be desired. Though I suppose there are just some noises that my throat cannot make.”

“Ah,” Jimmy glances down at the books, thumb brushing over the spine carefully, almost reverent. “These books look…old. Where did you even get them?”

“A friend gave them to me,” he knows the page for this particular problem, flicking open the book and skimming through the pages until he reaches it. “A very old friend, before you ask. I thought it might be useful to me, and she had no use for them by that point. And she never asked for them back.”

Aeor still stands nearby, unobtrusive in his presence, taking on the form of a young fawn rather than his usual choice of a towering stag. The fawn gives him a disapproving look, and Scott frowns back at Him.

“Right,” Jimmy nods slowly, “yeah. Forgot…that.”

“What?”

“That you're kinda old.” Jimmy’s mouth twists at that. “Ocean’s tide, how old are you?”

“That’s not a very polite question. How old are you?”

“Younger than you.” Jimmy snarks back. “Though that’s probably not very impressive.”

“Not really.” He studies Jimmy again. He certainly is younger than him, but…perhaps not as- Aeor’s disapproving presence grows heavier on the edge of his mind, and he pulls himself away from those thoughts. He glares at Aeor again, mocking the God silently for how He can barely see over the edge of the desk to stare at him. Aeor’s ears flick backwards in discontent, and then He’s gone a moment later, swallowed up by the air around him.

He ignores the sudden disappearance of the God, allowing himself to be drawn into the book in front of him. It’s thick, but the section he’s looking for is rather short in comparison to the rest of the book. The words are close together on the lines, almost blurring into one another and he has to re-read lines several times to make sure that he’s actually understanding what is being said.

He notes down the key points on a piece of parchment next to him, quill scratching lightly at the paper. Jimmy doesn't make a single sound, absorbed in both of the books, jumping back and forth between the two books. He has a notebook next to him. He writes, though without the need for any ink, his pen seemingly producing its own as he writes.

The pages are slightly warped from water damage, the pages crinkling as he smooths them out with a careful hand.

Something groans, and he looks up just in time to watch Jimmy’s head thunk against the table. The sound echoes around them, and he winces in sympathy. His head is rather well-acquainted with the edges of these tables and he knows just how much they hurt when you manage to catch the edge of them. Jimmy makes a wounded noise, lifting his head to cradle it in his hands.

“Having fun?” He asks, before he can think it through.

Jimmy huffs out a breath, still cradling his head delicately. Scott can see his eyes from between his fingers, flashing bright despite the shadow he casts over his face. “What do you think? This is ancient Oceanic, and it’s late, and I haven't eaten since this morning.”

He frowns at Jimmy’s complaining, watching as he slumps back over the desk, though far slower than before. The only sound accompanying his slow descent to laying halfway over the desk is the soft clink of his mask tapping against the wood.

“Is this…not the standard Oceanic still?” He glances at the pages in front of him, thumbing the corner of the page before remembering that Leukos has eyes everywhere in this library and stopping. It would utterly destroy his reputation if Jimmy watched Leukos rip him a new one over slight damage to one of their precious books.

“No,” Jimmy groans into the table. He lifts his head slightly just to drop it back again, landing with a thunk. Scott reaches a hand out to stop him when he lifts his head again, cushioning the table with his hand instead. “You're lucky I know this.”

“If this isn't the standard…why do you know it?” He’s still not certain Jimmy isn't lying to him, taking advantage of his lack of knowledge and the passage of time to trick him into believing this isn't still the correct form of Oceanic. He winces, thinking about the students that he will be needing to break this revelation to in the near future. He can leave it to Cormac, xe would deal with it far better than he could ever hope to.

“The Ocean Queen taught me.” Jimmy says. “She writes almost exclusively in it; she has scribes to translate for anyone that might read it, but she doesn't want her scribes seeing something that’s being sent to me.”

“Huh,” how interesting. To think that the Ocean Queen simply writes in an ancient language that only a few know. “Does the Mezalean King speak it also?”

“He can write it, but he’s pretty shit at it.” Jimmy laughs to himself, shaking his head. “He came to me for help, as though I’m any better.”

“You seem to be coping rather well,” he gestures to the page of notes, written in something that vaguely resembles the Oceanic he knows, but also not quite- a few of the letters appear to be different, swirling in different ways. He’s not sure of how it translates to actual words, but it looks both more complex and less than the apparently ancient version.

“I don't think I can continue with this,” Jimmy thunks his head down on the table again, forgetting that Scott’s hand is still lying there, so he just ends up resting his face in Scott’s glove. He can feel the warmth of his breath on the palm of his hand, warming his skin even through his gloves. He shudders at the feeling, lifting Jimmy’s head just enough to pull his hand out from beneath the weight of his head. “I…do you think I can return at another time to continue reading these, Elvenking?”

“You can come by and read them tomorrow morning,” he responds. His frowns at Jimmy. “Don't call me that.”

“What?” Jimmy blinks up at him.

“Elvenking,” he replies, “I told you a name you could use.”

“I, what?” Jimmy seems genuinely confused, squinting at him. Scott worries, for a moment, that he’s knocked the sense out of himself with the repeated, harsh descents to the table. “Isn't that, like, something really important to you?”

“My entire Council calls me Scott. I would hardly be giving them my true name, hm?” He tilts his head to the side. The jangling of bells on his antlers is loud enough in the silence around them that he almost startles at it. Jimmy jumps, looking around them worriedly, before relaxing back into his seat. “Please,” he reaches a hand out again, only hesitating for a moment, before he lays it over Jimmy’s hand. “I would feel as though I am a pretty poor ally if you insist on continuing to address me by such a title.”

“Ah, yeah, alright,” Jimmy nods. He keeps his eyes averted, fixed on the table. Scott frowns at the reaction; is Jimmy worried about his reaction? Is he scared that there might be some secret layer to this agreement that he cannot see? He wants to assure the other man that there’s nothing of the sort occurring here, but he’s not certain on how to say that without making it appear even more suspicious than before. “Alright.” Jimmy repeats, slowly pulling his hand out from beneath Scott’s, tucking it beneath his cloak, close to his body.

“Come,” he stands, pushing his chair back across the carpeted floor silently. He’s certain the only other people currently in the building are Leukos and Cormac, but there might also be a student still studying, and he would rather not disturb them. “You said you hadn't eaten since this morning, and we can hardly have you starving here, hm? What would be said about our hospitality?”

“You are already plenty inhospitable,” Jimmy laughs, ducking his head. He freezes for a moment, laugh choking itself off, before he continues, watching him carefully. Scott very carefully does not react to that, only smiling a little to himself, nodding along silently. “Living at the very top of a mountain isn't exactly screaming for someone to come visit you.”

“There weren't other empires around when Rivendell settled,” he sniffs. “The only other colony was what would become the Ocean Empire, and even that was only groups of seafolk interacting for resources rather than living as a collective.”

Jimmy halts, Scott jerking backwards to make sure the door doesn't swing shut on Jimmy’s face as he pauses. He looks around, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder whilst also making sure that he doesn't scrape his antlers along the door. Jimmy’s eyes are wide as he stares at him. “Are you that old?” He squeaks out.

“No.” He’s a little offended, frankly. Axen might be that old, but he certainly isn't. Does he look that old? “Do I…look that old?” Aeor scoffs at him, muttering something to Himself about vanity. He shoves Aeor away, firmly pushing him from his mind and shutting him out. He mentally places a mental chair under the mental handle.

“No!” Jimmy lurches forward, arms out and waving, eyes wide with panic. “No, no, definitely not. Just, uh, I don't really know how you can tell how old you are, because you're definitely a few centuries old, right?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I wouldn't be able to rule the empire unless I was more than two centuries old. Handing the rights to a kingdom to such a young elf would be irresponsible and, quite frankly, just stupid.”

“Ah, right,” Jimmy nods along. He’s far closer than before, from his lurching forward in worry motion, and Scott can almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as they stand there, close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. He doesn't, allowing himself to be content with watching Jimmy pull his cloak a little tighter around himself, seeing the way the fur ruff brushes against his chin and tucks around his neck. “Uhm.”

Jimmy looks up, towards the very dark night sky. The clouds block the majority of stars, leaving them in grey and black darkness, lit by only a thin sliver of a moon.

“You won't be returning to the Cod Empire for the evening,” he says. He doesn't mean for it to come out so threatening, but Jimmy stiffens anyway, his easy demeanour switching into something far more wary. Scott sighs. “I meant that it would be far too dangerous to traverse the mountain path with horses at this time, and returning to the Cod Empire alone and without a horse would simply be begging for an ambush.”

“I couldn't impose on-”

“Nonsense,” he waves it off. “I may as well treat you to the entirety of Rivendell’s hospitality whilst you're here, no? Besides, do you really want to go through Mythland to get back to the Cod Empire? This late at night?”

Jimmy scuffs his feet along the ground for a few moments, the cold air swirling around his face in clouds of breath as he thinks. Scott watches him, only reaching out to adjust him in one direction when he almost turns down the wrong road. “I suppose not,” he manages, when they're almost through the Palace gates.

Jimmy looks up at that moment, gasping as he sees the Palace they've stopped in front of. Scott winces at his reaction, placing a hand to his back and pushing him a little further forward, waving off the guards that begin to make their way over to investigate the sudden disturbance. When they see who it is, they relax, far too used to his nightly exploits out of the Palace to register it as anything unusual.

It’s easy to find a maid still willing to fetch some small things from the kitchens, and Scott sends her off with a smile and several nuggets of gold for her efforts. He watches her go, before turning back to his personal rooms, slipping himself back inside.

Jimmy is still stood in the place he left him, hands loose at his sides and cloak slipping over his shoulders, threatening to fall loose from how the clasp has been undone. Scott tucks it a little more firmly around his shoulders, which seems to bring Jimmy back to himself, realising that he had been staring at Scott’s personal rooms for far too long already.

Jimmy jerks back, face flushing as he mutters a quick apology.

“There’s no need for apologies here, it is just the two of us.” He pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “Though I can understand your wonder, the rooms truly are rather large.” His seating area is certainly the largest part, though it wouldn't look like it with the bookshelves crammed against the walls and the various seats scattered around the room.

There’s a quiet knock at the door and he turns back to thank the maid once again, retrieving their meals from her with a nod. She scurries down the hallway, past a set of patrolling guards, and he locks the door behind her.

“It’s not much,” he apologises as he guides Jimmy over to the small dining table, tucked neatly away in the corner. He hardly uses it, preferring to take his meals in the kitchens where he can speak with his staff and ensure that they are content with their work. He’s found he also picks up some rather lovely tidbits when he sits in there, one ear pricked for the latest gossip on that lord or this lady. “But hopefully it’ll be enough to tide you over until morning.”

It’s some of the leftover breakfast pastries, cold and a little bit stale, but they're still plenty nice. He eats in silence, allowing Jimmy a few moments to take in the rooms around them, even though he wants nothing more than to lay down in his bed and sleep for ten hours.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” he says, when his plate is empty and Jimmy is chewing the last mouthful of his food. “There should also be some nightclothes in there, seeing as you don't have your own. Though I am uncertain of how well they will fit you,”

“It’ll be fine, it’s nice enough of you to even let me stay overnight.”

“I could hardly leave you outside in the cold, especially not when you seem to get cold so easily.” Jimmy still wears his cloak, keeping it tucked tightly around himself. Jimmy seems to realise this now, hands flying to the fur ruff, beginning to pull it off. “Don't,” Scott interrupts him, “keep it, I don't mind losing it for a little bit. Especially not if it provides you some comfort.”

“I,” Jimmy flushes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he smiles. “You’ll probably take better care of it than I will.”

Jimmy blinks at him, long and slow. He’s tired, both of them are in reality, but Jimmy is far more open about his tiredness. It does not surprise Scott, with how much they've managed to do today and the possibility of Jimmy’s lower tolerance for remaining awake for days on end.

“Your room is just through here,” he takes the initiative here, guiding Jimmy into the room before he has to carry him in there himself. Aeor’s presence lingers over his shoulder as he stands in the doorway, watching to make sure Jimmy doesn't fall over his own feet.

Aeor doesn't appear beyond a slight wavering in the air beside him, the slight glow of faint, white mist drifting over his shoulder. Scott feels His presence anyway, standing with his spine straight as Aeor lingers on the edges of his mind. But Aeor does not voice whichever thoughts it is that is keeping Him hovering in such a way.

“You don't have to watch me,” Jimmy says, after a few long moments. “I can figure out how to get into bed without supervision.”

“I do apologise,” he steps back from the doorway, unable to tear his eyes away from Jimmy’s face, watching as his eyes seem to glow in the darkness, spilling a faint light over his cheeks. He had thought the man had brown eyes, but they're a rather dark amber, in reality.

He pulls the door closed behind him, but not quite all the way, leaving it open just a crack.

He doesn't retire to his own rooms, settling himself in one of the seats scattered around the room, holding a book but not reading it, thumb tucked between the pages only to make it look as though he is doing something while he waits.

Only once he’s certain that Jimmy is asleep, or close enough to sleep that it doesn't matter either way, does he stand. He keeps his footsteps light, tail brushing just above the floor as he slips out of his door once more, shutting it carefully behind him.

He feels almost guilty about slipping away while he has a guest, even guiltier for not breathing a word of this to Jimmy. He can only hope that he does not wake while Scott is away.

This could not wait a day longer.

#juno.writes #crown of antlers au #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #flower husbands #empires smp #empires smp fic #empires smp s1 #empires smp season 1 #empires smp season one #empires scott #empires jimmy #solidaritygaming #solidarity gaming #empiressmp #esmp scott #esmp jimmy #esmp #esmp s1

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