#the council is dangerous the council is cruel the council does not want to admit that it has been beat by a 14 year old

[crymeariveronceagain]

We did not ask for the role of peacekeepers on this complicated, ever-changing planet. And yet it is the role we were born to take. Our unique gifts and abilities have enabled us to secure stability amongst our world, as well as the five protected kingdoms, for millennia. And despite recent turmoil, our role has not changed. Our rule will not fall to threats, or to rebellion. Nor will we stand back and let insubordination go unpunished.

--- Councilor Emery, from Everblaze, by Shannon Messenger. Page 481.

#so this whole scene was so frigging dystopian it made me want to claw my skin off #kotlc #kotlc sophie #sophie foster #kotlc council #kotlc councilors #river re-reads kotlc #everything about this is unnerving and horrifying #and it is written that way #the council is untrustworthy this scene screams #the council is dangerous the council is cruel the council does not want to admit that it has been beat by a 14 year old #the council is bad is the main message of this scene #why else would anyone write it like this #it sounds ritualistically horrifying #like this public humiliation road theyre taking for Sophie is normal but it isnt normal because of the reactions of the public #like its not normal #what the heck #im so disturbed #i thought this was a kids book guys

[mononijikayu]

i rewatched the first ep again and some thoughts i had through out which just  blended with knowledge of the fire and blood book and stuff ig

1. there was no evidence before that daemon said anything similar that got to viserys about what happened to baelon. aemma had a lot of painful misfortune about her losses of children and not once has daemon been known to belittle his brother for losing his kids, especially now with his wife. though a joker in nature, there was no evidence that even before daemon had done this to viserys. which is why the news of it is a shock, which is why i do believe it was blemished by otto’s words rather than daemon’s actual words.

because being royalty, such situation if it had happened before, it would have been brought up and mentioned. viserys would have hated his brother even before now. but no incident before that had ever happened. maesters would have had reminded viserys, so would his council. and yet there was no precedence.

2. daemon could have made a joke, but it wasn't as huge as otto hightower has been saying it was. you should recall that daemon’s own mother, princess alyssa died of childbirth and soon their baby sibling also passed away. which was devastating to the entire family. their dad baelon never married and tried to preserve alyssa’s memory. 

daemon may have been cruel, but he would not make so little of his nephew passing, when he watched it happen to his own mom and brother and even watched how his father grieved. and later on, daemon himself experiences loss, twice over. so, this is a bit out of character when he himself grieved with rhaenyra and his father in the episode, because he knows how it feels. he does not deny that he may have said something stupid, but he admits his grief and does not explain any futher when his brother clearly in grief was lost in it, even when he wanted to.

3. otto hightower has a lot of bias against daemon. from the offset, its obvious that there had been a lot of animosity there. the thought by otto is that daemon would become another maegor the cruel. but there is no proof of that. you have to remember that while there is ambition there, daemon stayed in line when his brother asked, obediently so. 

and through out the first episode, we already see that daemon truly loves his brother enough to set himself into his brother’s command. he did not argue when his brother told him to calm down with his rule of the gold cloaks, he stepped in line when his brother told him to leave. otto hightower knew very well that the close bond of the siblings were very dangerous because that leaves no room for other powers. 

daemon is the sword and viserys is the quill. a sword who fights the king’s enemies while he tries to settle peace at his own pace. this was a worry when aenys was king and maegor was his hand. if you look at the story of aenys and maegor - its a complete parallel. its obvious that the two siblings were more in tune with each other than people think. and people forget that. 

rebellions broke out against aenys when he became king and maegor put that out for his brother and became his hand. he was a very capable person in his own way - exactly like daemon. it really wasn’t until he had a horrible injury that he turned into a tyrant (exactly like henry viii of england) and eventually became a tyrant. there is a lot more to this but maybe on a later note.

what is important is that this type of behaviour, this hasn’t happened to daemon. he has kept his cool and has continued to follow his brother, even when he himself is a rogue. because daemon as a character from the very beginning was close to his brother.

while aenys is like viserys who tries to preserve the crown with diplomacy, maegor is like daemon wherein he uses violence. and otto hightower does not want that. he does not want the siblings to get along. targaryens are more powerful when they are together.

this is why otto forces people to think that all daemon knows is violence and is incapable of being something other than that, which is why he brings up the king having to remarry as soon as possible to agitate him, why he slanders daemon for being possible heir and then why he tries to pinpoint a wrong onto daemon, even though we never really see the accusations or those who accuse daemon. otto specifically points out three people and he does not name them. which is a clear indicator of what goes on here. 

the story is about the house of dragons and every house fall apart when foundations are removed. the foundation of house targaryen was from the very start was TRUST. the targaryens never benefited from the lack of trust. only crows benefit from that and there is so much of them who are ready to feast on the mistakes done to them by those who betrayed their trust.

#daemontargaryen #daemon targaryen #viserys i targaryen #aemma arryn #princess rhaenyra #baelon targaryen #alyssa targaryen #otto hightower #aenys targaryen #maegor targaryen #house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #targaryen

[spideywhites]

🍓 🍅 🍑 🥔 all for natsu hehehehe

🍓 [ How do they feel about ‘cute’ things? ]

I’m not sure if it’s obvious in the story at all, but Natsume does have a weakness for anything cute. Children/babies he instinctively wants to coddle, but never admits it (even to himself) because of the environment he’s found himself in. It’s not just limited to kids, but also little baby animals. Or just cute animals in general. He’d be that quiet guy petting street cats tbh. Aesthetics-wise, he’s probably not into the ‘cutesy’ look, even though he’d definitely look good in it.

🍅 [ How misunderstood is your OC? In-universe or IRL. ]

In-universe, Natsume is drastically misunderstood by the bulk of his peers. I think the initial impression he gives off is aloof, unapproachable, and dangerous. Which is partly his own intention—a coping mechanism to protect himself. But I don’t think he’s misunderstood by those close to him. Because quite honestly, Natsume is bad at putting up a front. Everyone says that Naruto wears his emotions and heart on his sleeve because he’s loud and boisterous and in-your-face about it. But Natsume is actually really similar. He has trouble controlling his expressions, doesn’t hide the emotions he’s feeling in the moment very well, and has quite the temper. He’s misunderstood until you spend time with him, then he’s rather easy to pick apart. His hurt is obvious, and so is his rage. (That, in the end, is what makes Konoha mistrust him.)

🍑 [ How do they show their kindness? How kind are they truly? ]

Natsume is, unfortunately, kinder than he wants to be. He’s never cruel if he can help it—at least not to those young, innocent, and/or undeserving. He doesn’t like to cause pain to others, but isn’t afraid to fight back if he feels antagonized, insulted, or threatened. He’s kind to those he loves, though shows it in varying ways depending on what he thinks will most protect them. He took in Sasuke because of Itachi—specifically, because Natsume loved Itachi, even when he didn’t want to acknowledge it—and even in his frustration, anger, and exhaustion he doesn’t go back on his promise. His kindness comes from his need to preserve and protect. That also means his actions don’t always come across as traditionally ‘kind.’ He’s exceptionally strict and up-front with Sasuke, but that’s under the guise of bolstering Sasuke’s skills and mental fortitude. He loves Sasuke, therefore he never shows it. Perhaps it’s misguided, but the only way Natsume knows how to be kind in the world he’s found himself in is to be unwavering and prepare those he loves for the pain ahead.

🥔 [ What do they have that others see as a flaw, but they don’t care about? ]

Uhh, that’s a broad question. His attitude is a glaring flaw, as is his mistrust of the village and most adults. I think for the council and the Hokage his biggest flaw is his inability to be brainwashed by propaganda, to be honest. Natsume doesn’t care that he’s an asshole. Quite frankly he likes being a little shit to spite the system that has so many clear flaws. Unfortunately a military state doesn’t appreciate being told it has issues that should be resolved.

#inbox. #fic: tcos #the color of summer #you really picked the deepest questions huh

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette writes Adrienne

Here you go @msrandonstuff – and everybody else. I was confused and this letter is actually the second letter La Fayette wrote to Adrienne (on board La Victoire) after he left France. There is also a third letter that he wrote while still in Paris for Adrienne to find immediately after he was gone. Both of these letter are rather short so I put them on here as well, under the cut. 😊

On board La Victoire, May 30 [1777]

I am writing to you from very far away, dear heart, and to this cruel separation is added the still more dreadful uncertainty of the time when I shall hear from you. I hope, however, that it will be soon. Among the many reasons that make me want to arrive at my destination, none make me more impatient than that. So many fears and so many worries are added to the intense grief of leaving everything that is most dear to me. How did you take my second departure? Did you love me less because of it? Have you forgiven me? Have you thought that in any case I would have been separated from you, wandering in Italy and leading a life without glory, amidst the people most hostile to my projects and my way of thinking? All these reflections did not prevent me from experiencing a terrible emotion during the awful moments when we left the shore. Your grief, that of my friends, (your pregnancy,) Henriette-all came to my mind with a terrifying vividness. It was then that I could find no more excuses for myself. If you knew everything that I have suffered, dear heart, during the sad days I passed in flight from everything that I love in the world! Must I add to this the unhappiness of learning that you do not forgive me? In truth, my dear, that would be too much to bear.

But I am telling you nothing about myself, about my health, and I know that such details interest you. Since my last letter I have been in the most tedious of regions; the sea is so dismal, and I believe we sadden each other, she and I. I should have landed by now, but the winds have cruelly opposed me, and I shall not see Charleston for eight or ten more days. That is where I expect to land, and it will be a great pleasure for me. Once I am there I shall have the hope, every day, of receiving news from France; I shall be informed of so many interesting things, both about what lies ahead, and above all about what I have left with so much regret! Provided that I learn that you are well, that you still love me, and that some of my friends do too, I shall be perfectly philosophical about any other news I receive, no matter what it is or where it comes from. But if my heart is wounded in a very tender spot, if you, dear heart, no longer love me as much, I would be unhappy indeed. But I do not need to fear that, do I, dear heart? I was very ill during the first part of the voyage, but I could have given myself the consolation of the wicked, which is to suffer in a numerous company. I treated myself in my own way, and I recovered sooner than the others. Now I feel almost as if I were on land. Once I arrive, I am sure that I shall have acquired the hardiness that will assure me perfect health for a long time. Do not fancy, dear heart, that I shall run great risks in my service here. The post of general officer has always been regarded as a warrant for long life. I shall have functions different from those I would have performed in France, as a colonel, for example. In the former grade, one serves only in councils of war. Ask any of the French generals of which there are so many because, once they have reached that rank, they no longer run any risk, and consequently do not make room for others, as in the other ranks. To prove that I do not wish to deceive you, I shall admit that at present we are in some danger because we risk being attacked by English vessels, and my ship does not have the strength to defend itself. But once I land I shall be in perfect safety. You see that I tell you everything, dear heart, so have confidence in what I say, and do not be anxious without cause. I will not write a journal of my voyage for you one day follows another here, and, what is worse, they are all alike. Always the sky, always the water, and again the next day the same thing. In truth, the people who write volumes about an ocean passage must be cruel babblers. For, like them, I have had contrary winds, I have made a very long voyage, I have endured storms, I have seen some ships, and they were much more interesting to me than to any other person. Well, I have not noticed anything that was worth the trouble of writing down, or which has not been described by everyone.

Now, dear heart, let us speak of more important things: let us speak of you, of dear Henriette, of her brother, or her sister. Henriette is so lovable that she gives me a liking for daughters. Whatever our new child may be, I shall welcome it with great joy. Do not lose a moment in hastening my happiness by informing me of its birth. I do not know if it is because I am a father for the second time, but I feel more like a father than ever. Mr. Deane and my friend Mr. Carmichael will furnish you with the means; I am very sure that they will neglect nothing to get the happy news to me as quickly as possible (because they are truly my friends). Write, or even send a reliable man. It would give me so much pleasure to question a man who had seen you-Landrin, for example-in short, do as you think best. You do not understand, dear heart, how ardent and tender my love is, if you believe you may neglect anything that relates to you. You will receive my news very late this time. But when I am established you will receive it often, and it will be much fresher. There is no great difference between sending letters from America and sending them from Sicily. I confess that I cannot stop thinking angrily of Sicily. I believed that I was so close to seeing you again. But let us cut short the discussion of Sicily. Good-bye, dear heart, I shall write to you from Charleston; I shall write to you before I arrive there. Good night for now.

June 7

I am still on this dreary plain, dear heart, and it is so dismal that one cannot make any comparison with it. To console myself a little I think of you, and of my friends. I think with pleasure of meeting you again, my dear; what a delightful moment it will be when I arrive and suddenly embrace you, when you do not expect me. Perhaps you will be with our children. Even thinking of that happy moment gives me the greatest pleasure. Do not fancy that it will be a long time. It will surely seem long enough to me, but in fact it will not be as long as you may imagine. Without being able to set the day, or even the month, without seeing for myself the state of things, I can assure you that the exile until the month of January prescribed by M. le Due d’Ayen appeared to me so interminable that I am certainly not going to inflict a truly long one upon myself. You must admit, my dear, that the employment and existence that I shall have are very different from those to which I would have been restricted during that futile journey. As the defender of that liberty which I idolize, freer than anyone else, coming as a friend to offer my services to this most interesting republic, I bring there only my sincerity and my goodwill, and no personal ambition or selfish interest. In striving for my own glory, I work for their happiness. I trust that, for my sake, you will become a good American. Besides, it is a sentiment made for virtuous hearts. The welfare of America is intimately connected with the happiness of all mankind; she will become the respectable and safe asylum of virtue, integrity, tolerance, equality, and a peaceful liberty. We have from time to time some minor alerts, but, with a little skill and good luck, I am quite certain of getting through without trouble. I shall be all the more pleased at that because I am becoming more prudent every day. You know that the vicomte is always repeating that “travel educates the young.” If he only said it once every morning and once every evening, in truth that would not be too often, because I am coming to appreciate more and more the justice of the maxim. I do not know where that poor vicomte is, or the prince, or any of my friends, and this lack of news is a cruel thing. Every time that you chance to meet any of those I love, give them a thousand and ten thousand greetings for me. Embrace my dear sisters tenderly; tell them to remember me and love me. Present my sincere compliments to Mile Marin. I recommend to you also, dear heart, the poor Abbe Fayon. As for M. le Marechal de Noailles, tell him that I do not write to him for fear of boring him, and because I had nothing to tell him about except my arrival. I await his requests for some trees, or plants, or whatever he would like from me, and I truly hope that my exactitude will be proof of my affection for him. Also present my respects to Mme Ia Duchesse de Ia Tremollle, and tell her that I make the same offer to her as to M. le Marechal de Noailles, either for herself or for her daughter-in-law, who has a very beautiful garden. Also let my old friend Desplaces know that I am in good health. As for my aunts, Mme d’Ayen, and the vicomtesse, I am writing to them myself. That completes the list of my little commissions, dear heart; I have also written to Sicily. Today we have seen several types of birds that indicate that we are not far from land. The expectation of arriving is very sweet because life in this region is so dull. Fortunately, my good health permits me to engage in some activity; I divide my time between military books and English books. I have made some progress in that language, which will soon be so necessary. Farewell, my dear, I cannot continue because night is falling, and I have forbidden all lights on my vessel for several days now. See how careful I am. Farewell, then, if my fingers are guided a bit by my heart, I do not need to see clearly to tell you that I love you, and that I shall love you all my life.

June 15, at Major Huger’s house

I have arrived, dear heart, in very good health, at the house of an American officer, and by the greatest luck in the world, a French vessel is just about to sail. You can imagine how pleased I am at that. (I have only the time to close this letter.) This evening I go to Charleston; I shall write to you from there. I have no more interesting news. The campaign has begun, but there is no fighting, or at least very little. The manners of the people here are simple, honest, and in every way worthy of this land where everything proclaims the beautiful name of liberty. I had planned to write to Mme d’Ayen, but it is impossible. Farewell, farewell, dear heart. From Charleston I shall go by land to Philadelphia and the army. Is it not true, my dear, that you will love me always?

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977–1981, p. 56-60.

The Marquis de La Fayette to his wife Adrienne, [Paris, March 16, 1777]

I am too guilty to vindicate myself, but I have been too cruelly punished not to deserve a pardon. If I had expected to feel my sacrifices in such a frightful manner, I would not be at present the unhappiest of men. But I have given my word, and I would die rather than go back on it. M. le Due d' A yen will explain my foolish acts to you. Do not be angry with me. Believe that I am sorely distressed. I had never realized how much I loved you-but I shall return soon, as soon as my obligations are fulfilled. Good-bye, good-bye, write to me often, every day. Embrace our dear Henriette. And, moreover, you are pregnant, all of which adds to my torment. If you knew how painful this is, you would surely be more sorry for me than you will ever be. To add to my misery, the people I love are going to believe that I am quite happy to leave. Besides, it is a voyage no longer than that of your father to Italy. I promise you it will be short. Farewell, I have saved this letter for last; I finish my good-byes with you. They are going to take me far away. It is terribly hard for me to tear myself away from here, and I do not have the courage to speak to you longer of a man who loves you with all his heart, and who cruelly reproaches himself for the time he will spend without seeing you.

L

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977–1981, p. 32-33.

The Marquis de La Fayette to his wife Adrienne, on board La Victoire, April 19 [1777], at San Sebastian

Ah, dear heart, they thought that fear would have more effect upon me than love. They have misunderstood me, and since they tear me away from you, since they compel me not to see you for a year, and since they wish only to humble my pride, without affecting my love, at least that cruel absence will be employed in a manner that is worthy of me. The only notion that could detain me was the sweet consolation of embracing you, of being restored to you, and to all the people I love. Giving these reasons, I asked for a fortnight, only a fortnight to be with you, at St. Germain, or wherever they wished. My request was refused. I refuse also, and, having to choose between the slavery that everyone believes he has the right to impose upon me, and liberty, which called me to glory, I departed. My voyage will be no longer, perhaps shorter, and you will have news of me even more often. A thousand ships will bring it to you constantly. I shall not expose myself, I shall take care of myself, I shall remember that you love me, you can set your mind at ease. It is more as a philosopher than as a soldier that I shall visit all of that country .... I was received here with very flattering transports of joy, and I am liked here beyond all my expectations, but yet I am far from happy. My heart is broken. Tomorrow is the moment of cruel departure. I am writing to you on the day before to be more certain that my letter will be rational. If you do not send word to me that you still love me, that you forgive me, that you will take good care of your health, I shall be in despair. I swear to you by the most sacred honor, by my love for you, that my greatest regret in departing is to leave you, that my greatest anxiety is for you. Make me less unhappy by writing to me very soon. Farewell, I may return sooner than M. le Due d'Ayen. Love me always, even at the moment when I deserve it only because of my anguish at leaving you, and because of my ardent affection. Give our Henriette a hug for me. Take good care of our other child. I hope to be reunited soon with my whole family. Write to me at once, my address is Major General. ...  You must go with Mme d'Ayen to Mr. Deane's house, to have your letter forwarded to me. He is a man of the greatest merit, the most honorable man in the world, and my friend. He will take care of your first letter. For the others, the Marquis de Coigny will give you the address. Farewell. Once again, do not doubt the sentiment that I feel more than ever at this cruel moment. Nothing, not even adversity, seems to compare with the anguish of leaving you.

L.

Idzerda Stanley J. et al., editors, Lafayette in the Age of the American Revolution: Selected Letters and Papers, 1776–1790, Volume 1, December 7, 1776–March 30, 1778, Cornell University Press, 1977–1981, p. 47-50.

#marquis de lafayette #la fayette #french history #american history #american revolution #letter #1777 #adrienne de lafayette #adrienne de noailles #resoruces

[spiltscribbles]

57. “Wait a second.. are you jealous?” + Poorly Timed Confession + modern au 😍 pretty please!!!

~Notes: OMFG angel!!! Thank you SO SO much for the prompt<3 You are a complete babe! I hope you like :S It’s cheese, but like also what else would I do? LMFAO XD

.-

Smash Prompt Game  |  Send Me A Prompt💜 |  A Reblog Is Like An I Love You!!

.-

“Hmmm… All right, would you rather, mmm… Smell Borris Johnson’s sweaty gym socks, or snog Professor Slughorn full on the mouth for a straight minute— oh erm, not so straight I reckon on second thought.”

Remus wrinkles his nose at him from across the bed, and clucks his tongue at the awful pun. “You’re unruly.”

“And you’re dodging,”

“Am not arse, I’m just recovering from that very terrifying scenario you’ve spewed out like the sadistic satanist you are.”

“Which scenario are you recovering from though?” Sirius leers, wiggling his eyebrows and jostling Remus’s textbook with his foot.

“I hate that you’re enjoying this so much,” Remus intones in a deadpan.

“Mary John, I’m waiting,” Sirius says with far too much glee.

Sometimes Remus is sure that he hates him. “Fine, the answer is I hate you.”

“Filthy and slanderous lies, Lupin.”

“You’re demented.”

“Five. Four. Three—“

“I won’t choose.”

“See,  all I hear is that you wanna get it on with our chemistry professor, you saucy minx, you.”

Remus sniffs. “Better than touching that prick with even a ten foot pole.”

“Mmmm, have I ever told you how hot and heavy I get hearing you talk politics at me?”

Remus throws him the bird, which makes Sirius laugh. Remus can objectively say that Sirius has the most beautiful variations of laughter in the world, and he’d know considering he’s catalogued each one. This version is definitely top three. His care free, effortless laugh when Remus takes him off guard with a snide remark or lowly muttered retort that’s not appropriate for most company— It’s really more of a experience, truly. His breaths stutter out in a lovely staccato, and his eyes glimmer like the sea, and sometimes it feels like the world’s been suspended and it’s only the two of them in that slice of eternity.

Erm, Ah, but yeah…. That only happens occasionally, and it’s only because Sirius is Remus’s greatest friend— has been since the final year of primary school after Remus had moved to the London outskirts from his small, coastal town in Wales, and on first sight, Sirius swung a snowball straight to Remus’s face, which he of course responded to by throwing two more his way, and well… The pair of them were soaking and breathless by the end of it, but their fate was sealed, they were the greatest of friends, and nothing would ever alter that unquestionable staple.

So what if sometimes Remus’s chest thuds painfully when Sirius dimples his way, or Remus only ever wants to talk to him over anyone else— even Lily or his Mam— if he’s had a bad day, or good one, or if something remarkable had happened, or , or… Or whenever really. And there’s absolutely no significance that Remus can’t help the totally delighted grin that splits his face in half whenever he gets a text or snap from Sirius.

None of that is at all relevant.

Sirius is Remus’s greatest friend, and he’d never risk ruining that by allowing some pesky little crush swallow him whole and clammer out his mouth— vulnerable and throbbing in the open space between them. It doesn’t matter if Marlene always makes kissy faces their way, or how James only ever refers to them as a couple, and so what if Peter’s got a pole running that Remus knows basically the whole school is betting on. 

They’re all wrong, Sirius would never, ever feel the same sort of way that Remus does him, that’s downright preposterous and ridiculous and just simply impossible. And Remus’s perfectly content with that very real truth… He is.

Remus is fine with it God help him. So everyone else just needs to but the fuck out of their business.

Besides, this, this right now— Him and Sirius splayed out on opposite ends of Remus’s bed, with Sirius’s feet nudging at Remus’s elbow whenever he’s got a question about there homework, with the window cracked open just so, letting in some of the chilly winter air because Sirius absolutely can not focus if he’s not cold— the fucking furnace— Where Remus can still hear the going ons of his family playing out on the floor below them… This is the most perfect place in Remus’s eyes, and he won’t ever change that, especially not to live out some boyhood fantasy that would never come into fruition in his wildest of dreams.

Remus’s content… He is… He has to be or else he’d lose one of the most vital people in his world.

.-

“You’ve got footie practice after school, right?”

“Mmhmm, you coming to watch?”

“Only if you admit i’m your good luck charm,” Remus sardonically bats his lashes at Sirius as if he was in a mascara advert, and the taller boy  blows a raspberry right back at him.

“Nice, real nice. You’re extraordinarily mature, you know that, Black?”

“And sexy, don’t forget that, oh so important descriptor Lupin.”

Remus leans against the locker besides Sirius’s, watches as he trades his current binders for the lot he’ll need for the afternoon, and tries really hard not to stare too longingly at how Sirius’s arm muscles ripple beneath their school’s  maroon, uniform jackets  in the most delicious of ways. (He hates the fact he’s been dissolved into a starry eyed mess lusting over the star striker, but thus is his fate.)

“I’d never commit such a faux pas, and I’m insulted that you’d ever think as much.”

Sirius sneers at him with a slight shake to his head. “So you coming or not?”

“I’m still contemplating my options,” he preens, but before Sirius could retort, Marlene, megawatt smile and dangerously sharp  smirk— swaggers over towards them.

“Good morning my two beautiful chums!”

“What do you want?” Sirius asks before even glancing her way, to which Marlene blinks up at him, faux owlish. “S, I just wanted to greet a couple of my closest companions this lovely December morning,” she defends herself.

“Marls, you’re never this agreeable before noon,” Remus points out hesitantly.

“ And you rarely are even afterwards,” Sirius tacks on.

“Rude,” she pouts.

“Accurate,” Remus pipes in with an apologetic grimace.

Marlene stares them both down for a solid minute before finally relaxing her shoulders, and thrusting out the legal pad in her grasp. “The student council and spirit society are selling corsages for the snowflake formal, and Dorcas has deployed me to get some orders.”

“Whipped,” Sirius teases through a counter-fit cough.

Marlene doesn’t hesitate before smashing the legal pad on his head. “And you traipsing around getting people to buy the tickets for the theatre department last semester even though Re was only playing Mercutio wasn’t you being wrapped around his littlest finger?”

Remus flushes, feeling an unnerving amount of bees stinging around his stomach, and is thankful when the conversation pauses after Sirius casts her a very heated V.  “Sod off.”

“So are you guys gonna buy or not?” Marlene huffs, weight slung to her left hip, and arms crossed against her chest.

“I’m a gay bloke, Marls, did you forget that?” Remus pins her with a one eyed squint, and she just scrunches her face up at him, exasperated.

“I’m sure there’s matching boutonnieres.”

“Fine, I just don’t have any school spirit  then.”

This time she glares. “Lily and James are Head Boy and Head Girl, isn’t there like an oath between you lot,  one for all and all for one, or some rot?”

“That’s the three musketeers,” he says.

“isn’t that basically who you guys are?” She reasons.

Before their wage of words could continue, Sirius just grabs the order form out of Marlene’s hands and fills out a sheet with the flurry of his pen. “Happy?”

“Positively delighted,” she leers, pecking them both on the cheek before strutting off, reminding them of their group study session at Alice’s tonight in her wake.

Sirius shakes his head, reluctantly amused with a grin gathering on the corners of his mouth, but for Remus everything feels like it’s frozen. “You didn’t have to do that you know? ’S not like James is much of a Head Boy anyhow, and Lily wouldn’t have really cared.”

Sirius shrugs, commences their walk to the opposite wing of the school for their shared history class. “Emmy likes that sort of romantical shite.”

Remus sees red, feels his heart lodging in his damn esophagus. “Oh, so— Erm,  you’re taking her then,” Remus wonders if his tone sounds as detached as he feels.

“Yeah,” Sirius eyes him, questioning. “She wants that title of snow queen real bad, made me promise I’d campaign with her and the whole shtick.”

“Oh,” it’s like Remus could feel it when he closes off completely, can feel his hopes squashed down and his heart contract and his every organ collapsing in on themselves, leaving him feeling hollowed out completely.

Sirius slows down marginally, eyeing him with a slight frown. “Is that all right? I know you two don’t exactly get along and we were planning to go as a group, bu—“

“It’s fine,” Remus hates how screechy his voice gets, how he feels like he’s about to scream. “You two are a shoe in, no doubt.”

Sirius tries to mirror Remus’s faux excitement with a tepid grin of his own, but Remus doesn’t let him, instead commandeering their typical table on the back row and tries focussing on the thousandth war with France while his world tilts off kilter.

.-

Emmy is beautiful, and popular and her smile alone dazzles the whole room. She’s everything that Sirius should look for in a partner, someone to match his whip lash wit, and his taste for all things exuberant that skirt on flashy, and someone who’s got just as many friends and admirers as him.

They’re perfect and Remus should just get over his petty ass hatred of her, even if he still thinks she can be down right cruel and selective and selfish. Qualities Sirius surely isn’t… But maybe it’s all in his head how she sneers at people who she finds plane, or how she literally guffaws over the misfortune of others. Maybe his perception of how she wields people in like moths to a flame just to get what she wants is all a misunderstanding, or in his head or something.

Maybe all that’s possible, even if Remus seriously doubts it.

But at the end of the day, Sirius loves her— has been basically infatuated by Emmeline Vance since she first transferred at the start of their Freshman year. Sirius loves her, and who ever Sirius loves is merely an extension of him… Right?

Remus just needs to get over it and somehow rid himself of this crush he’s been fostering for so long it’s basically a part of him at this point. Though, he thinks it’d be a lot easier if he didn’t see their faces plastered on posters everywhere the week and a half leading up to the dance— looking like actual royals that would put Will and cate to shame.

.-

“Yo cheekbones!”

Remus starts, swivels around from where he was scratching his pen to paper, finding Sirius— as glimmering and beautiful as always— swaggering up to him, insanely electric smile painted over his face.

“Would you rather eat a jumbo jar of jalapeños without a break, or eat the toenails from someone with athlete’s foot next to your dinner every night of the rest of your life?”

“I thought you were having lunch with Emmy to keep up your royalty status before this weekend?” Remus asks, tacitly side stepping from the horrific images swimming to the forefront of his mind because of his cruel question.

“Now that doesn’t sound like an answer to my ultimatum,” Sirius says in a singsong sort of voice.

“You answer me first,” Remus says airily.

“But I asked first,” Sirius argues haughtily.

“Well both your options would kill me, so I wouldn’t do either,” Remus retorts.

“That’s not how the game works!”

“You’re the one who always says that rules were made to be broken,” Remus says, lofty as all get out,, and dissolves into laughter at the completely cross look Sirius’s giving him.

“You were born to be contrary, weren’t you?”

“So lunch?”

“Got bored,” he shrugs, hopping onto the corner of the desk Remus’s working on. “What you up to instead of eating?”

“My position paper for Model UN.” Sirius smiles down at him, and Remus can’t help the flush that spreads across his cheeks in return. “Not as glamorous as running as Snow King, I know.”

“It’s precious,” Sirius contends, his soft timbre sounding like syrup and his long fingers fluttering against Remus’s skin, pushing back a lock of his ever disheveled, tawny curls in a far to gentle way, and Remus gulps before averting his gaze to break the sudden tautness that’s built between them. 

They’ve had so many of these almost moments, ones that Remus’s always treasured but he knows doesn’t mean much of anything at all to Sirius— Sirius who is effortlessly hilarious, and brims with genius and  who is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts looking at him for too long. Sirius who has a new suitor at his beck and call on a near weekly basis. But whenever they transpire now, it just hurts all the more because Remus knows in his heart of hearts that they will never lead anywhere, and Sirius is in love with Emmy and Remus can’t let himself float around in this daydream for any longer.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat, shuffles in his seat only slightly. “I’m Algeria so my Mam’s pretty excited about it. She’s been telling me all the stuff Wikipedia’s got wrong and everything.”

Sirius laughs, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Your mother is kinda everything, you know that?”

Remus twists his mouth up, reluctant. “Don’t tell her as much, or else she’ll go on and on how she won Miss Teen Great Britain when she was only sixteen.”

“Hmm, I was wondering where you got that pretty face.”

“You, Sirius Black, can go lick an unwashed arse.”

“You’ll never catch a suitor with that cheek of yours though. I’d work on that, Lupin.”

“I don’t think I could ever win Miss Congeniality, alas.”  Remus doesn’t quite catch Sirius’s reply, to busy responding too the text his phone just chirped with instead.

“Mary John, are you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sirius’s brows hike up, flabbergasted smile stretched across his face. “So totally rude! And I came all the way here— to the place where dreamers die— just to spend time with you.”

“Sorry,” Remus gives him an abashed little half grin before setting the phone back down. “’s just Fabian.”

Sirius’s expression drops, goes inquisitive instead of his typical ebullience. “Fabian? Why’s Fabian Prewett texting you, and why is he,” Sirius crooks his head so he’s able to read the new message that popped up on Remus’s phone’s screen. “Asking about color coordination?”

Remus blushes for an entirely new reason now, one he likes much less. “Ah, he’s the sort to like it when our suits like match, but not in an abrasive fashion, you know?”

Sirius’s face goes scarily blank.

“Your suits? Suits for what?”

“The dance…” Remus says slowly, he’s confused what Sirius’s confused about.

“The dance… Right… I thought you were still going with everyone else?”

“Pff, no way,” Remus scoffs. “Lily’s  only pretending to be single, you know how red in the face she gets whenever around James. They’ll end up dancing the whole night away. And with Dorcas running the whole event and Benjy thinking any social function is a plague on society, that’d leave me stuck with Peter and Mary, . And honestly I’ve seen enough of her tongue shoved down his throat for a lifetime.” Remus is only slightly  surprised that doesn’t even elicit a chuckle from Sirius, who’s now looking a bit stormy— and he thinks he’ll never be accustomed to his mercurial moods that can change as quickly as the snap of the finger.

“Right… So you’re going with Fabian Prewett… as your date?”

“Yes… Why is that so hard to believe?”

“it’s, it’s not,” Sirius scrambles, suddenly standing up.

“Then why are you being so weird about this,” Remus argues, getting up to meet him at his level.

“Am not!”

“You’re going with Emmy,” Remus reminds him, this edge of desperate.

“I know I am, okay. But you— you—“ Sirius tappers off, eyes glassy and lips parted with words he can’t get out, and Jesus fucking Christ is it weird how for the first time ever their roles have reversed. Sirius can’t put any sentences together, and everything Remus’s been beating down—  everything thrashing inside of him— are now burning his throat and warring over who can spill out first.

“What? I’m suppose to stay behind like the pathetic, nobody friend. The guy who’s just there to moon after you while you have an actual life. The Judie garland to your Mickie Roomie!”

“What are you even talking about right now!” Sirius shouts, sounding as torn apart as Remus feels.

“As if you don’t know!” He snarls, collecting his books into his backpack— Suddenly this room feels to stifling. He can’t breathe and it’s too hot and his chest is pounding.

He’s imploding and Remus has no idea how to rectify it.

“Just stop! Remus Stop!”

“leave me the fuck alone Sirius!”

“Why are you being such a prick about this!”

And that, that makes Remus angry, angrier than he’s ever been.

Before he could even think about it for a moment longer, Remus is rounding on him, dashing so close to Sirius that he can taste his breath with how close their faces are skirting against each other.

“I’m in love with you! I’ve been in love with you for forever, and I know that you don’t feel the same way, and I know that you’re in love with Emmy and, and I just know okay.”

“Wha—“ Sirius sputters, looking like a gaping fish. “Wait a second, are you jealous? Of sodding Emmy Vance?”

“Don’t!” Remus practically growls out. "Don’t disrespect me, okay? Don’t pretend that you never knew, or that I was such a good actor. I’ve been in love with you for years and you always knew and Fine, I get it. You never felt the same way, that’s fine. But just don’t pretend as if you never had the choice, don’t make me out as the bad guy for actually, finally saying yes to a bloke who’s actually into me. I need to fucking give up on the premise of us, I need to get over you. So I’m going out with fucking Fabian Prewett and you’re going out with Emmy Vance and that’s that!”

His breaths are labored, jagged and painful, as they race out of him, but Remus can’t move. He’s staring straight into Sirius’s beautiful, gray eyes, and he sees everything he’s always seen there, and hates that this is probably the last time he’ll get to be this close to him.

Not after this.

“I didn’t,” is the first thing Sirius croaks out, broken and helpless. “i didn’t know, Remus you have to believe me— I didn’t—”

“How! How could you not know!” He shouts back, but Remus doesn’t get his answer in so many words, instead he feels it.

He feels it when Sirius clamps his hands on either end of his waste-line, feels it when Sirius smashes their lips together in a cacophony of lips, and teeth and spit. He feels it when Sirius moans in side of him, when his hand moves down, spreads across the width of the small of his back, pushing their torsos even closer. Remus feels it when everything goes into focus, when he takes Sirius into his arms, greedy and excited and disbelieving.

And Remus thinks to all the other times he’s kissed another boy— To this prior weekend swapping snogs with a beaming Fabian in the back of a theatre. He thinks of how there was never anything worth anything when he kissed any of them Because it was all Sirius, always Sirius. And he could try to love Fabian, or some other cute boy, and he tried, and he tried, and he tried, and he gave all he had…but it was never enough, could it ever be enough?

Remus knows it in his bones that it’s enough when it’s with Sirius.

When they finally pull apart it’s difficult to breathe and Remus feels lightheaded and it’s wonderful in the most marvelous of ways.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says in a whisper. 

“Maybe next time give a guy some warning?” Remus can’t help the shit eating smirk that swipes across his mouth and is elated at the adorably cross scowl Sirius answers him with.

“Fine jackass, how’s this for a warning, I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“That’ll be sufficient, I suppose,” Remus goads, laughing against Sirius’s lips when he does just that.

~*~

Sirius ends up winning snow king, but rejects the dance with Emmy, opts to ask Remus to join him instead, as if they were in the middle of some John Hughes movie from the fucking 80s.

It’s utterly ridiculous and overdone and simply way too much— but everyone applauded and cheered and when Sirius kissed him in the middle of it, Remus felt as if his whole body sung with joy.

.-

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist

#WOLFSTAR #REMUS LUPIN #SIRIUS BLACK #SIRIUSXREMUS #REMUSXSIRIUS #WOLFSTAR FLUFF #MARAUDERS #HARRY POTTER SERIES #SPILT INK #PROMPTS #I love you endlessly #!!!!

[randomsnakesimp]

Okay. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna take the leap and say: Phobos is the victim (sorta).

Quick disclaimer: I am going to abuse plot holes and cartoon logic for my cause in a very nitpicky way. If you dislike that, I can completely understand, and I hope this warning will save you a lot of reading.

Also, this won't go into just headcanon territory, I'll put those in a separate post. Everything here I'll try to keep based on actual information from the comics and what I made of them.

That said...

Let's take a look at this scene:

(for a quick translation of the important part, the mother says: "No, Phobos, Meridian is meant for your sister. That's the law. The crown is hers.)

What we can see here are a few very important things:

1. Phobos is at most 5 years older than Elyon.

2. The name "Phobos" is not an edgy nickname he gave himself. Five-year-olds don't go around calling themselves Phobos. So his parents, for some reason, gave him that name.

3. His mother is very adamant about him not even touching the crown and reminding him of his sisters' birthright.

So, after establishing what I would call more or less facts, what else can, relatively savely, be deduced here?

- Since Elyon never noticed anything weird about herself, she can't have aged slower than earth children. So neither can Phobos. This would mean that, as she was kidnapped after her mothers death as a baby, he would have been five. So, he either tried his best to rule at age five, or the council we see as Elyon rules stepped in for him for a while

- this would then mean two things: we need an explanation as to why Miriadel, Alborn and Galgheita fled explicitly from Phobos (I'll give my explanation a bit further down) and second, Phobos' reign of terror wasn't even thirteen years, and a lot of that time he was a child/teen and could not even have been mature enough to rule.

- This also means that Kandrakar pulled up the veil when Phobos was at most five, likely younger, and that the so called "Seal of Phobos" also existed at that time, as both the veil and the seal are seen in the flashback depicting Elyons abduction. For Kandrakar, this, too, I will try to explain soon, but as for the seal, I find it most plausible that the theory @ror-witch used in their fanfiction, of the seal being a royal heirloom and named after each ruler, is true.

- His and his mother's relationship was neither as bad as some assumptions go, but neither was it that good, probably, or at least it wasn't in his perception. See how his memory is of her cradling the baby the entire time and talking more about his sisters birthright than about what he has/can do? Yes, it's only a short memory, but I think it's clear that it's a summary of what he remembers of his mother.

- Phobos desire to rule Meridian does not stem from something deeply sinister, but rather from a childish spite. Five year old Phobos probably just wanted the crown cause it looked nice and shiny, and he was fabulous even back then, but after his mothers words, he sulked and decided to show her. That's his motivation.

So, now let's go a bit further and look at some other things we can deduce from the rest of the comics:

- Phobos has a huge dungeon, a wall of roses that turn people into more roses if they touch it and his plan for the annihilation of Meridian is "Well, Cedric and I hide in the castle and...we'll see". He hates the people of Meridian, but he doesn't seem to have it in him to directly attack anyone until Elyon is there and even here, when he has her knocked out in their duel or locked up as Endarno, he isn't unnecessarily cruel. He's not evil in nature, he's more of a very dangerous child throwing tantrums. ( Cedric is kinda similar, and they both start losing it toward the coronation, but I sincerely believe that before that, there would have been a chance for them to come around )

- The only person he ever tortures or even hurts directly is Cedric. Because one, he likes Cedric and so gets more extreme emotions around him, and two, Cedric never says anything, and just plays it of afterwards, so I don't know if he even fully realizes what he's doing, like a child hitting someone. If Cedric ever just said "Stop it, you're hurting me", Phobos would probably need an entire week to process that input.

- Phobos is VERY reclusive, and he doesn't want anyone to have even pictures of him, and while that could be a God complex, I get some highly insecure vibes out of it, in a vulnerable narcissist kinda way, in that he is massively overcompensating. I gotta admit, though, that I cannot put my finger on why, so maybe take this with a grain of salt and decide for yourself if you agree.

- Kandrakar never orders the guardians to help Meridian in any way, just to make sure nothing oozes out. They likely pulled up the veil for their own protection, so Phobos wouldn't be able to spread far enough to become a real danger, rather than to protect innocent people, as clearly the Meridian people mean shit to them

- while the guards are widely feared in Meridian, Cedric seems to be viewed as... not very frightening or important, as some random merchant feels comfortable clinging to his cape (and rightfully so, apparently, as Cedric just tells him to piss off and doesn't care any further). This further leads me to believe that Cedric is rather unhealthy devoted to Phobos and his tantrums while their shitty ass reign leaves a lot of free space for unsuited people to become guards and tyranize the people.

- the King and Queen seem to have died in rapid succession, and shortly after the scene shown above, yet she looks perfectly healthy in that scene.

Now, what do I make of all this?

I believe the line of events to be as follows:

I don't think Phobos traveling back in time is a viable theory for mainly two reasons: I think his mother would be less chill around him if she saw/heard about his reign herself, and I believe that it would have been mentioned somewhere along the way if that were the case. Instead, what I believe happened is that the oracle had a vague vision of Phobos nearly taking over Kandrakar. Deciding in their random mood swings that today was a day of action, they had the people of Meridian informed that the next male born to a queen would become a dangerous tyrant, pulled up a veil and set their guardians to make sure nothing oozed out.

The veil, of course, made the people of Meridian feel trapped and a horror of the unborn prince who would ruin their lives spread.

So, when Weira gave birth to that prince, a full blown panic spread, so much so that she, in a fit of hysterical emotion, named him after that boust of panic. Of course, people tried to kill the prince basically from the moment he was born, and he was met with barely concealed resentment.

Soon after, Weira and her husband died - whether they were killed, or fell ill, or died in an accident, I have no idea, but I wouldn't completely rule out an assassination either aimed at Phobos and accidentally hitting them or the strain making at least one of them fall terminally ill.

Either the people rioted and Phobos' magic panic reaction or the leftover loyal guard was enough to fight them back, or the people succumbed to their fate at this point, slumping into the state of despair seen throughout the comics. But in the end, five year old Phobos had to be handed the throne. I assume the council still had some say at this point, but he did manage to get all pictures of him destroyed - this order was likely due to the fact that they were mostly caricatures.

So he grew up with the very volatile combination of a shitton of power and no one able to tell him if he was being stupid on one hand, and feeling unloved and unwanted on the other. He withdrew, likely also due to countless assassination attempts or things he perceived as such, and went into a negative feedback loop of being unable to mature and take responsibility, therefore being a shit ruler, therefore being hated, therefore having no one to help him, therefore being unable to face and grow from his mistakes, rinse and repeat.

So, Meridian was plunged into chaos, yet he seemed fine more or less just sitting in the new playroom he made for himself in the gardens, sporadically giving out an order or two and having generally no idea about anything that didn't directly concern him.

Enter Elyon. Now, she send him of the rails, as she was a danger to his lifestyle AND a reminder of all the sentiments he'd be drowning in alcohol if he wasn't too much of a recluse and education denier to know of that option. He doesn't even try. He just lets Cedric, the one person he trusts, handle her, like everything else, and somewhat plays along sometimes, when he feels like it. This is where he passes the point of no return and starts actually trying to kill people, culminating in him creating an army to wipe out Meridian. I still believe that even at this point, in his head, what he's doing is just throwing a nice toy out the window just so his sister won't have it.

#w.i.t.c.h. comics #w.i.t.c.h. #w.i.t.c.h. theory #prince phobos #Kandrakar is a shitshow

[the7thcrow]

indulgence | part three

~

pairing: felix x (fem) vampire!reader

summary: an indulgence grows to become dangerous as the society of hampden college takes note of y/n’s new blood bag.

series masterlist.

word count: 6.6 k

genre: forbidden love. this part is very angsty oh boy, suggestive.

warnings: blood and blood drinking (because they’re vampires lmao), character death, themes of guilt surrounding said character death, themes of lying and betrayal, murder, sex is discussed but not described, alcohol.

rating: 16+

taglist (open!) : @katya-moro​ @leximb1997​

a/n: hi everybody! here’s a new part of indulgence for you! definitely a bit of a darker tone to this part, as we take a bit of a turn in the storyline (but frankly, i’m very excited about it). if you enjoy this, please let me know (only if you want, of course)! i’m a sucker for feedback. and once again, thanks for reading! i appreciate it. <3

previous chapter.

...

..

.

“No, Felix Lee will be the one to pay this price. Kill him, and the damage you’ve caused will be forgiven.”

The words echo in your mind as you leave the councilroom, your ears ringing. This couldn’t be happening. You expected something terrible of course, but you at least figured it would happen to you.

Then again, wasn’t this punishment worse? To suffer with the fact that this was all your fault, that Felix Lee would die by your hand, while you lived on. No, this was no form of mercy. The Council was cruel, and this was no exception.

As you enter the main hallway, you feel a hand rest on your shoulder. “Y/N,” a familiar voice speaks softly, but it does anything but soothe you.

You whirl on Chan, smacking his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” you spit, staring daggers into him. While you expect him to be smug, or even amused, his eyes seem empty. Sad. He feels guilty.

Of course he does, because that’s who Chan is. He isn’t a monster, no matter how badly you try to make him out to be. No matter how much easier it would be to hate him. You know Chan, and he would never be giddy about something like this.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads as you turn away from him and stride down the hall. “I didn’t think that this would happen. I didn’t think that they would kill him.”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” You mock, refusing to slow down or look him in the eye. “Well, I guess it’s fine then.”

He chases after you. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Y/N. That’s not what I’m asking for. I want to help you.”

At this you turn around to face him, pulling him into a separate, less busy hallway that leads to the library. “What? You want to hand me the blade? Cock the gun?”

Chan opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His eyes are wide, shocked by the venom of your words.

“No-no? That’s not what I mean-”

“Or do you just want to be in the room while I drink him dry? Try to lend some moral support, because God knows I’ll need it.”

“Y/N, if you’ll just let me talk-” he pleads, once again placing a hand on your shoulder. It’s all too familiar, and only makes your anger spark further.

“No!” You cut him off, your voice dangerously loud. “You sold me out, Chan. You fucked me over. And I don’t care why, I don’t care how you try to justify or fix it now. I don’t care. It’s over. I have to kill someone I care about, someone… someone I could have loved one day because of you. Because of your-”

“Hey, uh, are you guys okay?” A voice asks from over your shoulder. You turn your head to see Jeongin, eyes imploring the both of you with a nervous curiosity.

Chan plasters on a reassuring smile. “Yeah, we’re good, man. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” Jeongin asks carefully. “Because I heard yelling-”

“We’re okay,” you say, putting on your own fake smile. “We’ll meet you down at the front in a second, we just need a minute.”

“Ah, alright, if you say so,” he says, not sounding so sure. Slowly, he turns around, disappearing down the hall.

Once you hear the sound of his footsteps fade, Chan turns back to you, his voice low. “Turn him,” he states.

“What?” You ask, eyes narrowing.

“Look,” he sighs. “I messed up, I’m sorry. I thought they’d make you stop seeing him, not have you kill the guy. It was petty and stupid, and in some messed up way I thought that I would be protecting you. Clearly, I’ve managed to do the exact opposite. I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to fire back, to tell him his apology is not accepted, but as his eyes meet yours, you can’t bring yourself to. His eyes are glassy, on the brink of tears. He swallows deeply, stabilizing himself before continuing.

“And I know if they kill him, you’ll never forgive me. Hell, you shouldn’t forgive me. But that’s the last thing I want, for us to be like this.”

He stops for a second, a breath of silence passing between the two of you. Your eyes begin to sting, overwhelmed by the emotion of it all. It could be your current situation. It could be that familiar look of painful affection swimming in Chan’s eyes. It could be a lot of things. Perhaps it is all of them.

“What do I do, Chan?” You whisper, your voice coming out hoarse. “Fuck, what do I do?”

He hesitates for a moment, before pulling you into a hug. That’s the final push that breaks you, tears fall from your eyes, sprinkling your cheeks. You would be embarrassed, if it weren’t only Chan there to see you. Despite all that has happened, there is still that comfortable acceptance that hangs in the air around the two of you. That involuntary form of care that doesn’t flare out, even after the love has dissipated.

“You turn him into one of us,” Chan says. “It’s the only option, maybe then The Council will cut him a break.”

“I can’t do that to him,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I can’t make him suffer like this.”

“Maybe,” Chan says, setting his chin on top of your head. “But is this really a fate worse than death?”

~~~~

That is the question you contemplate on the lonely walk back to your apartment. Chan had offered to walk you back, but you declined. Despite the moment of reconciling the two of you had shared, you still aren’t ready to be around him. He still hasn’t earned your forgiveness.

As you arrive home, your apartment feels haunted. Not by Chan’s ghost, as it once had been, but Felix’s. You can see him lying on the couch, television playing some history documentary you were both only half paying attention to. You can smell his cooking wafting in from the kitchen, a familiar sweet that had long since been devoured.

You can feel his touch against your skin, the phantom of his fingertips dancing along your back. Your neck. Your thighs.

You can’t kill him, that much you know. However, if you don’t, someone else will. No, you have to fix this, and as much as you don’t want to admit it, Chan is right. The only way Felix has a chance of survival is to turn him, but could you really do that? After knowing just how terrible this life really was?

If you had been given the option in being turned, there was no way in hell you would have accepted. You remember that dreadful night, roughly three years ago. You’d been new to Hampden, and eager to meet new people. You stumbled into him at a party. He was a little older, a little classy. You’d been interested in him right away, not yet having a clue about what he or The Society was. Vampires were nothing but a myth, a fairy-tale, a form of media-culture.

This would change later that month. For good.

The two of you began to see one another casually. It was fun, thrilling. You kept each other a secret, for reasons you didn’t understand the full extent of at the time. He was unlike anyone you’d ever met, for both better and for worse. With his charisma and passion, came a strange, devious obsessiveness. A terrifying need for control. You’d go as far as to say, a lack of humanity.

Then came the night you decided to end things. The last night of your life as you knew it. You told him you wanted to stop seeing each other, he refused to leave. He yelled. He broke things. In the end, he turned you.

When you awoke, your new and rejuvenated self, he was already gone. This wasn’t a desperate attempt at staying together, at making you need him. No, it was revenge. You would pay the price for rejecting him, for the rest of your life.

Which was to say, forever.

You stare at the telephone sitting on your coffee table. Could you really do that to Felix? Could you really take away his life as he knew it? Make him say goodbye to his roommates, his freedom? Everything would become controlled by The Society.

The answer is no. No, you can’t make him do that. But as always, this is not a matter of what you do and don’t want. It never has been. It never can be.

You keep this in mind as you dial Felix’s cell, your fingers pressing the familiar keys deeply lodged in your memory. You don’t have to think, you’ve dialed this number so many times before.

The phone rings three times before he picks up. “Y/N?” His voice echoes through the speaker. He sounds worried. Perhaps he should be. “You there?”

“Yeah,” you mumble quietly, clearing your throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Is everything okay?” He asks, his voice full of concern. “This is a lot earlier than you said you’d call. Did you talk to Chan?”

Felix doesn’t know you had a meeting with The Council today, you hadn’t mentioned it to him prior. He knows nothing. Nothing of his death sentence. Nothing of the weight of what you have done.

“Yeah, I talked to him.” You say quietly, before a moment of silence passes by, as Felix waits for you to continue. “Listen, could you come over?”

“Right now?” He asks. “It’s the middle of the day, are you sure?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you think. “There isn’t anything to hide from anymore.”

“I’m sure,” you say, controlling the waver in your voice. What are you going to say when he gets here? How do you tell someone that they’re on death row? How do you offer them immortality? How do you explain the price?

“Okay,” he replies, in that sweet, deep voice of his. “I’ll see you soon.”

~~~~

You don’t know what to expect will happen when you open the door for Felix. How will he react when you tell him? Will he scream? Cry in silence? Or will he just leave, not being able to stand looking at you any longer?

Your stomach knots. You don’t know how he will react, but you know at the very least, he won’t be thrilled.

The doorbell rings, rattling through your apartment, shaking you from your worried daze. You approach the door slowly, hand shakily finding itself clenched around the door knob. With only a breath to settle yourself, you twist the handle.

When Felix see’s you, he can already tell that something is wrong. Perhaps it’s the way your eyes are staring at him as if he’s going to disappear. Or maybe it’s how your hands are shaking, arms wrapped around you, as if you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

All he knows is that something didn’t go according to plan.

“Y/N, are you okay?” He asks, pulling you into a hug. The gesture is warm, comforting. You could so easily slip away, immerse yourself in the feeling. Forget about The Council. Forget about it all, for just a moment. For just a night.

But oh, how selfish that would be.

“No,” you whisper into his chest, unable to look up and meet his gaze. “No, everything isn’t okay.”

“What’s wrong?” Felix asks, gently breaking away from you. He takes your hand, slowly leading you over to the couch. “Did they do something? Did they hurt you?” He asks, beckoning for you to take a seat.

You laugh, although it sounds far more like a sob. Of course, before all else, he’s worried about you. It is just so utterly Felix, to have all his concerns focused on you, and not an inkling of worry towards himself.

Maybe you should have been more like him. Maybe if you had focused on what danger your little arrangement could have put Felix in, rather than trying to save your own hide, you could have prevented this.

So many maybe’s. So many possibilities you’d never know the answer too.

“No, Felix. They didn’t hurt me.” You sigh, looking up to meet his eyes, which are wide and swimming with concern. He’s panicking, that much is obvious.

“Then what happened? Was it Chan? Did he say something?”

You sigh. Time to get this over with. Rip off the bandaid.

“No, Lix. It wasn’t Chan. It’s about you,” you say. He freezes, slowly pulling his hand away from its place on your thigh.

“About me?” He asks slowly, the look in his eyes shifting from a worried concern, to fear. “What about me?”

You stare at him for a moment, unsure of how to break the news. In the end, you decide to just be outright.

“They want me to kill you,” you state. You expect him to jump away from you. To run, or yell. Something, at least. Instead, he blinks.

“Are you going to?” Felix asks, his tone emotionless. As if he were asking what you were doing that day, rather than whether or not you planned to murder him.

“What do you think?” You look at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but draw blank. You can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sighs. “Alright. So what are we going to do, then?” He’s awfully calm considering the circumstances. Almost too calm. An eerie chill passes through you.

“Well, that’s the tricky part,” you start, inching away from him slightly. Why is he so relaxed? Did he expect this to happen? How, if you certainly didn’t? “I talked to Chan, and we both agree there’s only one way to solve this.”

“Wait,” Felix looks at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “Chan? As in the same Chan who probably turned us into The Society in the first place? That Chan?”

“Yeah, that Chan,” you mumble, almost embarrassed. When he puts it like that, listening to Chan’s advice sounds foolish, but you know it’s more complicated than that. Chan had fucked up, there was no denying that, but you and Felix didn’t have many allies in this. It’s important to accept help where you can find it.

“Okay, and what did he recommend?” Felix asks, and you can hear the resentment in his tone.

“That I turn you,” you say. Frankly, you’d expected Felix to keep up this strange, cold exterior. Instead his jaw drops and he jumps to his feet.

“You-you want to what?” He stammers, taking a few steps back. His eyes are wide, full of nothing but pure terror.

“Woah, calm down! It’s okay,” you say, rising to your own feet, extending your hand out towards him. It reminds you of that first night you met, when he told you he knew what you were. About how his childhood neighbors were just like you. It is strange, looking back on how much has changed, yet also remained the same.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he states, refusing to take your hand. Instead, he wraps his arms around himself, shrinking backwards. He’s utterly terrified. “You want to make me into a monster?”

At that you frown. You know he’s frightened, that much is blatantly obvious, but a monster? That stung.

“A monster? Is that what you see me as?” You say, your tone sharp.

“Y/N, you know that’s not what I meant,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. Your anger spikes sharply.

“Really? Because that seems to be exactly what you meant.”

“You’re a vampire, Y/N. I think that’s quite literally an example of a monster. You? No, you aren’t one. But Chan? The Society? They are.”

“You don’t seem to find it so monstrous when I drink from you, do you? No, you actually like it. So don’t act like you know what you’re talking about, Felix. Because you don’t.”

“But, I do know!” He shouts back, closing the space between the two of you. You stare up at him, and suddenly you see it. The flicker of something behind his eyes. The flicker of something more.

“How?” You whisper, your breath hot against his lips. “How do you know?”

“Because,” he says, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. You hear it, pounding, the blood rushing through his veins.

“I’m a hunter.”

~~~~

7 weeks prior…

Felix hadn’t originally expected to like you. From what Changbin had told him, vampires were the embodiment of evil. Blood-thirsty murderers, who revelled in the pain and anguish of their victims. Frankly, there really didn’t seem to be anything to be fond of.

No, he had expected to despise you. Fear you. Take the greatest risk he’d ever gambled walking into the library that night. He wasn’t even sure if he’d walk out alive.

Especially after what happened to Hyunjin.

Hyunjin was one of Felix’s roommates. He, Changbin and Han lived together for over a year before Changbin invited Felix to move in a few months ago.

Felix had really liked Hyunjin from the start. The guy was funny, always ready to share a good story, or listen to one of Felix’s own. He was greatly accepting, treating Felix as if he had always lived there, right from the day he’d moved in. He was sweet, creative. A Dance major. Everything about the guy screamed likeable, and Felix couldn’t help but admire him.

Right up until the day he was murdered.

Hyunjin had started seeing someone. Although he wouldn’t admit it to any of his three roommates, the signs were undeniable. He’d disappear late into night, and always come home early in the morning. He’d cancel plans because he “had to study,” and when they came home he was nowhere to be found.

Changbin had confronted him about this, but Hyunjin had denied it. In that care-free, sweet nature of his that made Felix want to believe he was telling the truth.

But he couldn’t, because Felix had seen all the signs too.

Felix remembered one morning, when he woke up to find Hyunjin in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. The man hadn’t noticed him walking in, and Felix went to grab him by the shoulders. Just to make him jump a little, nothing too menacing.

But that’s when he saw them, peeking out from Hyunjin’s collared shirt. Two bites marks, clear as day.

When Hyunjin noticed him, he jumped back, quickly pulling the collar of his shirt higher. “Oh! Hey, Felix! You’re up early,” he’d said, laughing. However, Felix could see the falseness of his smile, the intense look in his eyes.

Hyunjin was hiding something, and whatever those bite marks were held the answer.

Now, Felix had never heard anything about vampires before. Therefore, when he saw the marks, he just assumed Hyunjin was into something… a little less than vanilla, to put it lightly. He shook it off. Tried to distance that day in the kitchen from his thoughts.

Yet, the marks stuck with him. They just looked so… real. They were not a human bite, nor any animal Felix could think of. They looked like something straight out of a horror film. The way the skin bruised around them, swollen. The holes themselves were dark. A hollow red.  

Felix should have been concerned. Worried. Instead, he was intrigued. He wanted to talk to Hyunjin about them, but it felt too personal. He’d only known the guy a few months, and the marks seemed to be something Hyunjin wished to hide. He couldn’t just come outright and ask him.

So Felix kept it to himself. A mistake. A huge mistake.

As roughly 3 weeks later, Felix would walk into their apartment to find Changbin curled on the floor, trembling. His cheeks were stained with tears, eyes unfocused as Han sat behind him, patting his back to grant the smallest inkling of comfort.

“What happened?” Felix asked, panicking as he rushed to his friend's side. He may have only moved in a few months ago, but he’d known Changbin almost all his life. They’d gone to the same elementary school, parents being childhood friends themselves. They were close, unbelievably close. And in all that time, Felix had never seen Changbin so upset. So disheveled. Broken.

When Changbin didn’t respond, Felix turned to Han, who was already staring at him with somber, empty eyes.

“Hyunjin’s dead,” Han said, so quietly Felix wasn’t sure if he heard him correctly.

“Dead?” Felix choked, eyes subconsciously trailing to Hyunjin’s bedroom door. “What do you mean? He- he can’t be dead?” There was no way. Hyunjin had to be in there, dancing to his favourite mixes or reading a webcomic, gushing about his favourite dramas. He couldn’t be dead.

“He is,” Changbin spoke suddenly, still not deterring his eyes from their place on the wall. “I saw it happen.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Felix wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure how to form words. Shock enveloped him in a fuzzy, mind-clouding fog.

The three of them sat there for what felt like hours, until eventually, Changbin spoke.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” He asked.

“Okay,” Felix whispered. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. If he could handle it. Yet, his curiosity got the better of him.

“I was asleep in my room, woke up to the sound of banging on the door,” Changbin spoke quietly. “Heard Hyunjin get up to grab it, assuming it was fine. When he opened the door, he sounded shocked. Afraid. He spoke like he knew why they were here. Like he was in danger.”

“I heard them come inside. Hyunjin started shouting, “get away from me!”, “don’t touch me!” I got up, rushing towards the living room. However, as I was coming, I heard Hyunjin suddenly get cut off. Confused, I carefully peeked around the corner. Can you guess what I saw?”

When Felix didn’t answer, Changbin turned to face him, his eyes finally meeting Felix’s own. Felix swallowed, his heart rising into his throat. Changbin’s eyes were dead, holding a darkness that made Felix shiver.

“They were drinking his blood, Felix. Like a fucking vampire. The guy had Hyunjin pinned to a wall, and didn’t let go of him until Hyunjin was gone. Until he drank every last drop in his body. Then they dragged him out of here. Left as if nothing had happened.”

“That… that’s impossible,” Felix shook his head. The story had to have been fake, Changbin’s way of dealing with the trauma. It couldn’t have been true.

“Is it?” Changbin asked. “Is it really? Because I think we’ve all seen those sickening, fucking bite marks Hyunjin has been carrying around these last couple months.”

Felix froze. That was true, but still, that couldn’t have meant vampires were real. No, that was ridiculous. They weren’t any more real than mermaids, or werewolves. It was simply impossible.

But… was it?

Suddenly, Changbin leaped to his feet, storming across the living room and whipping open the door to Hyunjin’s bedroom.

Han, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, chased after him. “Changbin, no! It’s too soon. Don’t do this to yourself. Not right now.”

“No!” Changbin yelled back, not looking back at Han. He began digging through Hyunjin’s drawers, throwing everything inside out onto the bed. “It’s my fault he’s dead, and you know that. I should have tried to stop it, something at least. But I froze! I didn’t do shit! And now Hyunjin is dead, Han.”

Changbin rushed over to Hyunjin’s nightstand, ripping out the bottom drawer. “The least I can do now is try to prove what happened to him. Try to show that it wasn’t just my bloody imagination, like Felix over here clearly thinks it is.”

Felix, unsure of what to say, remained quiet.

“He doesn’t think you imagined it, Changbin,” Han reassured, carefully putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. “But trashing Hyunjin’s room? That’s not going to solve anything.

Changbin shrugged off Han’s hand, scowling. “You don’t know what will help,” he spat, half-mindedly flipping through one of Hyunjin’s old notebooks. “There’s got to be something in here. Something that will prove that-” he began, but quickly stopped.

Changbin stood silently for a moment, staring at the words on the pages with an intensity that made Felix nervous.

“This is it,” Changbin said quietly, not looking up at them.

“It’s what?” Han said, quickly placing himself beside him, beginning to read whatever was on the pages. He quickly went quiet, his eyes growing wide as he scanned the paper.

Changbin looked up at Felix, an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s our proof.”

         ~~~~

Hours passed and Felix finally found himself sitting at his desk, the dim light of his lamp cascading over what turned out to be Hyunjin’s journal.

Changbin had finally given it to him, spending hours obsessing over every word and detail. God knows where he was now, having left the apartment around midnight. A couple hours had passed, and he still hadn’t returned.

Han had gone to sleep a while ago, leaving Felix alone with nothing but the ghost of Hyunjin’s words that he left behind. A chill passed through him. This was all he had left of him, these entries discussing what would later become the reason for his death.

Felix paused on a certain entry, one dating back roughly a month ago, regarding the bite marks.

October 23rd.

She fed from me today. Finally. It hurt seeing her so starved, so weak and frail compared to when we first met. Everytime I’d look in her eyes, I’d see how glazed over they were, how blown out from hunger. It physically hurt, knowing how she was putting herself through this pain when I could help her, if she’d only let me.

I had to beg her to do it. She’s so worried about them. So paranoid they’re going to find out. I’m scared too, I guess, but I’m willing to risk it. For her.

As for the feeding itself, it’s difficult to explain. It hurt, undoubtedly, but at the same time it was wonderful. It felt wrong, wild. Raw. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt so connected with someone. It’s not the same as sex, somehow it felt more intimate? Like I said, it’s difficult to explain. Strange.

It’s weird, looking in the mirror now, seeing those marks. Yet, they make me smile. They remind me of her, as if I’m branded with the fact she trusted me enough to do this.

I think I’m starting to love her. Even if worse comes to worst, I don’t think I’d ever regret this. She’s shown me so much, I only hope our time doesn’t run out.

I’m seeing her again, tomorrow. I think Changbin is starting to get suspicious, he made a comment about me leaving late at night. I denied it, but I know he thinks something is up. Maybe Han and Felix do too, but they haven’t said anything.

I want to tell them, I really do. But I know I can’t. I promised her. Besides, roping them into this might make matters worse.

I hope I’m making the right choice.

~Hyunjin.

Felix felt like he was going to be sick. So Hyunjin knew. He knew what was coming, even a month ago. Yet he didn’t stop seeing this girl. Why? Hyunjin was a hopeless romantic, sure. But even so, this seemed ridiculous. Why would he keep doing this, knowing the consequences?

Felix’s mind wandered back to the marks on his neck. The deep gashes of where she’d drank from him. The feeding, as Hyunjin had called it. Was that what made him stay? This strange, monstrous intimacy?

Felix didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how this feeding could possibly be a good thing. And yet, to his own shame, he was curious. Curious of how it felt, how it led Hyunjin down this road to his death.

God, if Changbin could hear what he was thinking now.

  ~~~~

The following weeks passed by in a blur of grief and obsession. Changbin was rarely home. Sometimes he was at the library, doing as much research as he possibly could. Others, he was searching for more hunters, anything to find out more about what exactly Hyunjin had gotten himself into.

Today, the three roommates were sitting on the living room couch, discussing a rather important next step in Changbin’s mission of avenging Hyunjin.

“I found one,” Changbin stated, taking a sip of his gin and tonic.

Han frowned. “What do you mean you found one?”

“I mean one of those bloodsuckers is at the library every night the same time I am,” Changbin stated. Felix shifted nervously. He didn’t like the look on Changbin’s face.

“Okay,” Han continued, his frown deepening. “What do you want us to do about that? You’re not planning on shoving a stake through their heart or anything, are you?”

“No,” Changbin replied, although he didn’t seem to be as appalled by the idea as Han. “I plan on using them.”

“What do you mean?” Felix asked, an unsettling feeling passing through him.

“I mean, one of us has to get close to her. Close enough to figure out who this “they” Hyunjin keeps referencing is.”

“Then what?” Han asked, his arms crossed.

Changbin shrugged. “Then we make them pay for what they did to him. The only question now, is which one of us is it going to be?”

Now, Felix didn’t like vampires. Not at all. Not after what they’d done to Hyunjin. However, he couldn’t seem to find this deep-seeded hatred that Changbin had developed.

No, in fact he felt a level of sympathy for the girl who lived on Hyunjin’s pages. For the sweet and generous girl who would almost rather die than subject him to any danger. She wasn’t a monster, that much was obvious. No, the vampires that murdered Hyunjin, the vampires that she was so terrified of, they were the monsters.

But Changbin didn’t seem to see that. Felix didn’t blame him, he was blinded by both grief, as well as the overwhelming guilt that Hyunjin’s death was his fault. It wasn’t, of course.  Felix was sure that if Changbin had stepped in, they simply would have killed him too. But that wasn’t what Changbin wanted to hear.

So, before he could properly comprehend what he was doing, he spoke. “I’ll do it,” he said, causing the two men to raise their eyebrows.

“Really?” Han asked nervously, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Felix, you don’t have to. You could get yourself killed.”

Felix knew this. Hell, he knew this well. He also knew it was the right thing to do. This girl at the library… If Changbin attempted getting close to her in the state he was now, he’d end up getting one of them killed. Han, bless his soul, was far too paranoid to pull it off. Even now, he tried to distance himself from the entire topic of vampires. Maybe it was fear, maybe he didn’t like the spite in Changbin’s voice when he discussed them, but in any case, Felix knew he wouldn’t be able to do this.

Besides, he could handle it. You deserved to be given a chance. Perhaps you were an exception, like the girl in Hyunjin’s notebook.

“I’m sure,” Felix said. And so your mutual destruction began.

~~~~

Felix had met you in the library under Changbin’s instruction. Made some small talk, a little bit flirty but nothing too wild. He was surprised to find that you were rather pretty, a clean academic look and mysterious eyes. He was also surprised to find that you were witty, as well. Charming.

Based on the way Changbin had described you, well, you were supposed to be nothing short of a demon sent from hell.

You were both sitting in silence, Felix watching as you translated passages from The Iliad into Greek. Which he had to admit, was undoubtedly impressive.

It was then he noticed how glazed over your eyes were, pupils blown out in hunger, just as Hyunjin had described in his journal. Which meant he also knew that you were struggling, refraining from eating.

That’s when he felt it, that slightest pinch of sympathy. You weren’t eating, which meant you also weren’t sucking people dry in their apartments for their roommates to see. No, you were refraining yourself, and that wasn’t a monstrous thing to do.

The pieces fell like dominos after that. He kissed you. You invited him back to your apartment. You both went inside. You kissed some more.

Then he proceeded to scare the ever living hell out of you.

The look on your face when he told you he knew still haunts him. The sheer terror in your eyes, the unchained panic and fear. It was the kind’ve look someone had right before death. As if he were going to murder you.

He hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t realized that him knowing you were a vampire would be so catastrophic to you. It wasn’t like you told him, he already knew, but that didn’t seem to matter.

He quickly made up a story about his old neighbors being vampires, anything to calm you down. Then, to his own surprise, he offered to let you drink from him.

This wasn’t a part of the plan. If Changbin saw what he was doing now, he’d ring his neck for sure. Yet, Felix was curious, even more so then he was before. This intimacy, this incredible feeling that Hyunjin talked about, was it really true? He wanted to know.

There was also the fact of the matter that he genuinely wanted to help you. You were so scared, so petrified, and he was to blame. You were not a monster. You weren’t. You were just a scared girl who had clearly been starving herself, and if he could help with that, he should, shouldn’t he?

You were hesitant at first, but you agreed. Climbing on top of him, your breath hot against his neck. He braced himself for your fangs. Yet even so, nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of breaking through his skin.

It was painful, a throbbing ache erupting from his neck and flowing throughout the rest of his body. Felix could feel the blood pumping through his veins, escaping through his newly punctured wounds. He grabbed your arm for support, his mouth opening in a cry from the pain. Although, he doubted you could hear him, based on the way you lapped so lavishly at the blood, leaning into him.

Yet, with the pain came an undeniable sense of pleasure, pulsing through his body in waves. A dizzying, overwhelming sense of ecstasy, clouding his mind in a hazy fog of desire. It was overwhelming, how the feeling casted over him, draining him of anything but eachother. Here it was just you and him. There was nothing else. Nothing but the two of you.

He didn’t want anything else. Your name rang through his skull, shattering all other thoughts that existed outside this moment. His vision blurred, all his senses drifting from him. Yet, he didn’t want them. Didn’t need them. All he needed was you. You. You. He felt himself fall back, sinking into the floor, his limbs growing limp.

Then it stopped. You pulled away from him. He blinked, attempting to regain a proper sense of consciousness. He saw your face, your beautiful face, and smiled.

At that moment he understood. He understood it all. How Hyunjin followed down that path, how in the end he didn’t regret it.

He knew he’d come to make all the same mistakes.

~~~~

So your little arrangement continued, and slowly it began to develop into more. While enjoyable, it wasn’t just about the feeding. Not at all.

Felix thought you were incredible, to put it lightly. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Clever, kind, selfless. You held an unbelievable sense of passion in everything you did.

His favourite days were the ones spent at your place. The comfort of your bed became his safe place. Your kitchen became his creative outlet. His home whenever he was wrapped in your arms.

No, nothing made Felix more happy than the time he spent with you.

That’s what he thinks of now, walking back home from your apartment, after having told you everything. You were angry of course, feeling lied to, betrayed. He doesn’t blame you. He blames himself.

He blames himself for everything that has happened. He knew what would happen from the beginning, what his sentence would be, he’d seen it all before. Yet, he chose to ignore it. Some little voice inside of him said that he was different, that it was merely unlucky what happened to Hyunjin. That you two would beat the odds.

Felix knows that he had been lying to himself. He knows Hyunjin had been careful, just as much as the two of you had been. He brought this upon himself.

Why? Because he loves you. He can admit it to himself now, after everything that has happened. He isn’t sure if you feel the same, especially after the last couple hours. He doesn’t blame you, if you don’t.

He should have just told you the truth from the beginning, but he didn’t want to lose you by scaring you again. His roommates wouldn’t tell anyone, he’d made sure of it when he talked to Changbin and Han a couple days ago. Now that was a horrible conversation, Changbin still hasn’t spoken to him since. 

Felix had told both of them that things hadn’t worked out after the first night he spent with you. That way, he wouldn’t feel pressured in divulging anything you’d told him of The Society. As much as he hated them, so truly hated them, he’d promised you secrecy. He’d honoured that promise as much as he could, even if it ultimately put him in danger.

Yet, that’s not what he’s worried about right now. No, he is thinking of your face that first night you spent together, that look of pure terror. It was something he had never wanted to see again.

That hope was futile, however. As when he told you, he did have to see it again. Watch as your eyes widened, your mouth gaping open and eyebrows furrowed as he told you how his roommates knew. How he came to the library that night looking for you. The details of Hyunjin’s murder.

How a part of Felix knew that his fate could be the same.

You had walked into your kitchen, trying to get yourself away from him. Saying that you needed time to think this all through, and that he should do the same. After all, immortality and eternal bloodlust were two difficult things to be offered.

You told him to leave. He did. He’d said that he would call you within the next couple days, when he came to his decision. Then you’d turn him, if that’s what he decided, and that would be it. He didn’t know what this meant for the two of you afterwards, but there’d be time to figure that out later.

Oh, there would be so much time.

Because Felix already knows what his decision will be.

He hates Vampires. He hates The Society. The way they torment your life, just as they did to the girl in Hyunjin’s notebook. The way they killed Hyunjin. How Chan, someone you once trusted, turned the two of you in without a second thought.

But it doesn’t matter if he hates them. Not anymore.

As in this moment, Felix Lee has decided that he will become one himself.

~~

next chapter.

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[figonas]

As Warm As The Sun-Part 2

The Light of the Moon

The scent of his skin beneath the aroma of sweet wine blurs Jude’s thoughts. She’s tempted to reach for him again, to trace her fingers along his sharp cheekbones; pale as the light from a full moon, dusted softly with incandescent, shimmering gold. 

Summary: Part 2 is Jude’s POV of the scene from Part 1. Takes place during The Wicked King pretty much right before the Queen of Mirth scene and Chapter 15. Just a soft, fluffy response to the prompt; “hug me, I command it”.

Words: 2267

Rating: GA

Links: Part 1-Cardan POV | AO3

A/N: I struggled with Jude’s POV far more than I did with Cardan’s. I think because this is a really vulnerable moment and at this point in her story like Jude isn’t prepared to be vulnerable with Cardan. Idk, this takes place a little early in twk for Jude to be admitting she has feelings for Cardan, but this is fanfic and I do what I want. @jurdanhell this one’s for you my dude.

********

Jude Duarte, former spy for Prince Dain, seneschal to the High King of Elfhame, is exhausted. If she is honest with herself, which she often isn’t, she couldn’t remember a time since Cardan was crowned where she hadn’t been tired. Nearly every day of the last five months there was always something too important going on for Jude to waste time sleeping. There was always a problem to solve, a threat against the kingdom to thwart, an attempt on her life, or Oak’s life, or Cardan’s life. What Jude really needed was a shorter list of lives she was responsible for, but for now, a good night's sleep would have to do. She was almost too tired to be angry at Cardan for having her attend this stupid revel, almost...but not quite.

Early in the night Jude was doing her best to slip away after a meeting with the Living Council, yet another one Cardan had failed to attend and Jude had fought for every word she had to say. As she rushed out of the room she nearly collided with Locke, followed closely by Cardan, Taryn, and a group of court members she didn’t recognize. Cardan’s eyes met hers and Jude knew she was in trouble the moment he got that infuriating gleam in his eye, the look that said; Oh Jude, you will absolutely hate the next words I speak. And hated them she had, Cardan launched into details about that evening’s revel which ended in him asking Jude if she would attend the revel in full that evening, his voice practically dripping with mock innocence. Before Jude could answer with a curt and resounding no, Locke chimed in and did what he was best at; started trouble. By the time he was done with his mocking explanation of why Jude’s many duties robbed all her mortal energy and didn’t allow her to attend revels like the rest of the folk, the Living Council had moved from their meeting place to gather in the hall. Jude briefly entertained a fantasy of running Locke through with Nightfell just to be done with this whole encounter, but she realized Locke’s attempt to devalue her position had garnered a substantial audience so Jude was left with no choice but to clench her jaw and bite out an acceptance of Cardan’s offer.

Now, an eternity later, Jude stands to the side of Cardan’s throne scowling at the side of his horribly beautiful face as he downed the dregs of yet another gobet. She had given up trying to count his cups hours ago but the glazed look in his eyes told Jude it is likely someone would be carrying Cardan back to his chambers this evening. She took a cursory glance around the room eyeing the dwindling guests and the King’s Guard who all made a point to look anywhere but toward the dais, and realized that someone is most likely to be her.

As if on cue, Cardan stands swaying as he attempts to step forward and nearly pitches head first off the dais.

All of Jude’s training, both in Madoc’s house and as a spy for Prince Dain, have honed her reflexes and without a second thought her hand flies out fisting in the back of Cardan’s gaudy cloak of embroidered black velvet. With all the gentleness of someone who has spent the last four hours contemplating murder Jude yanks Cardan back against her and wraps her arm around his waist to steady him.

“As much as it would amuse me to watch you fall after you made me stand here all night for no reason, I’m too tired to pick you up off the floor,” Jude hisses in his ear, she throws his other arm about her shoulders and sets off down the handful of steps leading away from the throne. Cardan leans into her, his breath ghosting across her temple; warm and sweetened by wine, Jude can’t stop the longing that shoots through her like the peeling of a bell.

“Dearest Jude, are you trying to take me to bed?” Cardan’s mouth stumbles through the words, just as his feet stumble down the steps nearly dragging them both to the floor. Jude tries to tap into her anger that seemed so palpable only moments before but she can’t think past his hip pressed against hers, his arm warm and heavy across her neck and shoulders.

“Don’t push your luck or I’ll leave you to sleep on the floor in the middle of the burgh”. He laughs, truly laughs in a way that’s free of anger or malice. Jude tries and fails to suppress the small smile that touches her lips at the happy sound she so rarely hears from him.

The walk to Cardan’s rooms takes a lifetime. They don’t speak again, but Jude can feel Cardan’s eyes on her every few moments. His proximity makes the sensation hard to ignore causing a flush to darken her cheeks. Jude tries to focus on the path ahead and clamp down her desire to return his gaze.

Once in his chambers Jude abruptly releases him and takes a half step away putting much needed distance between them, but even then he’s still too close. The scent of his skin beneath the aroma of sweet wine blurs Jude’s thoughts. She’s tempted to reach for him again, to trace her fingers along his sharp cheekbones; pale as the light from a full moon, dusted softly with incandescent, shimmering gold.

Jude, no the rational voice inside her mind nearly screams. She clenches her hands into fists, a half second from running out the massive wooden door when Cardan’s voice startles her from her thoughts.

“Embrace me again,” he says in a voice that reminds her of another drunken request he made not too long ago; kiss me again, kiss me until I am sick of it.

Jude is weary, worn down, exhausted, the kind of tired that makes limbs sore and heavy as if she’d spent the whole day throwing rocks. In that exhaustion the Cardan-shaped wall built around her heart is lowered more than Jude would ever admit; she had refused him then, she doesn’t know if she can refuse him now.

“Go to bed Cardan” it’s as much of a refusal as she can muster with his eyes boring into hers, black and wanting. Her hand flicks out to point across the suite to Cardan’s ridiculously large bed.

“But I am your king, Jude I command it,” he grins like he’s gone mad but Cardan, who is less a living being than a fae revel given flesh and bone, looks horribly and unmistakably sad. It’s gone in a moment, replaced by feigned indifference so sharp it almost burns in his coal black eyes. But she had seen it there; a glimpse of the depth of his loneliness and misery.

“So I say again, embrace me and then I will concede and go to bed,” his tone is teasing, it does nothing to fool Jude.

She opens her mouth to speak but quickly shuts it. The feeling of slick, slimy guilt roils in her belly, guilt she often pushed aside in favor of anger and self-preservation. Cardan’s pain was not all her doing, she knew of his scars, on his skin and his soul, wrought from Baelkin’s hateful hands and the cruel indifference of Eldred.

But his position as High King, his empty life beneath a hollow crown was one she had thrust upon him through lies and deceit. Facing the truth of that in his eyes made bile crawl it’s way up her throat, and if Jude was honest with herself it shattered her heart into shards of broken glass threatening to shred her apart from the inside.

Guilt was not easy to feel, it was the feeling of admitting you had done wrong paired with the admission that you haven’t yet made it right. Jude had choked on guilt before but usually pushed it away, citing the safety of Oak and the stability of Elfhame; but those excuses fall apart like strips of wet paper when pit against the emptiness in Cardan’s gaze.

Jude curses herself, wishing for the days when she felt nothing but hatred for the High King, instead of the complicated mix of regret, shame, and desire she feels now. Swallowing thickly against her guilt, and before she can examine her own want too closely, Jude steps forward and wraps her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

Cardan hesitates for a brief moment, before returning her embrace. Jude resists the urge to sink into his warmth, stops herself from tightening her arms and nuzzling her face into his neck; it’s power over her she won’t relinquish to him and an admission to herself she isn’t ready to face.

More than anything this moment feels fragile, as if Jude, mortal among fairies, human of the earth could break it with the snap of her fingers.

“I’m only doing this because I’m too tired to fight with you about going to bed,” she lies, to herself and to him.

Cardan doesn’t reply, simply holding her in a strong, steady embrace, his cheek resting light as a feather on her forehead. The unsteady balance brought on by Cardan’s overindulgence seems to evaporate as if, he too realizes how delicate this moment is. How easily it could shatter like a stone through glass.

She isn’t sure how much time passes as they stand there tangled up in each other, but her eyelids begin to droop as Cardan strokes lazy circles on her back with his thumbs.

In serious danger of dozing off Jude yawns deeply and steps back. Cardan’s hands bracket her waist as she pulls back and he makes no effort to remove them. The warmth of his palms seeping through her jacket keeps her heart pounding out a steady rhythm. She doesn’t know how to read into this small gesture of intimacy, if it means anything at all, so she simply ignores it.

“Alright, Your Majesty I indulged your wishes,” she stops another, smaller yawn with the back of her hand.

“Now to bed with you so I can go get in my own,” Jude points again in the direction of the vast expanse of pillows and spider silk sheets.

Cardan’s hands drop to his sides, he sways unsteadily as he turns, his drunken clumsiness returning now that the distance between them has broken whatever spell was cast over their embrace. She places a gentle hand on his lower back, when he leans into her touch Jude feels a rush of warmth as she walks him through his empty rooms.

“Careful with your orders Jude or I will tell everyone that you were kind to me,” he laughs though she can’t imagine why.

“Though I don’t think anyone would believe me,” he continues softly almost as if speaking to himself. She shakes her head though Cardan is too focused on his feet to notice. He doesn’t say the words with malice or venom but something twists in Jude’s chest all the same.

“You won’t remember this tomorrow anyway”.

She gives a gentle push as they reach his bed and Cardan flops down on the coverlet, gazing up at Jude in with something soft and yearning in his eyes. She leans over him, breath catching in her throat. The intensity of his gaze pins her to the spot.

“Oh Jude, loveliest of afflictions, I will remember this night for years to come.” He makes a move as if to reach for her, but Cardan’s hand falls back to his side as his eyes flutter closed.

“We’ll see about that tomorrow,” She makes a disbelieving noise and crosses her arms. Laughing softly as she takes in her disheveled High King.

Though Cardan’s eyes remain closed, his head turns in her direction as she laughs, as if he craves her laugh as she craves his; a moth to flame.

Jude backs away from the bed, retreating to the suites main door, but something stops her as she places a hand on the knob. Turning to peer over her shoulder she calls out softly through the dark chamber.

“Goodnight Cardan,” without waiting for his response she slips into the hall and flees toward her room.

By the time she reaches her chambers Jude is dead on her feet and desperate for the feel of her pillow against her cheek.

She strips off her weapons and clothes, tucking herself into bed instead of curling up in front of the fire as she most often does. It’s cold but the sheets and pillows are soft, as she relaxes into them. Sleep hovers nearby waiting to take her the moment she closes her eyes, but Jude stares up toward the ceiling keeping herself awake for a few more blissful moments.

Jude Duarte has made herself into a fearsome creature, one of the folk in spirit if nothing else. Tomorrow she will go back to her role as the High King’s seneschal, back to her knives, and seething looks, and harsh clothes. But tonight she will allow herself one small, indulgent moment of weakness and be simply; Jude Duarte, mortal girl.

Tonight she lies in bed and thinks of Cardan’s soft breath on her cheek, the stroke of this thumb on her back, the moonlight glow of his skin in the dimness of his chambers.

Jude isn’t sure exactly when she drifted off but her dreams are filled with yearning black eyes and strong steady arms. When she wakes she smiles to herself, wide and foolish, before donning the mask of seneschal once again.

#FINALLY part 2 is out #I struggled with Jude more than Cardan #I didn’t want her to be too vulnerable but I also wanted this to be light and soft #I don’t know if I found the balance between the two #we’ll see #🤷🏻‍♀️ #jurdan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jude x cardan #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the folk of the air #fanfiction #tfota fanfic #holly black #Jude Duarte POV

[saphirered]

Hi there! You writings are wonderful. Please could you do an EssekXreader where the reader is from another high ranking den and is betrothed to Essek for political reasons. Both Essek and Reader aren't keen on the idea but eventually after spending time together realise they actually have feelings for each other, I'm thinking a bit like The Swan Princess. Please and thank you.

This is gonna be a two parter as the current draft already exceeds my usual word count limit 🙈 so stay tuned for part two in the next few days! Hope you enjoy 😘

Denial. It must be a cruel joke. Your family, your den they would never use you as a pawn in a bigger plot. This was all just a cruel joke or a move to assure their political advancement without the need to go through with this.

Anger. No. This is real. How dare they? How could they? They would use you like that? Without having the decency to let you know before the deal was made no less! Were it anyone else you’d crush them beneath your boot like the vermin they are for condemning you to a fate not of your own choosing. Perhaps you still might…

Bargain. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe you could just play your part and go your separate ways. A betrothal doesn’t have to end in a marriage. Even if it does, all that counts is appearances. Beyond that you could still have your own life right? You’d always be able to make the ‘me’ decision and wouldn’t have to take in account the ‘we’. Yes that should be right.

Depression. Your life is ruined! You’ll forever be tied to someone else without your consent. Your decisions will reflect on the many now. You’ll have to watch your every move and every choice or it may reflect terribly on your legacy. There’ll be expectations and can you ever live up to them while still being content with your own life or will you be sacrificing your happiness for something so stupid?

Acceptance. Acceptance…. Hell no!

Time for the first official meeting with Essek Thelyss in the context of your arrangement. You’d met many times before given both of your stations and reputations but now, you couldn’t help but feel a coldness towards the man regardless of what cordial or friendly dynamic you might have had in your limited social interactions.

Your respective families meet. You on your side, Essek on his. Both of you portray the facial expressions excepted of you; indifferent content. Nothing over excited nor anything remotely negative either but you’ve been raised a reader of the people and you could see through the cracks in Essek’s appearance. He’s just as happy with this arrangement as you are; not at all.

“It is a pleasure to meet you here today.” Essek speaks. The rules of engagement have not forgone any of you despite your discontent with this whole situation but for the sake of your watching families you’d play your parts. You’d put on a damn good show.

“You as well Shadowhand. Light be blessed we get to spend it in such magnificent company.” You can feel the approving look burn into the back of your head from your Denmother. They’d be none the wiser.

And so the negotiations began. All be damned if you did not at the very least were able to set some of your own terms in this arrangement. Fundings to sustain your lifestyle or a dowry were the least of your worries. You were more concerned with a place you could call your own, time to spend for yourself, security and stability and the ability to continue your life as is regardless of possible marriage. You would never give up your seat at the Bright Queen’s council and you’re very sure Essek wouldn’t give up his either.

Essek had to admit you played the game well. You’re a killer negotiator. Your persuasive side had shone at the Bastion more than once but those circumstances are wholly different than these. Your ability to make it sound like these ideas came from your den and not yourself, and have them think these suggestions were their ideas in the first place is simply remarkable. Remarkable and dangerous. Respect. But no matter how good of a talker you are, or he is for that matter, neither of you could get out of this.

Afternoon tea, a few lunches and dinners here and there and even a few events you were forced to attend with Essek as your escort under the careful watch of your dens. Whenever you were sure they were out of earshot you did not make it unknown neither of you wanted to be here and would prefer to be as far away from each other as possible.

Then there were the times you swore you might actually be able to like the Shadowhand. Councils held lead to many arguments, the Bright Queen watching the court fight among themselves for a next course of action, fundings to be divided and efforts to be pursued. You always kept a level head not allowing yourself to get worked up, or at least appear you weren’t but sometimes you could strangle the life out of some of these fools.

To your surprise in some of these occasions Essek would take your side and support your arguments, concerns and points brought up in debates. So he does know what’s good for him after all? Those moments were quickly ruined by the next point on the schedule where you’d be at opposing sides again. Usually you’d be able to work up an opponent in debate until their credibility would be questioned but Essek had caught onto your games and was no fool. If you could keep your cool, so could he. You had learned how to push his buttons as he had yours.

After a particularly heated debate the Bright Queen dismissed the dens, done with the bickering and infighting for the day. You couldn’t blame her even though there were still many things unspoken. You and Essek were at odds once more and you couldn’t be happier to be done for the day and head somewhere you wouldn’t be forced to interact with the asshole.

Conferring with your allies, trying to gain support of others, you grabbed your things ready to leave the Bastion. There he floated in the anti-chamber eyes cold focussed on you, waiting. You pretend you don’t notice and keep walking for the exit. Essek calls your name as you’re about to pass him. You don’t respond and keep going. He calls again. No response. He grabs your arm stopping you in your tracks. How you’d hoped to escape this confrontation.

“A moment of your time please.” The words leave his lips with an artificial, well-practiced warmth. Oh you’re fighting so hard to contain yourself but you too had a facade to keep up.

“Another time perhaps. I’ve grown quite exhausted after the day’s events. If you will excuse me.” You smile innocently placing your hand over his secured around your wrist. You pry your fingers beneath forcing him to release his grasp on you.

“Then allow me to escort you back home. Should you be able to muster up the strength to converse on our path I’d love nothing more than to just hear your voice.” Essek encases your hands between his. Eyes of the dens fall upon the two of you in the middle of the anti-chamber. Essek is known to be a reserved individual and these advances definitely stand out.

Oh so that’s the game we’re playing. Asshole move, Shadowhand. Two can play this game. If it’s the company you’re currently in he’s using against you you can do the same. You take a step closer to him standing on your tiptoes and lean in to press your lips to his cheek. You linger just a little and whisper into his ear.

“I have nothing to say to you.” You allow the distaste to bleed through your barely audible words before you pull away and take a step back. You couldn’t refuse his ‘generous offer’. It might make you look bad so you smile bright and nod even managing to call on a fake blush like some lovesick fool. From the corners of your eyes you notice the court members whisper among each other. Good. Let them talk. You link your arm through Essek’s still carrying your things.

“I believe I might have forgotten my transcripts of the day. Would you mind joining me in retrieving them?” So whatever the wizard needed to discuss with you he couldn’t say in public… Oh Essek what a mistake you made… That certainly offers you some opportunities to use to your advantage.

“Nonsense! I have my transcripts. You’re free to borrow them, or perhaps you’d like to study them with me? It might give us the opportunity to come to a compromise without wasting the Council’s time. After all, there’s much more pressing matters.” His expression might be a thankful one but if looks could kill… you’d be introduced into your next life this very second.

You begin leading Essek out of the building not allowing him any response or comeback for your previous statement. You walk head held high catching onto the praises of others. ‘A great match’? If only they knew…

Your walk continued in seething silence from Essek. Until you reached your home. Opening the door and leaning against the doorframe making sure no one else is in sight, you smirk at him.

“I’m curious. If I refused to part with these,” You hold up the transcripts. “What would you do? Would you go back and receive your own copies or would you go without them?” You leaf through the pages. It’s not like you needed them. You already had all you needed memorised so if anything they’d go into your archives for future reference and case study if necessary. Essek doesn’t dignify you with an answer yet so you continue to press his buttons.

“Would you be able to discredit my every word or counter them without the direct word for word reference? Would your arguments hold any weight against my own? Or would you be forced to depend on the vote or Light’s mercy, the Bright Queen’s verdict because if the latter, you’ve already lost, my dear.” You can’t hold back the smugness in your achievements. The look of defeat brought you satisfaction.

Essek bites his tongue. Even he knows that in theoretics you have the upper hand now. Recalling your words from memory alone wouldn’t be enough. He’d needed to cite them exactly providing the transcript in your possession. He couldn’t go back or it might arise questions, questions he couldn’t afford at this moment. What caught him off guard was you offering him the transcript still. He takes it before you can change your mind, the pages disappearing beneath his cloak.

“Luckily for you I’m not your enemy. Yes we might disagree on matters of state but at the end of the day we’re going to be stuck together and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

“What are you suggesting?” Essek doesn’t know wether he should be wary, outright suspicious, or glad you’ve come up with a plan amidst the chaos.

“A truce. If we keep these antics going it will lead to a war between the two of us. Are you really prepared to be expected to spend the rest of your life with someone you’ve grown to hate? Because I’m not. I’d rather sleep in my bed withe the comfort of knowing my partner will not stab me in the back or sabotage me at every opportunity he gets.” Partner. He. Not they. He. So not even you had a way out of this betrothal.

“Resentment grows much faster than affection.” Essek deadpans. Yes he sees your reasonings and you make some solid arguments but that doesn’t mean he has to trust your motives. He’s aware you in your position are much more dangerous than any spy, assassin or foreign force.

“Light be with me.” You’re exasperated. You’re offering an olive branch and this is his response? You pull him inside and close the door dropping the act entirely within the confines of your own home knowing no one will be watching you here.

“I am not offering you an epic enemies to lovers tale! I’m offering to make the best out of a situation neither of us actually want to be in! Marriage is just another contract. We do what is expected of us by following it to the letter and nothing more, nothing less. Love or affection is not part of that contract but respect is.” Essek takes in your words and considers them making sure you’re not twisting things in such a way you could later use against him or to your advantage.

“Your logic is sound and your arguments persuasive.” You raise your hand in an exasperated ‘thank you’ as he straightens your back and looks down at you.

“Very well. We have an agreement.” You’re on the verge of letting out a breath of relief at Essek agreeing to your terms and suggestions. You’d rather be sure this man isn’t going to drop you on a different plane in your sleep once you’ll be forced to share a home. You’d rather know you can trust him to have your back despite your grievances. At the end of the day, you both want to survive.

“Match made in Elysium.” Sarcasm is clear in your voice and the both of you cannot help but smile. More like match made in hell with the ‘letter of the law’ approach to navigating your predicament.

—————

Pacing back and forth fingers pressed to your lips in thought of Essek’s sitting room you ponder the terms of your agreement. Essek himself is seated on the couch leaning over a two sheets of paper, a long list of demands from both sides written on each.

“Next up housing.” You announce. Essek fiddles with the pen looking over the lists.

“I’m not willing to part with my towers unless something of equal or greater value is returned. I need space for my practices, experiments and studies.”

“I’ll agree to part with my own home under the terms you will share your personal resources with me and I will have amicable space for my own pursuits be this here or at another place of our mutual choosing.” Essek considers your terms on this matter. They are agreeable but this is a negotiation and neither of you are refraining from pushing for an outcome to suit yourself best.

“We will share my home then but we will both share our resources unless they pertain to exclusively personal matters or those of state when we inevitably find ourselves on opposing sides in the Bastion.” You stop pacing and turn to face Essek. He watches for your responses.

“I get my own tower.” You counter.

“That’s preposterous. I have need for certain rooms and areas for my studies and cannot relocate them.”

“Fine. Then I’ll get all unoccupied or unnecessary rooms.”

“You’ll get your own private bedchambers, study and sitting room just as I’ll have mine. These chambers will be exclusive and privacy to be respected. Other spaces save for my laboratory, for your own safety, are communal.” By the expression on your face Essek knows you’ve caught him in a loophole.

“Agreed. We’re entitled to our private spaces and will share the unspecified ones. Kitchen, dining room, living area… library…” You caught hime there… Essek’s expression turns sour. He’d have preferred to keep that one to himself but the agreement is fair.

“I wish to make an amendment.”

“Name your terms.”

“Some shelves will belong to my private collection. You will refrain from touching these tomes and scrolls without my explicit permission.” You ponder not entirely convinced. There’s nothing in there for you and Essek knows it. You raise an eyebrow for him to continue and concede on a previously negotiated term for this amendment to go through.

“And in return, you get to redecorate our communal spaces how you see fit, within the realms of reason.” Essek empathises the latter part of his statement.

“Agreeable.” You nod. “Next up; social engagements.”

The two of you go back and forth agreeing, adjusting, and conceding to come to an equal understanding and finalise your arrangement. Over all, it went surprisingly well. It certainly was a nice change of scene to have somewhat friendly negotiations without the added pressure of the dens and the Bright Queen herself watching you.

Essek makes for a good conversationalist and you might even dare say you enjoyed your afternoon setting the terms and conditions. Maybe you could be friends after all. That would be nice.

#critical role #critical role x reader #mighty nein #mighty nein x reader #essek thelyss x reader #essek x reader #essek #essek thelyss #critrole x reader

[mrsjadecurtiss]

A different ask! What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay? Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that. But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric? What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

Thank you for your question :) I have divided my answer into points regarding the different aspects of your ask.

What do you think Roose actually feels about Ramsay?

In regards to the Roose-Ramsay relationship, some facts are important:

Roose did not raise Ramsay, and as far as we know did not interact with him in his childhood beyond the two times the miller's wife came to him after his birth. ("She was never to tell the boy who had fathered him." - Reek III, aDwD) All he knew about Ramsay was that he was his son, had his grey eyes, and was "wild and unruly" (the reason Ramsay's mom demanded a servant).

"Lord Bolton has never acknowledged the boy, so far as I know," Ser Rodrik said. "I confess, I do not know him." - Bran II, aCoK

Ramsay only came to the Dreadfort in 297AC (after Domeric died). This is extremely recent - for context, we have Dany chapters in aGoT taking place as early as 297AC, and the War of the five Kings starts at the end of 298 AC according to this timeline.

As a consequence, since Roose leaves the Dreadfort for the War of the five Kings, he assumed a paternal role for Ramsay in between 297AC and at most very early 299AC (The timeline has the battle of the green fork in January 6 and he'd need to travel to the south before that in the first place). This is only between 1-2 years depending on how early or late that year Domeric died (Shoutout to @blueagia who made me realize this timeline years ago).

Ramsay is violent and cruel, but not stupid (Roose even says he is “cunning” in Catelyn VI, aSoS). He was able to present himself as an ally to Theon in aCoK, and it stands to reason he might have given a salvagable impression to Roose at the beginning while he was testing the waters. Ned Stark is a just man who tried to execute the remote-living Jorah Mormont for slave trade; Since he never went after Ramsay, we can assume whatever Ramsay did during his time with Roose was discreet enough that word did not get to Lord Eddard, and so at the beginning Roose must have had no reason to complain too much about Ramsay's conduct either.

Eddard Stark had never had any reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew. - Jon VII, aDwD

"No tales were ever told of me. Do you think I would be sitting here if it were otherwise? Your amusements are your own, I will not chide you on that count, but you must be more discreet. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That has always been my rule. Make it yours." - Reek III, aDwD

Roose gets a legitimization for Ramsay as part of his benefit from doing the Red Wedding, showing that back then he still had an intention of keeping him as his son and heir. However, returning from the war in the south shows Roose how bad Ramsay's political decisions are when left on his own, including:

Leaving Donella Hornwood for dead, horrifically abusing Theon who is a valuable hostage and a potential ally, being unable to keep good optics and alienating his allies ("Surely you misspeak. You never slew Lord Eddard's sons, those two sweet boys we loved so well. [...] How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … " - Reek III, aDwD), abusing his wife "Arya Stark" who is beloved by their Northern allies, and more...

We see in the aDwD Theon chapters that Roose is still giving Ramsay advice and counsel (see again the Reek III quote), however he also appears to be despairing of him:

"I know." Lord Bolton sighed. "His blood is bad. He needs to be leeched. The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. No man can think so full of anger. Ramsay, though … his tainted blood would poison even leeches, I fear." - Reek III, aDwD

We also see in later Theon chapters that he frequently holds meetings without Ramsay:

[Roose:] "The hall is not the place for such discussions, my lords. Let us adjourn to the solar whilst my son consummates his marriage. The rest of you, remain and enjoy the food and drink." - The Prince of Winterfell, aDwD

Lord Bolton was not alone. Lady Dustin sat with him, pale-faced and severe; an iron horsehead brooch clasped Roger Ryswell's cloak; Aenys Frey stood near the fire, pinched cheeks flushed with cold.  - A Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD

[Lady Dustin said] "Roose is not pleased. Tell your bastard that." - The Turncloak, aDwD

Implying he is losing faith in his son, or otherwise does not trust him or value his input when it comes to political situations; a bad omen considering heirs like Robb usually sit with their fathers in councils.

My impression is that Roose initially adopted Ramsay as an heir for the following reasons:

- Sentimentality, since Ramsay is a son of his own blood ("I should've had the mother whipped and thrown her child down a well … but the babe did have my eyes." [...] "Now [Domeric's] bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?" - Reek III aDwD). As a member of a patriarchal society, Roose was raised with the expectation that he will continue his bloodline, and so likely has the wish to be succeeded by his son.

- Practicality, since Ramsay is already an adult, so he doesn't have to raise and invest in another child for years ("That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD). [Speculation: For a new son, he would also have to remarry, and both his prior wives are implied to not have liked him ("The two before her never made a sound in bed" - Reek III, aDwD) while he also doesnt speak of them with fondness - so he might also prefer to be single and raise his bastard instead of having to deal with yet another unpassionate/unloving marriage (considering he's middle aged and uncharismatic, a young new wife wouldn't be thrilled about him), until he finds a marriage that provides him a good benefit (like the Frey money + alliance).]

- The belief that, despite Ramsay being raised a peasant and having violent tendencies, it is possible to "educate him" so that he becomes a functioning member of society (see again my point about Roose counseling him). Roose possibly initially projects some of his own personality on Ramsay (Compare this meta i wrote).

During aGoT-aSoS he must have still thought Ramsay viable, which is why he has him legitimized by the crown. He has not known Ramsay closely for long; This explains why he kept him around even though he is so unfit as an heir (it takes time to fully realize that), but also explains why he is so dismissive of him, as that short time of knowing him as an adult would not make him fond of Ramsay the same way one might be fond of a child they raised.

Roose then realizes after the war, as seen in a Dance with Dragons, that Ramsay is not a fitting heir. What this means for the later books is open for now... Will he abandon Ramsay? Use him as a scapegoat? Or still try to salvage him? I personally believe he is starting to see Ramsay as a danger, and is starting to think about how to best get rid of him.

Just before the Red Wedding he talks very dismissively about how Ramsay could be executed for his crimes, but obviously he knows Robb's never gonna get the chance so maybe he cares more than that.

My belief is that Roose is fundamentally selfish and worried about his own skin. While he has the goal to establish Ramsay as a capable heir, he prioritizes his own safety and reputation. By distancing himself from Ramsay's crimes in front of the other Northmen, he can't be blamed for them; by using Ramsay as a scapegoat for Bolton crimes, he himself can wash his hands from the involvement and won't be hurt if any crimes come to light. If he keeps pointing attention at how Ramsay is wild/cruel/treacherous, then the northmen are more likely to suspect/blame Ramsay than the "peaceful" Roose. Also, even if he cared for Ramsay, he would never openly admit it because it's something that could be used against him (same reason as to why he generally keeps his emotions under wraps).

If you compare this scene from aCoK (where Ramsay is believed dead) with the scene you mentioned from aSoS, you can see that to prioritize his own safety and reputation he will sacrifice Ramsay; but he will also defend Ramsay ("Yet he is a good fighter, as cunning as he is fearless.") as long as it serves his interests, of course while still keeping an emotional distance.

One important thing about Roose is that he does not always say the things he actually thinks; When looking at his quotes it is not only important to look at what he says, but which intentions he has with his words and what effect he wants them to have on the person listening. Compare this quote by grrm:

Lord Bolton may well have all sorts of things in mind. Whether or not he would act on any of those thoughts is another matter. Roose is the sort of fellow who keeps his thoughts to himself. - SSM

But Ramsay (probably) killed precious Domeric

"Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison." - Roose in Reek III, aDwD

This is speculative, but I personally believe that case is not as clear-cut as it is made to look. Poisoning Domeric does not necessarily seem like Ramsay's style; i often see people in fandom suspect that his mother is actually the culprit. I personally suspect the first Reek of killing Domeric - we know he once stole perfume, meaning he knows his way around the castle, and he also got looked at by a maester implying he might know the maester’s chamber where poisons could be kept. He has ample reason to hate Roose, who let him live with the pigs and had him whipped and later sent him to live with Ramsay, but also seems to have interest in improving Ramsay's status ("She made him, her and Reek, always whispering in his ear about his rights." - Reek III aDwD). He is also known to be inseperable from Ramsay, so if Ramsay went to meet Domeric, Reek would come with him.

Either way it could be that Roose just didnt initially believe Ramsay killed Domeric since it looked like he died from sickness, and only later changed his mind on this issue - note that Barbrey Dustin, whom he is implied to have regularly spent time with shortly before the quote about Ramsay killing Domeric, seems to be a believer that Ramsay was the murderer, so she might be the one who convinced Roose; And maybe Ramsay's bad conduct during the time of the war aided to make Roose believe her. Changing his mind on this could influence his decision on what to do with Ramsay come the Winds of Winter.

Or alternatively, if we’re keeping closer to the text, he just thought the positives of keeping Ramsay outweigh the negatives of him being a kinslayer; however it seems odd that Roose, who is so worried about his safety, would adopt a man if his first act he knows of was this treacherous and dangerous. Then again he frequently verbally states that he does not see Ramsay as a threat, which can be read in different ways depending on if you take it as a literal statement or as a tool to enact dominance over his dangerous son.

"All you have I gave you. You would do well to remember that, bastard.” [...]

“I know what he said. You're to spy on me and keep his secrets." Bolton chuckled. "As if he had secrets. Sour Alyn, Luton, Skinner, and the rest, where does he think they came from? Can he truly believe they are his men?"  - Reek III, aDwD

What does he actually feel about him and potential Walda baby(-ies)?

I think he would like to have a son that continues his values and manages to be a capable heir to continue the Bolton line. Domeric was the ideal son, talented and competent, and Roose invested a lot of time and money in giving him a great education. Now that Domeric died and all of this is down the drain, and Roose himself isn't getting any younger, he wants to have a new heir in a way that's the most convenient for him. It appears to me like he is currently weighing the positives of each option (Ramsay or new Baby), and it might even be that he has already come to a decision, considering how he is starting to grow frustrated with Ramsay.

"I have become oddly fond of my fat little wife. [...] Ramsay will kill [all the sons she bears me], of course. That's for the best. I will not live long enough to see new sons to manhood, and boy lords are the bane of any House." - Reek III, aDwD

In line with my earlier point about Roose’ words also being about the effect and not just the message, I believe the line about him being ok with Ramsay killing his sons might be very calculated towards the fact that Roose knows Theon is to report everything he hears back to Ramsay. If Ramsay hears this, he is placated, because it confirms that he is still the main Bolton heir - which means that he does not have to think about harming Lady Walda (because the sons are no threat to his position), and he does not have to think about harming Roose (because he just has to wait until he can succeed him).

Of course all of this post is based off the first five books, so the interpretation may change once the next book comes out or through a different reading of the lines.

#asoiaf #roose bolton #ramsay bolton #asoiaf meta #meta #asks #i have a cold i hope this is coherent as a whole... if you have questions feel free to come into my ask box #mzyraj

[mymothershumility]

adragonempress asked: “hold on to me.”

past transmissions || { always accepting }

{ @adragonempress }

“Why does father want me to be his successor, Mama?” At one-and-ten, such a responsibility seems more than she could ever hope to take on. Her father had been clear, though. His words had been final. She would ascend the throne when his time was done.

Such a time, Laira hopes, is a long time away. Still, their empire has never had an empress before. She will be its first.

At her side, her mother smiles sweetly down at her, fingers curling a bit more around her hand. Although the path that they walk is a familiar one, Laira still enjoys holding onto her mother’s hand as they walk about the gardens.

“You are his eldest child, sweetling,” Azarni tells her. “His firstborn. The throne is yours by birthright.”

“What of Rubyn?” Laira asks. Her half-brother is a year younger than she is, born to her father’s second wife. According to her mother, he is everything that Father does not wish to ascend to his throne. Laira understands, though never admits such a thing aloud.

Rubyn is cruel, but with all the charms and poison of his lady mother at his disposal. That, mother has told her in the past, makes him all the more dangerous. Father has told her much the same while in private audience with her and has done his best to shield her away where possible. Though second in line to the throne, Rubyn does not lack for support there within their Father’s court. He has his friends -- his supporters. His mother, Ree’Yu has seen to such things.

“Rubyn will maintain his royal status,” Azarni says. “But, when the time comes, he shall answer to you as any other subject of your empire.” 

If the boy’s mother had her own way, Azarni knew that she would have him overtake Laira in the line of succession. Taro tells her all that the woman whispers, has since the moment the departed Topaz Emperor forced her husband’s hand and had him take a second wife in hopes of being given a male heir.

Azarni sees Ree’Yu for all that she is. Hidden behind silks, sweet smiles, and gentle words, a serpent lies coiled, ever ready to strike. Were it possible, Azarni knows that the woman’s first victim would be her daughter.

Such knowledge is why Taro shields their child as he does. Such knowledge is what ensures that Ree’Yu is ever observed. Azarni is certain of that herself.

“What about you?” Laira asks, glancing down at the water lilies floating upon the pond they are crossing over. Laira recognizes the bridge they are traversing, brightens with the realization of where they are traveling to. These parts of the gardens are her favorite.

“What about me, sweetling?”

“If I am Father’s successor, what will happen to you?” Her mother has ever been her greatest champion at court. As vile a boy as Rubyn could be, and as treacherous as Laira knew his lady mother to be, neither dared to cross her mother. They fear her --and they fear Father-- in a way that Laira does not understand.

Father says it is because of their direct descent from the Lion of Night and the Maiden-Made-of-Light. He tells her often that she is blessed with a direct lineage from both his family as well as her mother’s. Father’s lineage, of course, comes from the Topaz Emperor and all the other Emperors of Yi Ti before him. Mama’s lineage comes from Laira’s great grandmother, a sister of the Onyx Emperor who had married a warrior from Leng.

Mama says something more is to blame. She says the Blood of the Dragon sparks the fear in Ree’Yu.

Laira has her mother’s olive complexion, but she has the silver hair and the purple eyes of the Valyrians as well. The Valyrian blood within her is strong... stronger than either her Lengii or YiTish blood. Father’s mother was a Lady of the Freehold, a dragonlord that had come to Yi Ti and then lingered to become the bride of the Topaz Emperor. Mama’s father had been a dragonlord as well, one who had come to Leng during exploration. It had been in the Valyrian Freehold where her mother had been born and grown.

And, it was within the Freehold where her mother’s greatest champions reside.

That, her mother says, is the reason behind Ree’Yu’s fear of her. Mama has the strength of dragonlords --the strength of House Saito, House Targaryen, and House Velaryon-- at her back should the need ever arise. Not even Yi Ti would survive the wroth of dragons if it was rained down upon them.

“I will remain at court with you,” Azarni assures. “Be it as a member of your council or as your regent until you are of age, I will be with you.”

Such a thing relieves some of Laira’s worries. It will not be so bad so long as her mother remains with her. Still, she continues to hope that her ascent to Father’s throne is far from then.

Skipping the final few strides down the bridge, Laira smiles when her slippered feet touch back on soft grass. A rumbling purr greets her and her mother as they finish their walk.

Mama’s dragonmount has ever been a marvel to the members of Father’s court. Stardancer is less tolerant of the eyes of strangers, though, and has long since made the inner sanctum of Mama’s gardens her den. For then, her mother’s dragonmount raises her head in greeting to her rider and to Laira as well. When her head stretches forth, the light of the late evening sun catches on the pearl colored scales upon her horns and the lilac scales along her back.

Laira greets the dragoness with the press of her palm to the warm scales at her snout, giggling when Stardancer blows warm air back upon her. The dragoness is as much her champion as her mother is, a watchful pair of eyes and a shield for her when Mama is not present. Laira has always been thankful for such a fierce protector.

She still hopes, one day, that Stardancer may bear a clutch of eggs that produce dragon hatchlings. The dragoness has laid eggs there within the gardens before, yet none have hatched.

Perhaps ascending to Father’s throne would not be as harrowing to her if she had a dragonmount of her own to look over her.

~oOo~

Taro leaves the mortal realm to join his ancestors among the stars only four short years after he names Laira as his heir. Her daughter is five-and-ten and the weight of an empire now presses down upon her shoulders.

Azarni stands at court, watching as the priests of Yi Ti proclaim her daughter the Amethyst Empress. It suits her, the Empress Regent believes. Taro had always doted upon his daughter, dubbing her Little Amethyst or Little Silver in the infancy of Laira’s youth. It’s fitting, Azarni knows, that Laira takes up the amethyst as her chosen mantle. She knows, as well, that Taro would approve of such a choice.

Azarni watches, indigo eyes glancing about the crowded hall and the occupants within. She watches and she listens. As her gaze sets upon her deceased husband’s second wife and her daughter’s half-brother, cold seems to sweep itself down the curve of her spine.

She hears nothing more than the slithering of serpents coiling to strike as she watches the two exchange hushed whispers between one another.

Azarni has ever looked to peace over war when possible. Yet, she is not above disposing of vermin to keep her daughter safe and to ensure she is granted what is hers.

Later that evening, when the festivities have quieted and she and her daughter have retired to their respective apartments, Azarni sweeps into Laira’s private study, carrying a lovely ebon box in her arms.

“A gift from your grandfather,” Azarni tells her daughter as she crosses the room, setting the ebon box in her hands down upon her daughter’s desk when she is near enough. “He sent a note stating that you were quite fond of it when we last visited the Freehold.”

Within the box, nestled within scarlet colored velvet, Valyrian steel shines. Laira recognizes the longsword, is already in possession of the sword’s twin. Dark Star bears silver and amethyst where this sword bears gold and ruby. It is beautiful all the same, forged in the exquisite nature that only the Freehold can produce.

“Does it have a name?” Laira asks, leaning forward to examine the blade all the more.

“Your grandfather thought you might grant it a better name than he could,” Azarni says.

She is thankful to her father for the Valyrian steel he has sent to his granddaughter. Taro had seen that his daughter was trained in the art of war. He had seen that she knew how to defend herself should the need ever arise.

Still, there is part of her that wishes her father would have sent a dragon hatchling from Valyria in the sword’s place.

~oOo~

Barely a year has passed when Azarni is awakened from slumber by a piercing scream. The sound makes her blood go cold... spurs her to leap from her bed and bolt to where her daughter should be resting within her own apartments just steps from Azarni’s own. The doors to her daughter’s chambers are ajar, light still flickering within the lanterns upon her walls. The space is empty, looks as though it has not even been disturbed.

Another scream sounds and Azarni is running again, form tearing through the halls of the palace and out into the gardens.

“MOTHER!”

The scream echoes all around her, sends her on an all too familiar path and deeper into the gardens.

“MAMA!”

The second call is all the more terrifying. Something more sounds over the call. Stardancer screams and Azarni sees pale flame shooting forth from the depths of the garden. Smoke begins to gather in the air and the tops of trees glow orange and yellow as fire begins to spread through the branches.

She finds Stardancer in her nesting area, fire burning through the trees above her. There is blood upon the ground and smoke churning in the air around her. Azarni sees her daughter’s huddled shadow beneath Stardancer’s massive form. She runs, ignoring the heat of the fire blazing above her and breath stealing smoke that hangs thick in the air. She trips over her own dressing gown, crashing to the ground before crawling to where she is needed most.

Shattered steel slices through the skin of her knees and the palms of her hands as she crawls through the grass, though she pays no mind to the pain.

Curled underneath her dragonmount, her daughter is gasping for breath --choking-- and her hands are clasped around the grip and pommel of a Valyrian blade. The steel has been buried in her chest, the length of the blade having been broken and shattered. A broken edge has cut through her daughter’s skin, slicing through bone and muscle and out through her shoulder blade.

Stardancer screams again, feeding off the panic now pulsing through her rider. And, then, there is another yell over the roar of flame in the trees above them.

“There she is! She has attacked the Empress! She has attacked my sister!”

Azarni hears the clang of armored guards as they clamber in their direction, looks and sees her daughter’s half-brother among them. Even from where she kneels, huddled beneath Stardancer’s monstrous form, she can see the blood on his hands and his tunic. She knows what has been done.

“Kill her!” Rubyn yells. “Kill the traitor!”

The horrific smile that he gives her when he catches her eye is enraging.

She should have killed the boy when Taro drew his last breath. She should have killed him and his vicious mother.

“Mama,” Laira gasps, lurching and retching into the grass in front of her. The contents of her stomach are crimson.

Azarni has no time to think, no time to contemplate… not when her daughter gasps and chokes on her own blood… not when Stardancer screams as a spear is thrown into the skin of her neck. Azarni watches the spear clamber back to the ground, the tip of it melted entirely as smoldering black blood oozes down onto the grass from the open wound in the dragoness’ neck. She is gathering her daughter in her arms in the next moment, tugging her and pulling her along with her as she crawls beneath Stardancer’s belly. The dragoness bathes her attackers in white flame, sending them fleeing from her. Those that are engulfed in the flames burn to ash where they stand, cooked to death in their own armor.

It is all Azarni requires to pull her daughter from beneath her dragonmount. She’s pulling her onto Stardancer’s back only a second later, urging her up the dragoness’ wing to where she can sit along the dragoness’ spine. Stardancer accepts Laira as she had when she had been younger, makes no move to unseat her as she would any other. Azarni climbs after her, stopping when Laira gasps and gestures a shaking hand to the space just behind her. Azarni’s head snatches in the indicated direction, sees bloodied steel and a simple silk bag resting in the grass just beyond Stardancer’s wing.

She’s sliding from Stardancer’s wing to snatch both up. She will make use of the blade --will make use of Dark Star-- in whatever way necessary to fend enemies away from them. And, though she has no knowledge of what resides within the silk bag, she loops it across her and brings it all the same.

It is important enough that her daughter wasted her strength to indicate it to her. Azarni shall not leave it behind to fall into Rubyn’s possession.

Clambering back onto Stardancer’s back, Azarni looks in time to see a group of soldiers be swept aside by a thrashing sweep of her dragonmount’s tail. All are torn near in two from the strength of the strike.

“Hold on to me,” Azarni whispers to her daughter, speaking in the High Valyrian dialect of the Freehold.

Then, Stardancer’s wings beat through the air, sending out a thundering snap, and all Azarni can hear is the sound of wind whistling through her ears and the sounds of Laira’s choking breathing.

~oOo~

The Shadow Lands are of no threat to her. There is nothing left for Azarni to lose.

When Stardancer alights upon the black stone walls of a temple within the port city of Asshai, her daughter has been dead for half a day.

Still, Stardancer screams and lowers herself into the courtyard of the temple, lilac and pearl scales glinting in the torchlight that flickers along the black stone walls. To engage with the Shadowbinders was a dangerous thing. Or, so the priests of Yi Ti and those of Valyria warned. Yet Azarni is desperate enough to trifle with them.

Her dragonmount’s calls bring forth two women from the depths of the temple, both clothed in the garb of priestesses of the Red God. By then, Azarni has dismounted from Stardancer’s back... has collapsed onto the black stones of the courtyard with her daughter’s body in arm. Dark Star lies forgotten upon the stone beside her, the silk bag still caught about her shoulder where she had secured it half a day before.

“Please,” she begs, offering no introduction of herself and waiting for none from the others. “Please, help her.”

She knows the stories of the Red God, has heard whispers among the stone halls of Valyria about His supposed power. If the Red God has the power to return lost ones from death, then let Him return her daughter.

Behind the cover of a red lacquered wooden mask, Azarni hears one of the priestesses hum softly. “A dark eye fell upon her,” the woman speaks, her words partially muffled by the barrier of her mask. “Some great evil struck against her.”

“The Lord shows favor to her, though,” the other priestess speaks, green eyes looking to one of the torches burning upon the walls of the temple. She is garbed in long red robes, her dark hair swept back from her face with a pair of red lacquered pins. “The coming darkness shall flee before fire made flesh,” she says. “It shall flee before the light.”

With a final look into the flames, the dark haired priestess steps towards the dragonrider and her deceased party. Distance is kept, though, with the warning growl of the woman’s dragonmount. A pale hand is offered down to her all the same, a soft smile given to offer what little comfort possible.

“Peace, Empress Regent,” the dark haired woman whispers, her green eyes soft. “All will be righted. The Lord of Light has assured me. The Amethyst Empress shall rise once more.”

“How…” Azarni begins, hold tightening upon her daughter’s body when the second priestess moves towards her.

“The Lord of Light knows all. He wishes to aid you, yet you must have faith in us and what we will ask of you.”

Faith. Faith is all that Azarni can hope for then. What else does she have?

Hold relinquishing, the Empress Regent slowly stands from her knelt position upon the stones. Her daughter is left behind, cold and prone upon the stone with shattered Valyrian steel still thrust through her chest.

“We will need the eggs that you have with you,” the masked priestess says. Though she has moved closer to the deceased young girl, the woman remains at a respectable distance from the dragoness that looms over all those within the courtyard.

Even among the Shadow Lands, it was known that dragons were not meant to be crossed. Among the servants of the Lord of Light, though, such creatures were revered.

Dragons were fire made flesh, it was said. And, fire was the Lord’s power.

Eggs?

Azarni does not understand… does not until she feels the dark haired priestess press a hand to the bag that hangs at her hip. The top of the bag is carefully opened. Inside, she spies five dragon eggs nestled within the silk. With a shrug, the bag is removed from her shoulder and surrendered to the priestess at her side.

The Freehold has more dragons and Stardancer might yet lay more clutches of eggs.

For her daughter’s life, there is no hesitance to relinquish them.

Taking the eggs, the dark haired priestess sets them about the young girl. One is set just above her head, two on either side of her hips, and one just beneath her slippered feet. The last is placed upon her stomach, just below where the hilt of the blade still protrudes from her chest.

It is only when the eggs are placed that the masked priestess comes to stand by the Empress Regent. “Your mount must bathe her in dragonfire,” the masked woman tells her.

“She will be burned away if I give such an order,” Azarni argues.

Faith. She must have faith. Yet, she could not burn her daughter. Not until she had tried everything to return her.

“The Lord of Light has made you a promise,” the dark haired priestess reminds, lingering closer to Laira’s form. Her tone remains gentle as she speaks. “He shall not mislead you. The fire shall breathe life back into her.”

“And the blade...” Azarni begins, indigo eyes settling upon the hilt of the sword. The gold of the cross guard and the pommel still shines bright in the dim light. Her eyes begin to fill with tears as she stares at it... as she stares at all that has been done to her daughter in the name of a throne.

I should have killed that monstrous boy, she thinks again. I should have killed him the moment I was given the chance.

“Lightbringer must be forged.” What Lightbringer is, the masked priestess does not offer. “It will be dealt with when the time is right. Then, you shall have your daughter once more. The Lord has promised it.”

Faith.

With a trembling voice, Azarni speaks, “Dracarys,” and watches as white and amethyst flames engulf her daughter and the eggs surrounding her.

For a moment, Azarni can see nothing beyond the white and amethyst light of Stardancer’s flames. She smells burning fabric and, for a moment, burning flesh. Panic immediately pulses through her.

What has she done? What has she ordered? She has doomed her daughter.

Then, metal is clattering and skittering across stone. Azarni sees a flash of silver and gold against the shadowed walls before Valyrian steel lands beyond the flames, reforged to its former glory and pulsing crimson against the black stone of the courtyard.

Shattering comes next, each louder than the last. The final shattering is so loud, it feels as though the stars may fall from the sky because of it. Stardancer roars in answer to it. Five smaller sounds echo her roar.

When the flames die away, five dragon hatchlings appear from the ash and cinder left behind from the inferno. Then, Azarni hears a gasping scream above the call of the dragon hatchlings.

And, her daughter breathes again.

#adragonempress #;transmissions #v; lesser men defied the dragonlords at their own peril #;drabble #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: violence #[[ this turned out different than i planned but i like it #limited pov from laira and then major pov from azarni ]]

[thechangeling]

I was the one who found him:

This is a little idea my brain just came up with. Helen and Ty oneshot right before the meeting at the Council hall at the end of LOS. I have such a thing for queer characters interacting with one another.

Helen was back.

The words kept swirling around in Ty's head, taking the time to fully sink in and be absorbed. Helen is back. She's here. She's finally here after all of this time.

There were many different confusing and conflicting emotions that he was feeling. He couldn't quite describe it or decipher it just yet. But he was mostly happy to see her. Perhaps a little anxious and wary of the change.

Afraid of when she would be ripped away again. It was all too much. Too overwhelming. Ty took a deep breath as Livvy bounced over to where Mark and Helen were gripping onto each other and whispering to each other in happy, tearful voices.

Mark and Helen had a special relationship, sort of like the one he had with Livvy. He had never been bothered or jealous in any way. He knew it was because there was something different about both of them that bound them together. They were both part fae and both Bisexual. They had a special bond the same way Ty and Livvy did. It made perfect sense.

Livvy ran over to Helen and Helen rushed forward, embracing her. There was more crying and excited chatter. Ty hung back, not really knowing what to do or say.

"Aren't you going to go say hi to your sister?" Kit asked from behind him. Ty felt an odd pull at his heartstrings at the sound of his voice. He turned to face Kit.

Kit had become a sort of constant lately. Ty had gotten quite used to always having him there. And he enjoyed it as well. There was something about Kit that made Ty curious, and all kinds of other emotions he had trouble deciphering. He liked having Kit around, liked hearing him talk, liked telling him about Sherlock, and all of his plans which sometimes now didn't even include Livvy. It wasn't as though Ty was trying to freeze her out, it was just that there were times that he honestly just wanted Kit to himself.

It was a little concerning.

And Ty loved to stare at him. There was just something about his face, the shape of his lips, his cheekbones, his tiny little California freckles. Ty wanted to touch every single one. Then he had seen Kit kissing Livvy and he had felt that same overwhelming, horrible feeling of despair that usually came with a horrible breakdown.

And he had been furious too. Furious with his sister for some unknown reason. Ty hadn't been mad at Livvy in over five years. The worst part was is he had no logical reason to feel this way.

"I'm scared to go see her," Ty admitted. "It's been such a long time since we last talked. I'm worried that she's different. That's she's changed too much," Ty explained. "I can't handle her being different."

Kit stared at him for a moment, then smiled a small compassionate smile. "But aren't you kinda different now too? So odds are she's changed as well and that's ok. If you're both different people now, and your old relationship doesn't fit any more, then make a new one," Kit explained. "I promise you, it'll be just as good. Trust me ok?"

Ty was so tempted to tell him that he would believe anything Kit said as long as he kept looking at him like that.

This was very dangerous. These things didn't usually end well for Ty.

He nodded and turned around, heading for Helen, too afraid to spend any longer with Kit. Helen broke away from Livvy and beamed at him.

"Ty Ty! Oh look at how tall you've gotten!" She exclaimed.

Ty shrugged. "Yes that tends to happen as someone ages."

Helen laughed. "I missed you sweetheart. Are you ok to hug, or do you want a high five instead?"

Ty paused, considering it. "I think I'd rather high five," he admitted. It had been a long time since he had last seen Helen, and he wasn't sure if he would be ok with her touch.

When he felt the skin of her palm touch his, Ty felt a momentary rise of panic. But then he felt the wave of familiarity wash over him. And the memories. Helen reading to him, playing with him when he was young. Listening to him talk about all of the things closest to his heart without any judgement.

Helen hugging him goodbye the day she was exiled, telling him it was going to be ok.

Telling him that sometimes life was just unfair and cruel. Especially to those who were different.

Ty felt a lump in his throat. He held on tightly to her hand, trying not to cry. Helen smiled.

"I missed you too Ty. So," she continued. "Who is that over there?" She pointed past him over at Kit. Ty attempted to appear neutral.

"That's Christopher Herondale," Ty told her. "Although he prefers to be called Kit. He's a decesendent of the lost Herondale line." Ty stopped, smiling slightly. "I was the one who found him."

Helen smirked playfully. "You were the one who found him huh? Does that mean you get to keep him?"

Ty froze, stunned.

"What?"

Helen shook her head. "No I'm sorry Ty Ty, I shouldn't have said that. I was just trying to joke around," she apologized. Ty was still unable to say anything. His breathing had become harsh. He didnt understand why he felt this way. So exposed.

Or maybe he did. Helen had indirectly forced him to confront something he had been trying so hard to avoid. Except he wasn't ready. He didn't have the time. There was too much going on.

Ty had never really thought about his attraction towards other people before, or any kind of romantic interest. Yes there had been both girls and boys that he had found attractive over the years but it was never significant. It was never really noteworthy.

He had never felt the things he was feeling now.

"Ty?" Helen sounded concerned. She gently placed a hand on his arm. "Are you ok?"

Ty shook himself out of it and tried to appear calm. In the background more and more people were entering the council hall and taking there seats.

"Listen," she continued. "After this, if you want someone to talk to-"

"Will you even be here afterwards?" Ty interrupted. He hadn't meant to sound rude, but he felt vulnerable in a room full of untrustworthy people.

Helen opened her mouth to respond, but the sound if Consul Penhallow's voice telling everyone to take their seats interrupted her.

Helen looked at him apologetically. Ty said nothing, just watched her walk back to where Aline was sitting. This meeting would determine her fate. It would determine if she could stay or not. Ty looked around the room at all if the cohort members with their signs, at the nervous faces of his family members.

There was a strong part of Ty that just wanted to leave. But he couldn't. It was important that he stayed for his family. He searched for Kit before he could stop himself and came up empty.

Livvy suddenly appeared at his side, pulling on his arm. "Come on Ty, we need to sit." Ty thought about asking where Kit was but then decided against it. It didnt matter. He didnt need to be there. Ty willed himself not to care.

He couldn't shake the feeling of panic and discomfort though. He couldn't help but remember Helen's words from earlier.

Does that mean you get to keep him?

Ty wished he had the ability to approach any of this with logic or reason. He wished he could find the right words and arrange them in a perfect pretty way, like a poem or a song. But in the end all Ty had was this feeling. This powerful all consuming feeling that had led him to sit in front of a strangers door for no reason.

No reason other then the hope of seeing his face again.

Does that mean you get to keep him?

No it didn't.

Not as long as Kit kept leaving him.

Author's note: I know I used breakdown instead of meltdown and that's kind of offensive, but at this point Ty doesn't know what meltdowns are called.

@ti-bae-rius @zfoxdraws @anxiousbookenthusiast @julieandthefandoms @eutony-in-whisper @older-brother-kit @dianasarrow @stxr-thxif @thelandunderthehilll @banesbitch @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane @swordwifes

#tda #the dark artifices #kit x ty #tsc #los #lord of shadows #kitxty #helen blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #kit herondale

[ymirhistoriafan]

Ymir Post Time Skip. (Part Two)

So continuing on from my last post.  Again this is all just my own ideas, with the intent of sharing them and maybe giving you all something fun to read.  

Historia approaches the Farmer who has been helping her who threw stones at her as a child and has shown genuine remorse for his actions.  Ymir not happy, goes along with it as she decides it would be better him then someone Historia is close with since this is happening.  Ymir gives the guy credit, he’s been very supportive of Historia and has stuck by her. However Ymir is now feeling the rift between her and Historia.  Historia doesn’t marry the Farmer for Ymir’s sake, and Ymir despite it all sticks beside Historia knowing she needs all the help and support she can get.  

After Eren is brought back to the Island along with Zeke, the uneasy calm before the storm feeling is filling the air and Ymir knows some bad things are going to happen very soon.  Ymir hears through the grapevine of Sasha’s death and shows genuine sadness for her.  As this goes on Ymir observes Historia depressed and distant glances and attitude, even the coldness she seems to be presenting to the father of her child.  Ymir tries to council her, and reminds her this was her idea and it’s too late to back out now or show regret.  Historia doesn’t really give Ymir a response and Ymir drops it.   

While they remain in hiding, The Yeagerist carry out their rebellion for Eren and kill the Key Members with in the Government, and carry out the plan of the Wine Spiked with Zeke’s spinal fluid.  When words reaches them of this, Ymir is caught off guard and this part of the plan was not something she was aware off.  Without pushing the subject too hard, she confronts Historia who doesn’t give her a direct answer.  Ymir now (much like us the audience lol) is unsure just how much Eren and Historia really talked about and how much Historia knows.  Still, she sticks by Historia knowing if it came to it, Historia’s safety must come first in Ymir’s mind.  However it is starting to take it’s toll on Ymir as her mind is being pulled in all different directions.  

The Rumbling begins as Eren reveals his plan to all the Subject of Ymir Fritz and how he plans to destroy the entire world outside the Island.  Now understanding the full scale of what is going on Ymir is feeling very angry, however before can consider her options and who’s side she really wants to be on, Historia’s water breaks and she goes into labor.  While unhappy, Ymir gets her priorities in order and stays beside Historia’s side while The Alliance do battle with Eren trying to stop The Rumbling.  

Everything pretty much goes as we see in the ending, and Historia gives birth to a heathy baby girl.  Ymir is happy for this but now has time to think about everything.  She knows the island could now be in even more danger than before, even with all The Titans gone.  The Yeagerists seem to have taken control and are willing to keep on fighting the rest of the world.  Historia plays along as not to put herself in risk, but this is not an easy thing for Ymir to do.  Knowing Ymir, she’s mouth off from time to time and it would get her in trouble, and while Historia might be able to get her out of it, Ymir’s life line is running out.  While Historia would prefer to marry Ymir, she sadly faces the fact it will put their lives in danger.  So for herself and the sake of her daughter, she marries The Farmer.  This does gut Ymir a lot, but Ymir understands.  Knowing Historia is safe Ymir decides to go off on her own for a bit, she needs to get away and really process everything.  Plus she has grown to trust The Farmer and accepts Historia is in good hands with him.

Ymir over the next couple of years doesn’t become a stranger or memory, and always visits Historia and her family.  As the Alliance is returning for peace talks, Ymir goes to stand by Historia in hopes the war can be resolved in the best way it can. They arrive home and Armin shares the story as he knows it with Historia and the people of the Island.  I can’t picture how Ymir can be happy with any of this upon hearing it. Maybe Historia is unsure what to believe anymore but has put so much faith in Eren until now, so she’s ignoring a lot of the truth.  I can see Ymir lashing out at this point and maybe pointing out how stupid they must be for treating Eren like some kind of hero.  By now any respect Ymir may have had for Eren is zero, and she struggles to see why people are holding him in such high regard.   She doesn’t want to add any more troubles for Historia though so leaves while the peace talks begin.  Ymir does have a better grasp on how cruel the world is most, but even this has shocked down to her very core.  She knows it’s going to take much longer for the world to heal than most of them think, and after clearing her head returns home to Historia.  She admits her feelings for Historia will never change, but after everything that has happened they are both now unsure about many things.  The two talk all night and know they are still bonded for life.  In a way Ymir is proud of Historia for being selfish, but feels as if Historia has unwillingly played a pawn throughout the whole endeavor.  Still, Historia is a mother, a better mother than Alma.  As Queen Historia is doing her best to bring peace and taking care of her friends. Ymir wishes they could live in a world where they can be together freely as they both would like, but promises to always be there for Historia.  But things have changed between them, and it’s just the way it has to be.  Still, Ymir is glad to be part of Historia’s life, and is happy with the second chance of life she got since she gained The jaw Titan.   And that, is I feel Ymir’s story may have gone during the events of the final arcs of Attack on titan.  Thanks for reading.

#freckles ymir #historia x ymir #aot #yimuhisu #yimukuri #fan idea #ymir #ymir headcanons

[bronte-deserves-better]

What is UP, fuckers? Today I present to you: 12.5k words of pure self-indulgence by Auriel, posted by request of my discord friends who i've been bothering about this fic for like a week. Massive shoutout to y'all for tolerating me i have NO idea how you do it.

Title: Can’t find my way home (but it’s through you)

Wordcount: 12834

Warnings: flashbacks, panic attack (neither of those are from the POV character though), misgendering, injury, kidnapping, not too-graphic torture, brief mention of hospitals, mentioned abuse, annnnnd I think that's all.

I’ll link the AO3 in a reblog, but since I know AO3 is blocked for some people I’m also putting it here.

"How are we supposed to get to him?" Gisela was practically snarling in frustration as she paced. "Bronte is a cornerstone of the Council- and seemingly as unbreakable as one!"

"You're the people person, not me," Vespera reminded dryly. "I'm not the master of manipulation. Experimentation is my field."

"Well, fuck." Gisela flopped in a chair next to the other. "I was so certain Fintan was what would cause him to fall apart. Fintan turning against him, Fintan's supposed 'death', and then of course that dramatic reveal at the announcement."

"Fintan does have style, I must admit."

"He does. But even he hasn't been able to touch Bronte. Bronte barely even hesitated to speak against Fintan!"

Vespera sighed. "Gisela, I have no idea why you're telling all this to me."

"I'm brainstorming. Shut up."

"Brainstorm away, then."

"Right." Gisela resumed her pacing. "We had a weakness- we had his brother. But Fintan's starting to lose the will to fight him any longer, which is a dangerous liability. Not to mention that Fintan doesn't seem to be able to hurt him."

"I don't see why we can't just torture him," Vespera said, sounding bored.

Gisela glared at her. "In order to torture him, we'd have to kidnap him, Vespera."

"That can be arranged, you know."

"I know. But it's easier to break him from a distance. Or to..." She trailed off.

"To what?"

"Oralie!"

Vespera frowned. "What about Councillor Oralie?"

"Oralie is how we get to Bronte. You see, Vespera, from what Fintan has told me, I've been able to discern that Bronte fancies himself a protector. You can see it in his votes on the Council, too, always out to protect as many people as he can. Now what better way to crush his spirit than make him very aware of the fact that he cannot protect one of the people he cares about most?"

“Clever. And cruel. I like it.”

-

The announcement had come without warning, the elves of the Lost Cities assembling in Eternalia to hear some sort of Council plan to do something or other with the registry. Sophie hadn’t really been listening, and now she kinda regretted that since she was staring off into space when the first black-cloaked Neverseen members glittered into view.

“Shit,” Grady hissed.

“Language,” Edaline hissed.

Sophie stared at the Neverseen members. “Fuck.”

Everyone seemed to move at once, rushing to confront them. Even the Council made a move, Bronte raising his hands in a familiar gesture that Sophie knew meant he was preparing his inflicting, while some of the others rushed forward. And when all the chaos cleared, the duo of Neverseen members were levitating in the air, holding Oralie between them. Sophie watched as one of them shook back her hood, revealing Lady Gisela.

“Good evening, Councillors.”

Bronte, unsurprisingly, was the first to act, surging forward with a call of "Oralie!"

"Take a step closer and she dies," Gisela hissed, digging the knife she was holding a little further into Oralie's neck. "We wouldn't want that to happen, now would we, Miss Pyren?"

"My name is Bronte," Bronte spat, but he took a step back.

"Good."

"What do you want with Oralie?" Emery demanded.

"She's the kindest of us," Bronte agreed with a glare that could shatter steel. "Leave her alone."

Gisela threw back her head and laughed. "You want to know what I want with your pretty colleague here? Well, Pyren, I want to show you how absolutely and utterly powerless you are. Look at you. You're an ancient, a wielder of one of the most dangerous abilities in our world, and a Councillor for so long most people can't even remember when you were appointed. And yet you can do nothing to save your very best friend."

"Don't listen to her," Oralie pleaded. Sophie was close enough to discern genuine terror on her face. "She's just trying to get in your head."

"Silence!" Gisela slashed the knife lightly down the side of Oralie's throat, and Sophie watched blood begin to bead there. "You will say nothing, you pathetic excuse for a Councillor."

Oralie went silent at that, but her eyes blazed with defiance.

"You see?" Gisela directed a smirk at Bronte. "This is what happens when you're not careful enough with the people you love...people will take them away from you, Miss Pyren."

Sophie watched Bronte's hands clench and unclench helplessly. "Don't call me that."

"What, your last name? You want to keep your heritage a secret? You always said you were proud to be a Pyren, even when pyrokinesis was banned."

"No-"

Gisela smirked again and slashed a second line on Oralie's throat, causing the empath to hiss in pain. "I don't suppose anyone else feels like being stupid and trying to stand against me? You say this ancient is the strongest of you...but she can't even save her best friend."

"Stop calling him tha-" Oralie was cut off by a slap across the face from the other hooded figure, who Sophie recognized as Vespera.

"Stop your uppity commentary. Gisela and I will be leaving shortly, seeing as none of you have anything interesting to say."

Sophie could see a few tears forming in Oralie's eyes as she silently raised a hand to the red mark on her cheek.

"My associate is correct." Gisela's voice was triumphant. "It is time we leave- and show all of you just how weak your Councillors truly are." 

Vespera raised a crystal to the light. The elves of the plaza scattered. Gisela stepped into the beam with Oralie. The Council and bodyguards rushed to try and stop her. Sophie stood paralyzed. And above it all, a single, desperate scream rose.

"Oralie!"

The silence left in its wake was devastating, broken only by a soft, shuddering sob. Sophie turned to see Bronte's face crumple, tears dripping down his cheeks. Meanwhile, the rest of the Council just stood and stared awkwardly. 

Sophie was about to go running on stage herself when Emery quietly stepped out of the line, extending an arm and pulling Bronte into an embrace. To everyone's surprise, the ancient Councillor put up no resistance, instead burying his face in Emery's shoulder as his small frame shook. 

"We will find Councillor Oralie, and we will bring everyone responsible for this to justice," Emery addressed the crowd. "The Neverseen will not get away with this. In the meantime, we ask that everyone return home and remain calm, and the eleven of us will rule provisionally."

"What does that mean?" Sophie whispered to Grady.

"Technically, the Council isn't allowed to act on anything without all twelve of them," Grady whispered back. "It's called provisional rule when an incomplete Council takes action in urgent situations."

"Oh."

Elves were starting to leave, murmurs abounding as people reached for home crystals or pathfinders. Sophie decided not to follow the rest, instead grabbing her parent's hands and dragging them through the crowd towards the Council. All eleven remaining Councillors had now broken rank, the rest surrounding Bronte and Emery with varying levels of helpfulness. 

"There there," She heard Clarette say as they got closer. "We'll do perfectly fine at hunting those motherfucking orc-faced sons of dipshits down."

"What did you just say?" Alina demanded.

Clarette repeated the sentence, and Sophie realized she had been speaking in dwarven before as the rest of the Council sputtered. Bronte was the only one who didn't react at all, completely motionless in Emery's arms. 

"Hey," Terik said quietly, and it took a moment for Sophie to realize he was talking to her.

She waved awkwardly. "Hi, I guess."

"Did you need something?"

“I- no, I just wanted to...” Sophie trailed off. What did she want? “I wanted to talk about what just happened and check on the Council.”

“Well, we’re-“ Terik shot a glance over his shoulder to where Clarette seemed to be violently cussing out the Neverseen in multiple languages as Liora patted Bronte on the shoulder. “Well, arguably not fine, but we’ll solve it.”

“The Council will find the kidnappers and bring them to justice,” Emery agreed. Both of his arms were now wrapped around Bronte, who was still silent.

“Yeah, I mean, but I can help, right? I’m the leader of Team Valiant.”

“This is a matter for the Council.”

Sophie refused to give up so easily. “Well I also wanted to check on Bronte. He’s my inflicting mentor, and one of my points of contact on the Council.” 

“I’m sure Bronte will be fine,” Terik said, but he didn’t sound convinced. 

His words were made even less reassuring by the fact that the short Councillor was shaking and didn’t bother to make his own statement. 

“Bronte?” Sophie asked.

Nothing.

“Bronte?” 

He didn’t even look over at her.

“Bronte,” she tried one more time.

Bronte was still silent, and Emery sighed softly. “He’ll be okay, Sophie. We’ll get Oralie back, and in the meantime, we can certainly rely on his stubbornness.”

“Promise me you won’t let anything bad happen?” Sophie was aware she sounded childish, but some things were more important than her pride.

“Promise,” Emery told her, and she wanted to believe him. “Bronte‘s more than capable of physically defending himself, and as for the rest...well, Councillors support each other.”

"No we don't," Ramira muttered.

"Ramira!" The rest said in unison.

"I think we're going to leave you guys," Grady decided. "Come on, kiddo. Let's go home."

Sophie didn't have the energy to protest.

-

Meanwhile, in the Neverseen hideout, Oralie, Gisela, and Vespera had just shimmered into view, only to be met with a furious Fintan. 

He stalked towards them with murderous intent on his face, and Oralie flinched back. 

"GISELA-"

"Fintan, what in the world are you so worked up about?"

"You kidnapped Oralie? Without TELLING me??" Fintan was practically snarling. "You fucking idiots! What the fuck do you expect kidnapping Oralie to get you?!?"

"You see, my dear Fintan, there is such a thing as 'using others to strike at your true target'," Gisela sighed.

"And who the fuck are you trying to strike at? Sophie Foster? There are far more effective ways to do that!"

Gisela rolled her eyes. "Why would we kidnap Oralie to get at Sophie? No, we're trying to get at your sister."

"I don't have a sister."

"You know who I meant."

Oralie felt like throwing up at the misgendering, but she didn't dare say anything with the knife at her throat.

Fintan's expression didn't change, but Oralie thought she caught a hint of disgust in his voice as he spoke again. "You two have the planning skills of a carrot, collectively. My brother wouldn't give a fuck about some quiet empath. Besides, look at her now! She's bleeding and hurt. What do you expect that to get you? It certainly isn't going to win you the sympathy of the elven world."

Gisela opened her mouth, but Fintan cut her off, stepping closer. "Listen, Gisela, Vespera. You've made plots work before. But when it comes to the Council, you need to listen to me." He reached out an arm, tugging Oralie to his side with surprising strength. "Now I'm going to go fix up her wounds before these get infected and we lose our only valuable prisoner."

"As you see fit," Gisela muttered bitterly.

Oralie tried to pull away as Fintan tugged her down the hall, but the diminutive ancient was remarkably strong, and she was forced to remain by his side. 

"What do you want with me?" She hissed, trying to ignore the pain in her neck.

"Shut up," Fintan hissed back.

"No."

"Shush!"

Tugged close to his side as she was, Oralie could feel that he was truly angry, red-hot rage on the surface of his emotions, but below that was...fear? No, that wasn't quite right. Focusing in on the emotion, Oralie realized that Fintan was worried. Concerned, even. Startled by that, she was quiet all the way to their seeming destination, an unmarked door.

Fintan turned the knob and then kicked the door open, revealing what looked like a crude medical bay. "Come on."

Oralie winced as he yanked her inside none-too gently. "What do you want?"

"I want to fix those damn slashes." Fintan pointed at one of the cots. "Sit, let me find the cream we have for this."

She obliged, wary of what Fintan might do if she didn't.

To her surprise, he did precisely what he had said he was doing, retrieving some nasty-smelling ointment. "This hurts like a bitch, but it will disinfect those."

Fintan reached for her, and Oralie flinched away, remembering how he had looked the day Kenric died. "Don't touch me."

"But-" Fintan sighed. "Here. Put this on your neck, please, and a bandage too."

Too startled by the fact that Fintan Pyren had just uttered the word 'please' to disobey, Oralie did so. He hadn't been lying; it did hurt quite a bit, but she could feel the sting fade after a moment. "Why are you being kind to me?"

Fintan wouldn't meet her eyes. "Bronte cares about you."

"I didn't realize you cared so much about him still."

"I don't!" 

It didn't take her ability to know that was a lie. "Then why would you help me?"

He sighed, seemingly realizing the corner he had talked himself into. "Fine. I care about Bronte far more than I should, and he cares for you in turn. I helped you out of love for my brother. Nothing more."

"You sound just like Bronte when he's trying not to care," Oralie mused quietly.

Fintan's expression shuttered. "My brother and I are nothing alike. I'm a killer, he's a Councillor."

"You were a Councillor," she pointed out.

"That was a long time ago." Fintan shoved a tin of something in her face. "Here. Bruise stuff for that slap on your face."

Oralie recognized the deflection, and let it slide. "How do you know so much about wound care?"

"The Neverseen aren't exactly careful with themselves."

That didn't quite answer her question, but she let that slide too, applying the bruise cream. "What do you plan to do with me?"

"I don't know, Gisela doesn't tell me shit. We'll probably hold you hostage or something."

"If you plan on interrogating me, you should know that I won't break," Oralie murmured. 

"Anyone breaks with enough pressure," Fintan said, but he didn't seem like he meant it. "Come on, let's get you to a cell before Gisela gets on my ass about 'security'."

His flippant tone reminded Oralie of the Fintan she had known before the pyrokinesis ban, but she was wise enough not to say that as Fintan dragged her through the halls of the hideout. 

The cell Oralie was placed in was freezing cold, and she was already shivering as Fintan locked the door. His gaze was apologetic, but he said nothing as he turned and left. 

Knowing she needed to keep as much of her skin off the cold metal floor as possible, Oralie stripped off her thin Councillor's cloak and set it down as a barrier. She took off her circlet too, not wanting cold metal on her head, and tucked it into her dress. Then, she shed her heeled shoes, in case she needed to run, and tucked her feet under her dress in a futile attempt to keep warm, shivering all the while.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait and try to keep warm. By the time she guessed it was nine pm or so, she was curled up as tightly as she could manage. And by an hour after that, she had given up on sleeping at all that night.

Just when her tired eyes were finally starting to close, the cold seeping into her bones, she heard the door of the cell click open and light footsteps move across the floor. Deciding it was best to remain still, Oralie kept quiet as she felt a heavy, warm piece of fabric settle onto her. Through her half-closed eyes, she could see wavy, ice-blond hair fall into her vision when the person bent down to lay whatever it was over her.

The footsteps retreated, and the cell door closed. Only then did Oralie dare sit up and see what the person had left her; it was a Neverseen cloak, warm and smelling vaguely like wildfires and the serums from the medical bay. She recoiled at the smoke smell, but ultimately her need for warmth overcame any disgust. Laying back down, she found that the cloak was a little shorter than she really needed. It was warm, though, and if she curled up she could fit under it well enough. 

With the added warmth of the cloak, she was asleep within minutes.

-

In the Lost Cities, Emery and the other Councillors had long since given up on getting anything productive done that night and were collectively having a variety of arguments that ranged from how to best rescue Oralie to what the hell a 'clam chowder' was. 

Personally, Emery was well aware of what clam chowder was, but he had bigger concerns than watching Zarina and Clarette debate it. Namely, Bronte, who was sitting next to him and staring off into space. 

"Bronte," Emery tried one more time. "Bronte, please."

He said nothing, so Emery turned to Liora. "What the fuck are we going to do?"

"Why would I know?" The conjurer didn't wait for an answer. "Let's take him back to one of our castles. Bully him into getting some food and sleep, and in the morning we'll try to handle the rest."

"We can go to mine," Emery decided. "Bronte, is that okay with you?"

Bronte continued to stare past Emery's head, but he nodded slowly, and Emery counted that as a victory. 

"Right." Emery stood up, making his voice louder to address the rest of the Council. "Bronte, Liora, and I are heading out for the night. We're getting nothing done, and we all need to sleep or we'll get nothing done tomorrow as well. I know it's tempting for us to spend all night on the search for our colleague, but we need to rest or we won't be ready to continue tomorrow."

"I agree with Emery," Noland signed from the corner, shooting Emery a tiny smile. "We need to rest."

"Emery is right," Clarette agreed. "Let's go."

The Council split off, leaving the room in groups of one or two. It was both heartbreakingly familiar and heartbreakingly different from how the usual routine went; it was almost always that Councillors walked back to the castles in groups, discussing with their political allies or friends, but with Oralie gone, those groups had already shifted. Usually, Terik walked back alone, but today he was signing back and forth with Noland. Derek, who usually walked with Noland, looked rather put out by this, and had chosen to team up with Alina. Meanwhile, Clarette, Velia, Ramira and Zarina were all walking together in a tight-knit little clump, which wasn't too unusual; usually those four stuck together and left in some configuration, sometimes duos or trios. 

Usually, Emery walked with whoever he wanted to talk to that day, having no defined group. For the past few months, he had made a point to walk back with Alina so she would feel welcome on the Council. But Alina and Bronte despised each other, and today Bronte needed Emery more. So Emery had fallen into step with Liora and him, heading back to Emery's castle. 

Liora reached the door first, and pushed it open without even asking Emery. "Well, your front room is...ostentatious."

Emery sighed and decided it wasn't worth fighting with Liora over interior design today. "I know."

He almost wished Bronte would make a blunt comment about it, as would be typical for him, but the other was silent as he stepped inside. 

"Food first," Liora said, and Emery nodded along as she wandered into his kitchen and started banging around.

"Liora is a shit cook."

Emery whipped his head around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, finding Bronte hadn't changed posture or expression at all. "What did you say?"

"Liora is a shit cook," Bronte repeated. His voice was hoarse, quiet, but Emery had never been so relieved to hear an insult in his life.

"I am not," Liora called from the kitchen.

Bronte just snorted quietly. 

Liora did turn out to be fairly awful at cooking, but they all ate it anyways. Afterwards, Emery found spare rooms for the other two, down the hall from his, and settled down to sleep. 

He woke up again at maybe one am to a near-scream from down the hall, leaping out of bed and immediately hurrying to see what was going on. Liora's door remained shut, and she was still somehow asleep when he peeked in, so he hurried to Bronte's room and pushed open the door.

"Bronte?"

The other scrambled backward, pressing against the headboard of the bed. "Don't- stay away."

Emery flinched back from the words. "Are you okay?"

Bronte didn't answer him, instead pleading under his breath for something Emery couldn't hear. 

Emery took a step forward. "It's okay. It's just- it's just me."

Bronte didn't reply once again, but he didn't flinch when Emery stepped forward again. So Emery started talking again, quietly, offering up whatever reassurances he could manage as he slowly made his way across the room. Talking had always been his skill, ever since he was in Foxfire and talking his mentors into teaching him more advanced subjects. Always speaking, always deflecting and lying and persuading, never part of the action. Opposite from Bronte, he guessed. Now he was grateful for all that, though, his words allowing him to reach the other.

"You're safe," he told Bronte quietly.

Bronte's gaze was still filled with terror when he looked up at Emery, fear mingling with sorrow and guilt. "They- they tried to hurt Fintan. They tried to get him but I got in their way and I tried to get them to stop and-" he choked on a sob. "And I lied to my inflicting mentor when she asked about the bruise, I said that- I said that we were playing tackle bramble even though I've never played tackle bramble, but- but they hurt him. They hurt Fintan."

For once, Emery's voice failed him. "Who?"

"Mother and father," Bronte choked out. "Don't let them hurt you, don't let me hurt you."

Emery still didn't know what was going on, but his heart was breaking for the other when he knelt by Bronte. "Shh. It's okay. No one's going to hurt me, and no one's going to hurt you. I promise."

"I promised too, you know." The older Councillor laughed bitterly, and his voice was lighter, younger, when he spoke again. "I promise, Fintan, I'll never let anyone hurt you." He dropped the tone. "But they did."

"I'm sorry," Emery murmured. "I'm sorry."

Bronte's laughter turned into sobs, and before Emery had time to comprehend what the fuck was going on, he was holding a sobbing Bronte for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. At this point, it wasn't even close to the worst thing that had happened this week. So Emery knelt on the hardwood floor- why oh why had he never gotten a carpet for this room- and let Bronte cling until the other had gone quiet.

"I'm sorry," Bronte said finally. His voice was still rough. 

"For what?"

He didn't answer. "Go back to bed."

"Okay, but are you sure you're okay?"

"Go back to bed, Emery."

Worried and a little hurt, Emery had no choice but to retreat to his own room.

The next morning, Emery and Liora found that Bronte was gone, a note left on the kitchen table that said "Thank you for the hospitality. You were very kind. I will see you at the Council meeting today." It was signed with a scribbled "Bronte.". 

Emery and Liora glanced at each other.

"That's abrupt," Emery said, although he suspected he knew why Bronte had left.

"Typical of him, really," Liora remarked. 

"How much do you know about Bronte?" So Emery was curious, sue him.

"We don't get along very well. But we have worked together for a very long time." Liora frowned, stepping over the doorstep. "'Don't get along' might be an overstatement. It would be more accurate to say that Bronte is deeply guarded, and I am deeply introverted, and as thus we simply never got to know each other." 

"That makes sense. You're rarely one to speak to the others outside of our work." Liora was one of the few who always walked back to her castle alone.

"Indeed. But I have known Bronte for long enough that he is not such an enigma to me."

Emery started towards the Councillor's meeting building. "What do you know of him?"

"I know he is grumpy, introverted, and guarded. I know he has resisted any and all efforts for anyone to get to know him, but he loves his brother and his best friend more than anything in the world. He would kill and die for Oralie without hesitation.”

“We all know that one,” Emery muttered.

Liora laughed quietly. “True. You see, Oralie was appointed not long after I was, and Kenric at the same time. But Oralie and Kenric were much, much younger than I. Besides even the commonalities that Bronte and Oralie shared, it was natural for him to take on an older sibling role to the two of them. Meanwhile, I was quite independent when I started on the Council, and the only person I asked for advice was Carsil- I believe you met them? While Oralie instantly bonded with the Pyrens, I have always been more reclusive.”

Emery nodded, pausing at the door. “From what I know of Oralie, Kenric, and Bronte, that seems right. Do you know why Bronte is so...reluctant to make friends?”

“I have no idea. But I would expect his ability and his past have something to do with it.”

Don't let them hurt you, don't let me hurt you. 

Emery stepped into the building after Liora.

-

Oralie woke up the next day half-wondering if the cloak laid over her had been a dream, since she was shivering slightly, but when she sat up, the Neverseen cloak fell to the floor.

“Not a dream, then,” Oralie murmured to herself. 

Her next move was searching for weaknesses in her cell, which there appeared to be none of, followed by pacing futilely and trying to think. That was followed by sitting hopelessly on her cape thinking about Bronte’s face when Gisela had leapt her away, which turned into thinking about Kenric, which turned into thinking about Sophie. 

Sophie. Oralie had never before wished to be a telepath, but now she would have chosen abilities as strong as her daughter’s if it meant being able to contact her friends- her family- even one last time. 

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Gisela arrived in time to pull Oralie out of her depressing thoughts spiral. Most certainly unfortunately, she proceeded to drag Oralie through the halls, tie her to a chair, and begin asking a ridiculous amount of questions.

“No. No, I don’t know. Why would I know who Sophie’s biological parents are? I’m not a member of the Black Swan.” Technically, that was the truth, so Oralie stuck to that story. Thankfully, she had long practice at lying and getting away with it, despite the weakness all Empaths shared. Much as that had made Sophie hate her, it came in handy when being tortured by the Neverseen. So Oralie lied and lied and deflected and refused to answer, and Gisela got steadily madder and madder. 

“Is there nothing that will phase you?”

Oralie stared up at her calmly, trying to ignore all the cuts and bruises that were now scattered across her body. “Nothing.”

Gisela smirked. “Is that so? Well I know your looks matter to you, so…” She flicked open her knife again, slashing it across one of Oralie’s cheeks and then the other. Slash slash. Two agonizing cuts, two streams of blood dripping down Oralie’s face.

Silence.

Oralie broke the quiet, taking all of the pain she had been repressing and letting it go, letting the cry trapped in her throat and the tears in her eyes go free.

Gisela looked startled. “Pathetic. So easily broken.”

Oralie let out her most pathetic sob in response.

“Honestly. So weak,” the polyglot sniffed. “Now tell me what you know.”

Instead of obeying, Oralie started crying even harder, feeling tears sting the cuts on her cheeks.

“Stop that! You’re supposed to be a Councillor, not a pathetic mess.”

“I- I-” She shuddered weakly, unable to muster the energy to respond even if she had wanted to tell Gisela anything.

“Stop your crying!”

The snap reminded Oralie distinctly of some less than lovely people she knew, and she took that emotion and turned it into even more tears. Fragile, she might be. Easily broken, she might be. But shards of glass were even more dangerous than the whole they once had been, and Oralie had learned to take her brokenness and make it a weapon.

So even as Gisela kept asking questions, Oralie just cried and cried until the other finally gave up and dragged her back to her cell. 

“Sit here and think about your pathetic life, Councillor crybaby,” the other hissed.

Oralie just shuddered again, letting a sob shake her entire body. 

Gisela stomped away in a huff, and Oralie gave herself two more minutes to cry before she wiped her tears, got up, and started trying to figure out how to stop her face from bleeding. She could still hardly believe that had worked, but she would take whatever scraps of time to herself she got.

Her solution to her face ended up being pressing the Neverseen cloak to her cheeks until the bleeding had mainly stopped. And while she did that, she tried to brainstorm ways to get out. Sophie. Sophie! Knowing Sophie was the only telepath powerful enough to reach her, she tried calling out with her mind, to be met with only silence. It seemed that Sophie wasn’t listening- or hadn’t found her. Defeated, Oralie sat back on the floor and started trying to break her circlet to turn into a lockpick or make-shift weapon. Every part of her body ached, but if she could focus on survival it became easier to ignore that.

-

In Eternalia, Emery watched something new in Bronte’s expression break each day, the circles under his eyes getting steadily darker and the pain in them persisting. The Council’s search for Oralie had been mainly futile, as it seemed the Neverseen had somehow disabled the tracking device in her cloak. And even Alina, who had never liked Oralie, was feeling the pressure. Oralie was beloved by so many, and to have her gone was a devastating blow. Especially to Bronte.

The Senior Councillor had been especially distant from Emery ever since the day of the kidnapping, when he had completely broken down in Emery’s arms. Emery half-suspected he was embarrassed, but it hurt anyways when Bronte snapped at him. 

Despite their distance, it ended up being Emery who found Bronte crying in the Councillors’ meeting room a good hour after the rest had gone home. Emery had lingered in the building, checking on one or two last things, and when he wandered back into the meeting room to grab his stuff, he found the other sitting there. 

Despite his usual eloquence, the first thing he could think of to say was “Well, this is awkward.” 

“Fuck off,” Bronte snarled, but he looked too much of a mess for the words to really be impactful.

“It’s not the end of the world if I see you upset.”

“I know. But I refuse to let you get hurt.” 

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“I’m an inflictor. Put the fucking pieces together, Emery.”

“You’re scared of...hurting me?” Emery was strangely touched, despite the other’s harsh words.

“Yes. Now leave me alone.”

“No.”

Bronte stared at him. “What?”

“I said no.” Emery took a breath, steeling himself. “Listen, I know you care about Oralie most. Everyone knows she’s the only one you’ll ever talk to. But Oralie isn’t fucking here right now. We might be working on getting her back, but that doesn’t mean you get to just- just push everyone away and refuse any help in the meantime. And I know you’re scared of hurting me, or scared of vulnerability, or whatever the fuck it is, but please just let me fucking help, Bronte.” He was startled when his voice broke on the last sentence, words coming out all jagged and torn-up.

Bronte’s expression hadn’t changed much, but Emery thought he caught shock on the other’s face. “You actually care?”

“Of course I do! Isn’t it obvious?” Emery found himself rubbing at his eyes to keep from tearing up. “I was fucking worried, and you just up and left and- and stayed away. Because you’re scared or whatever.”

“I was just being cautiou-”

“Well fuck that! You’re the elf who goes charging headfirst into danger and didn’t even falter when King Dimitar threatened to rip your head off that one time. And somehow you’re too afraid to let anyone help you? You’re a coward, Bronte.” 

For a second, Emery thought he was going to get absolutely destroyed, but Bronte’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Emery.”

“It’s fine,” Emery whispered, turning his head away. 

“No, it was shitty.” Bronte stood, holding his arms out awkwardly, and Emery took the embrace. Bronte might have been a full head shorter, but Emery felt very small compared to the other’s ancient presence. Emery was made of gold, soft and malleable but loved and charming. Bronte was made of steel, sharp and unflinching and plain. Which one of those was better, Emery couldn’t say. But, for just a moment, he allowed himself to be soft, leaning on Bronte’s steely presence. 

-

Meanwhile, in the Neverseen hideout, it had been a full week since Oralie’s capture. Every day, one of the Neverseen members had taken a turn trying to interrogate her. Giesla had given up after the second day. Fintan had asked some questions and done a little half-hearted threatening, but Oralie could tell he wasn’t actually prepared to follow through on his threats. So she had told him nothing. Vespera had been the worst, cruel and calculating, but Oralie had kept her mouth shut. Somehow. And now she was back in her cell in a haze of exhaustion and pain, staring blankly at the corridor Vespera had left via.

Finally, her blank stare landed on a set of keys that had fallen from Vespera’s belt, and that was enough to break through her numb tiredness. Keys! To her cell! She reached through the bars, finding the keys only inches from her fingertips, and swore under her breath. The keys glittered just out of her reach, taunting her.

Oralie rummaged around in her dress, retrieving her circlet, and slammed it against the floor. 

Once. 

It didn’t break. 

There was something symbolic, maybe, about Oralie not being able to break the object that was a physical representation of her responsibilities. The embodiment of her duty to the Lost Cities, encased in a circle of metal that was heavier than it looked. 

Twice.

The circlet began to crack. 

But she was more than her responsibilities. She had gone beyond the Council seat she held. She was not just Councillor Oralie, she was something beyond the title that so often preceded her name. 

Thrice.

The metal snapped entirely. 

Oralie wasted no time into bending it into a straight line with a slight hook on the end, reaching out again and snagging the keys. 

From there, it was fairly simple to reach around and unlock her cell. Oralie tucked the keys into a pocket of her dress, and bundled up her Councillor’s cloak into a small enough ball to fit in another pocket. The Neverseen cloak, she donned, and the broken circlet went into her right hand, ready to fight if need be. She left her heeled shoes behind in the cell, knowing they would be of no use in a fight, and slipped into the hallways of the hideout.

Oralie realized fairly quickly that she now had no shoes, no idea where she was going, and an entire hideout of Neverseen members to evade. Nevertheless, she refused to squander her chance at freedom. So she crept along, making her way towards the healing wing she and Fintan had been in earlier. Thankfully, she arrived there without incident, pushing open the doors and shutting them with a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, Fintan happened to be in the healing wing currently, bandaging his hand.

Oralie froze, hoping he hadn’t seen her.

Fintan turned at the noise of doors shutting, and gaped at her. “Oralie?”

“Fintan,” Oralie said quietly. 

“How did you get in here?”

Oralie shrugged apologetically and tried to look innocent.

Fintan wasn’t buying it. “You escaped your cell somehow, and somehow managed to navigate to this wing.”

“I remembered the way.”

“Clever.” Fintan’s smirk seemed almost impressed. “As a leader of the Neverseen, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to escape, however.”

Oralie’s heart clenched in fear, but she refused to let it show on her face. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Well, I’m obligated to tell you that you should absolutely not go into the storeroom of this wing. That would be a terrible idea. And you should definitely not kick open the panel behind the burn cream boxes. That would hurt. And definitely not help you escape.”

“I will definitely not do that,” Oralie told him. She would have been smiling if she was any less exhausted.

“Good, good.”

“Thank you for the cloak, by the way.” She held it out. “You can have this back, sorry for bleeding on it.”

“No, no, keep it. But remember, you should definitely not be wary of the ways it might be similar to your Council one.”

Ways it might be similar...ways it might be similar...trackers! Oralie nodded. “Thank you, Fintan.”

“Don’t mention it.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “Oh, and…tell Bronte I said hello, will you?”

“I will. He misses you,” Oralie added impulsively.

“I’m afraid he’ll have to continue missing me.” Fintan’s sorrow was genuine, and Oralie didn’t need to brush her hand against his as she passed to know that.

She did anyways, needing to know if Fintan genuinely cared about helping her. She found nothing but mild concern, sorrow, and a hint of fear at what the other Neverseen members might do, which was more than enough proof that he cared. Much like Bronte, Fintan was not as subtle as he thought he was.

So Oralie headed into the storeroom, looking around for the box of burn cream. It appeared to be near the back wall, and when she scooted it aside, she found a loose panel in the wall. So she followed Fintan’s advice and kicked it as hard as she could, hissing an “Ouch!” under her breath as her bare foot made contact. The panel fell outward, though, and Oralie was able to crawl outside. The dirt felt wonderful after a week of cold metal floors on her bare feet, and she allowed herself a moment to breathe before putting the panel back in place and running from the hideout.

The Neverseen base had appeared to be in a deciduous forest, as the tree leaves were currently red, orange and yellow, and it was populated by what Oralie guessed were birches and maples. The setting didn’t really matter, though, only getting away from her captors. So she ran until she was out of sight of the building, and only then allowed herself to flop onto the ground.

Remembering Fintan’s words, she took her broken circlet and used it to cut open the seams of the cloak, looking for trackers. She found a little disk fairly similar to the ones in her Councillor’s cloak, and set it on the ground. Over that, she put her Councillor’s cloak, and took a moment to breathe and brace herself for what she was about to do.

Shing! The broken circlet slashed through the soft skin on her left index finger, and Oralie sprinkled the blood all over her discarded cloak. There. That should throw them off her trail. 

She wiped her bloody finger on Fintan’s cloak, got up, and started walking. 

Her walk turned out to be a very long one, stumbling over seemingly endless tree roots and pushing through seemingly endless bushes. Even as night fell, Oralie forced herself to keep moving. She couldn’t afford to be caught. She couldn’t afford to be caught. That was the chant that kept her on her feet, even as her entire body ached. Her legs and feet ached from walking, her arms and hands ached from what Vespera had dealt, and her face ached from the slashes Gisela had given her. Still, she staggered onward until it was nearly dawn and she was able to see a little settlement on the horizon. 

As she got closer, she could tell that it was clearly a human town, with quaint architecture and a few humans bustling about. Still, if she concentrated, she could read the signposts, which were in one of few human languages she knew. The one Sophie spoke. Well, Sophie spoke all the languages. But the one Sophie had grown up with. English! That was the word. Language? Noun? Oralie shook her head, trying to clear it, but it only made her more dizzy. Blood loss and sleep deprivation probably had something to do with that, she reflected, which was evidence that she had been friends with Bronte too long. Only Bronte would be so clinical about something like this. Fuck, she missed him. And he was probably worried about her, seeing as she had gotten kidnapped. Sure, Oralie had bigger problems than Bronte’s worry, but it was easier to think about her best friend than the fact that she had staggered into the human town and humans were staring, or the fact that she felt like passing out.

Which was what she proceeded to do, right on the doorstep of one of the houses. 

-

Around that time, Sophie was getting a hail from Bronte. It might have been the middle of her Elven History session, but Sophie picked up the imparter anyways, ignoring her mentor’s indigent sputtering. 

“Miss Foster, history is a very important subject!”

Sophie rolled her eyes to herself. “Bronte? What is it? Is there word of Oralie?”

“Slow down, Miss Foster,” Bronte grumped. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, which were rimmed with red, but his grumpy voice was as steady and familiar as ever. “We do not have word of Oralie, but I am hailing about her.”

“Are you- are you talking to a Councillor?” Sophie’s mentor sputtered.

“Yes, I am, so please let me talk!” Normally, Sophie would never be so rude, but this was not a normal time. “What about Oralie?”

“We need your help. Emery has an idea.”

“And you’re agreeing with Emery?” Sophie couldn’t help but ask.

Bronte sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “In this case, his idea isn’t completely idiotic.”

“I heard that, Bronte!” Emery hollered from offscreen.

“Fuck you, Emery!”

“We’re Councillors!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Bronte huffed another sigh. “Anyways. Please come to Eternalia as soon as possible. You can tell your mentor- who sounds rather disgruntled- that this is extraordinarily important Council business. I’ll send you a signed note or something if you need.”

“Oh, uh, okay.” Sophie turned to her mentor. “Excuse me, sir, but I have to go. Extremely important Council business.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Bronte called from Sophie’s imparter. “Trust me, the Council knows the importance of education. But this is more important.”

“Oh- oh okay, then. See you next week,” He said, but Sophie was already grabbing her bag and running for the Leapmaster.

“Bronte, where do I go when I get to Eternalia?”

“The Council secret meeting building- I’ll give you directions.”

She barely even thought to concentrate as she threw herself into the beam of light, re-forming near the Councillors’ castles in Eternalia. “Where now?”

“To your right,” Bronte directed. “That plain building about fifty feet from the end of the row of castles.”

Sophie hurried over there, forced to stop running by the stitch in her side, and banged on the door. 

Bronte opened it mere seconds later, gesturing at her to come inside. He looked even worse in real life than over the imparter, short hair sticking every which way and tunic wrinkled, but his strides were determined when he led Sophie down the hall. 

The rest of the Councillors looked only somewhat less frazzled as Bronte pushed open the door to their meeting room. Even Alina’s hair was out of place. But the determination in Bronte’s strides was mirrored in all of their eyes, and for the first time, Sophie could see how they were truly leaders. 

“So, what’s Emery’s idea?” She asked, wandering inside as Bronte shut the door. 

“Well,” Emery started, “You remember how you’ve been able to use telepathy to call for help? Oralie isn’t a telepath, but if we can reach her, we might be able to figure out where she is and coordinate rescue efforts.”

“Okay, but...we don’t know where in the world she is,” Sophie argued. “I don’t know her mind well enough to reach her from a huge distance, not like Keefe.”

“And that’s where I come in. You see, I’ve been the spokesperson for well over five hundred years,” Emery explained.

“And he gets to poke around in everyone’s heads because of it,” Zarina contributed.

“Exactly. I know my fellow Councillors’ minds as well as I know my own. But I’m not strong enough to reach all the way across the world.”

Sophie was starting to see his strategy. “So if we worked together, I might be able to help you reach Oralie, and you could help me find her mind?”

“Precisely.” Emery’s gaze was piercing. “I haven’t been kind to you in the past, and it might be difficult to trust me. But I’m hoping you’ll try.”

The hope in the Council’s gazes was almost disquieting. 

“For Oralie’s sake,” Sophie told him. “But I want my cognate here.”

“Very well,” Emery said before anyone else could say anything. “Bronte, could you hail him?”

“Why is it always me?” Bronte didn’t wait for a response before he pulled out his imparter again and set about hailing Fitz. 

Fitz arrived ten minutes later, rather out of breath. “What’s going on?”

Emery gave him a quick rundown.

“That’s insane,” Fitz informed him. “But...Sophie is pretty amazing. So I guess it’s worth a try.”

-

Oralie drifted in and out of consciousness, hearing worried voices around her but not having the presence of mind to translate their words. She felt hands lift her, people moving her from the ground to something else, then to a place that smelled sterile. After that, she was conscious for only brief snatches, sometimes feeling hands on her injuries or needles prick her skin.

“Bronte,” she tried to cry, not knowing what was happening only that she needed her friend. “Bronte!” 

He didn’t come.

In her most blurred moments, Oralie found the name on her lips was “Kenric!”, but by the time she was completely unconscious, she remembered his death. 

She woke up fully to sunlight streaming in the window of a room she didn’t recognize, falling across the comforters of a bed she didn’t recognize. “What...what happened?”

No one responded, and Oralie realized she was entirely alone. Naturally, she scanned the room to try and discern where she was. Floral wallpaper, stained. Hardwood floor, somewhat old and warped. Lacy curtains, very dusty. It was clear that this was not the Lost Cities, nor any of the lands of the intelligent species. Which left only one place: the Forbidden Cities.

Oralie blinked, and her memory of last night- last morning, really- came flooding back. Right. She had escaped and walked to the human town. Which meant one of the humans had picked her up and brought her here. 

Just as Oralie was wondering where that human might be now, the door swung open to reveal a rather elderly human woman with smile lines around her mouth and eyes, and hair streaked through with silver. She bustled over to fuss with the comforters, and then startled. 

“Oh! You’re awake!”

Oralie tried to summon up the correct English words, cursing herself for not practicing enough. “I am.”

The human smiled and said something about eyesight and leaving that Oralie didn’t quite catch. “Anyways. What’s your name?”

“I am Oralie. What is yours?” Oralie knew her speech was probably a little stilted, but she cut herself a little slack, given what she had just been through.

“Brenda,” the human- Brenda- answered. “How are you feeling?”

“A little… fuck,” Oralie muttered under her breath. “Tired? English is not my first language.”

“Ah, that’s okay, dearie. Now, the doctor said you should have some food and water.” She said something else that Oralie didn’t catch and hurried out the door.

When Brenda returned, she was carrying a tray of some human food, and there was another human with her. “This is my wife, Susan,” she explained to Oralie.

Oralie nodded, grateful for Brenda’s clear and slow speech allowing her to catch the words. 

“Have some food,” Susan told her, and despite the unfamiliarity of the food, Oralie was happy to obey. 

The duo stayed in the room while she was eating, chattering to each other in English too fast for Oralie to catch. The food itself was not bad, but Oralie would have eaten it even if it was. Finally, she was finished, and Brenda grabbed the tray and hurried off.

Susan turned to Oralie, and Oralie could feel pity and concern radiating off her. Still, Susan’s voice was steady and gentle when she spoke. “Brenda and I did not go to the police. We took you to the hospital, and told the doctors we did not know how you got injured.” 

Despite not knowing what ‘hospital’ or ‘police’ meant in the Enlightened Language, Oralie understood enough to know that there was a ‘but’ coming.

“But,” Susan added, “your wounds look deliberate.” 

“Deliberate?” Oralie asked slowly, trying to get the English syllables through her mouth.

“Done on purpose,” Susan told her. “We were hoping you would tell us who hurt you, so we can make sure you’re safe.”

Oralie took a moment to process the sentence, and then another moment to come up with a lie. “My- my boyfriend. I...ran from his house.” She let the memory of Vespera’s tormenting turn her eyes tearful, selling the lie.

“I’m so sorry. Brenda and I will make sure he never hurts you again, okay?”

Oralie nodded.

“Can you answer two more questions for me?” Susan asked.

Oralie nodded again.

“Who is ‘Bronte’? You were calling for him.”

She didn’t have to think much this time. “My older brother.”

“And ‘Kenric’?”

“My…former boyfriend. Not the bad one. He....” Oralie hesitated, trying to remember all the polite human euphemisms for death. “He passed away.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Susan stood. “Brenda and I can let you stay here for a bit. Until you’re back on your feet.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

-

Back in Eternalia, Sophie was nervously linking hands with Fitz and Emery, hoping it would work.

Hello? Fitz’s voice asked in her head. I’m past your blocking, and I think I’m past Emery’s too.

He is, Emery’s mind murmured.

Hi, Sophie said to both of them.

Fitz sent her an image of him waving, and she smiled.

Emery offered a polite mental hello.

Right, so, should we get started? Fitz asked.

We need Sophie to do that, Emery told him.

Sophie’s stomach knotted with nerves. Right. Yeah. Okay. I’m going to reach out. If you guys could like, guide me and send mental energy, that would be great.

Fitz sent her a thumbs up.

Emery nodded mentally, somehow. 

Sophie’s first try was utterly overwhelming, humans’ and elves’ thoughts pouring into her brain and any sign of Oralie lost amongst the chaos. She lost contact with Emery maybe five seconds in, and Fitz had to reel her mind back in.

“Ow,” he said out loud. “That was overwhelming.”

Emery was frowning. “I think we lost touch.”

“We’ll try again,” Sophie told the other telepaths.

Thankfully, they both nodded.

Two tries later, they had established that the problem seemed to be that Sophie simply couldn’t keep touch with Emery’s mind. 

“Aren’t there any other telepaths that know Oralie’s mind well enough?” Sophie groaned in frustration, and then winced as Emery looked offended.

“The ideal choice would be Kenric,” Bronte told her. “But…”

“That’s not an option,” Emery finished. “And I doubt any other living telepath has read Oralie’s mind as many times as I have, at least of the ones you’ve worked with.”

“Don’t you lot do like, trust exercises?” Zarina asked. Her feet were propped on the Council’s meeting table, earning her glares from everyone else. 

“I mean…” Fitz glanced at Sophie. “Worth a shot. Although I don’t know how much I trust Emery to catch me falling off a table.”

“I’ve caught Bronte falling off a cabinet,” Emery argued.

“Yeah, but Bronte’s like, four feet tall,” Sophie told him. “Wait, you’ve caught Bronte falling off a cabinet?”

Bronte glared at Emery. “Fuck all of you.”

“Maybe you could try some ones that don’t involve tables,” Terik suggested. He looked faintly amused.

“Only if they involve hearing the story of Bronte falling off a cabinet,” Sophie joked.

Emery shrugged. “I mean, that story does involve one of my secrets. But it wouldn’t be fair to Bronte.”

So five minutes later, they were back to trying trust-falls. So far, Fitz and Emery had both caught Sophie, and Sophie had caught Fitz and then proceeded to fall on her ass.

“I think this is a really bad idea,” Emery informed her, but he toppled off the chair anyways.

To her own surprise, Sophie didn’t immediately drop him, although she did lower him to the floor very quickly.

The rest of the Council seemed greatly amused by all this. At least, until they took the exercises back to being mental.

Okay, so we’re all telling each other one non-illegal secret? Fitz asked.

Emphasis on the non-illegal, Emery told him.

Right. Gotcha.

There was a moment of mental silence, and then, I’ll go first. 

Sophie silently thanked Emery for that as he went on. You all know about the miniature ball at the end of the Elite Towers, yes? I went with someone not on my match list. 

Fitz audibly gasped. That’s like, a huge scandal.

I know. Nothing bad ever became of it, obviously, but...it was a big deal to the few people who knew about it then. 

Why? Sophie asked him mentally.

It was a big deal because I went with another aspiring regent, who- well, I won’t tell you his name, but at the time it was quite the scandal for a young and promising Foxfire graduate to be going out with another man.

Sophie didn’t know the elves had homophobia. That’s iconic, honestly.

I wish I could say it was, but only a few people even knew we were together. Emery’s mental voice sounded pensive. And, of course, it’s been a very long time since I last saw him. 

Well I was going to say that one time I put fart a la carte in Biana’s breakfast so she would be gassy for the opening ceremonies, but now I feel kinda silly, Fitz told them. Um. Wait. If we’re being gay….

Sophie tried for a joking tone. Don’t tell me you’re actually gay and not into me. 

No, but Keefe was my first kiss. 

...Do I have permission to tease him about that?

Ask him, not me.

Emery sounded like he was smiling mentally. That’s sweet, actually. 

And I have a lot of questions, Sophie added. But I guess I should say my secret now.

Probably.

Right. Uh. Keeping with the theme, I’m just going to come out now and say that I’m bi. 

Whoa, Fitz said, but he didn’t seem like he thought that was a bad thing. 

Right, Emery told them both. Now that we all understand each other a little bit better, should we try again?

This time, Sophie felt both of the others’ minds right alongside hers as she searched. Fitz was mainly there for support, but Emery’s mind guided her strength across the world until they brushed against a mind that felt both soft like silk and hard like glass.

This is Oralie, Emery’s mind whispered. His mental voice was faint, stretched over the massive distance. 

Sophie made the extra leap to touch Oralie’s mind. Oralie. Oralie!

Silence. And then, a faint, almost disbelieving Sophie?

-

Susan had left the room a few moments before, after Oralie had asked which town she had made it to (some small town that Oralie didn’t recognize, but she memorized the name of just in case). And so Oralie was once again alone with her thoughts, which once again turned to the people she had left behind in the Lost Cities. Sophie, Bronte, even Emery. And of course Kenric. Even now, he never seemed far from her thoughts, although her emotions had become a little more mixed and muddled as the initial surge of grief faded. Still, Oralie supposed she would be missing him forever. Which was a rather depressing thought. While she was making herself sad, she might as well think about Sophie and the hatred radiating from her daughter when they spoke. Oralie had been an empath long enough to know that rage most often stemmed from hurt- but the fact that she had hurt Sophie did not wound her any less than the thought that Sophie hated her. Maybe she would ask Bronte for advice on how to fix this whole damn mess.

Bronte. It had been so natural to say he was her brother, beyond even needing to lie to these humans. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t close enough to qualify, a brother in everything but blood, but Oralie had no idea how he’d feel about having another blonde disaster of a younger sibling. 

The first time a familiar voice entered her head, Oralie thought she had imagined it. She had clearly just been thinking about Sophie too much. 

But the second time, she couldn’t ignore the desperation behind the call. Sophie?

Oralie! There was genuine relief in Sophie’s transmission. Where are you? Are you safe?

I’m safe, for now. I’m in a little town called Wetherby- it’s a human settlement, but it was the closest place to go when I escaped the Neverseen, since I didn’t have a leaping crystal. 

You can get by in a human town?

I speak a little English, Oralie explained. And the people who helped me are very kind- they’re a human couple who lives here. I told them English was my second language and they didn’t question it.

Okay, hang on. I’m transmitting all this info back to Emery. We’ll come get you, Sophie said, and Oralie had never felt more reassured by a sentence from a much younger elf in her life.

Thank you.

Of fucking course. It’s not like we’d leave you there. I mean, for one thing, Bronte would kill me.

Is he okay?

Depends on how you define okay. Sophie sounded like she was choosing her words carefully. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week but he’ll probably be fine once you get back.

Thank you, Oralie thought again. 

I mean, you’re welcome. I’m going to go update everyone else and look for the town you told us, and then we’ll update you again. 

Okay. Tell Bronte and the rest that I said hello?

I will.

-

Sophie blinked her eyes open in time to see Emery face plant onto the table.

“Ow. Fuck.” He sat up, rubbing his head. “That hurt even more than having these idiots scream in my head. Is this what it’s like for you all the time?”

Sophie shook her head. Sure, she had a bit of a headache, but that was more from hearing humans' thoughts while looking for Oralie than anything. “When it’s someone that I know well, it’s not bad.”

“Then I admire the strength of your telepathy.” Emery ground his palms into his eyes for a moment, looking pained, and then straightened up fully. “But! We know where Oralie is.”

“Where is she?” Bronte demanded.

“Some human town in Britain,” Fitz told him. “She escaped from the Neverseen and somehow made her way there.”

Bronte looked almost proud. “That sounds like Oralie. Anyways, how are we going to get her back?”

The rest of the evening was spent finding human maps, researching human clothing, and getting a leaping crystal to the exact coordinates made. Sophie, as primary human expert, had to be present, and the rest of Team Valiant was summoned as well. So while Dex, Fitz, and Biana went to the Forbidden Cities for human clothes and Wylie and Stina pored over the map, Sophie was charged with checking in on Oralie one more time. This time, she didn’t need Emery to guide her as she reached for the other’s mind again.

Hey.

Hi, Sophie, Oralie offered. Any word?

Bronte says ‘you’re a damn idiot and I’m going to fight anyone who hurt you’, and we’ve got a plan to get you home.

That sounds like Bronte. And what would the plan be? 

Well, we’re working on a leaping crystal to where you are, Sophie explained. I’ll go into the city itself to find you, if you describe the house you’re in. 

That sounds smart, with one caveat: why would a teenager be picking up a fully grown adult?

I don’t know, I’m your daughter or something. She almost regretted that when she felt Oralie’s mind flinch.

How do you feel about being a niece? It’s... a long story, but people have been asking questions and my current story is that I ran from my boyfriend- you’ll see why when you get here. But I haven’t mentioned any children.

And you have mentioned a sibling?

I may have had to lie and say that Bronte was my brother. 

Sophie sent a mental groan across the connection. I don’t want to be his kid.

Oralie’s mental voice was too amused for her liking. I know, but you don’t look exceedingly different, and we need a story.

Fine.

Okay. I’ll tell Susan and Brenda- the human couple- that I’ll be going to live with my brother and his kid.

Gotcha. We’ll be there tomorrow morning at nine.

 -

Sophie’s voice faded from Oralie’s head, and Oralie stared at the fluffy comforters, trying not to think about the words ‘I don’t know, I’m your daughter or something’. Rather unsuccessfully. 

Thankfully for her, Brenda came bustling back in. “Hey there! Susan and I are going to eat dinner, do you want to eat with us?”

Oralie considered for a moment and then nodded.

“Great! Let’s go on down.”

So Oralie sat with the human couple, trying the human food cautiously. Brenda seemed happy to carry the conversation with occasional input from Susan or Oralie, which she was grateful for. Even if she didn’t quite catch some of what the human said, she could nod along. 

Eventually, the conversation came around to Oralie’s situation. “I was able to...call? My brother,” Oralie told them. “He says that it is okay for me to live with him and his daughter.”

“Oh, excellent!” Brenda beamed at her. “When will you move in with them? No pressure to leave, of course.”

“He said he would be here tomorrow at nine.”

“That soon! Well, we’ll have to get you some better clothes than that hospital gown.”

Oralie glanced down at the thin fabric and nodded. “Thank you very much, I owe you a lot.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. The bill from the doctor is the worst of it. You’re not covered by our insurance.” 

“How much do I owe you for that?”

Brenda radiated worry, biting her lip anxiously. “Worry about that when you’ve got a stable place to live.”

Oralie made a mental note to tell Sophie to pay these two back with a ridiculous sum of human money. “Okay.”

The next morning, she woke up early to golden sunlight falling across her bed. For a second, she almost thought she was back in Eternalia, since her room there was always lit by dawn, but the stained floral wallpaper soon dispelled that notion. 

Susan came in perhaps a half hour later, setting some human clothes on the bed. “Here you go. These used to be mine, but I think they should fit you okay.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. There’s a shower in the bathroom at the end of the hall, the one with a blue door, if you want.”

Oralie nodded and got out of bed slowly. Her legs still ached from all the walking, and the rest of her body wasn’t in much better shape, but she was determined to take a shower and stop smelling like the Neverseen hideout and the human medicines. 

That turned out to be easier said than done, but if she avoided the largest wounds, she could get mostly clean. And it helped that Susan’s old clothes smelled mainly like dust. 

Oralie turned and glanced in the mirror, and she hardly recognized herself. Even after only a week with the Neverseen, her face had become leaner. Tougher. There were bruises scattered across every visible section of skin, and several gashes. Her cheeks were bandaged with large bandages, and her hair was wet and tangled. In the human clothes, she looked almost human, but she could also see why Brenda and Susan glanced at her with such worry radiating from them. 

Snapping herself out of her reflection, Oralie borrowed the hairbrush on the bathroom counter to try and de-tangle her hair, which was easier said than done. She mainly managed it, though, with a lot of wincing. At least it didn’t seem like such a rat’s nest.

Once she was done with that, there was nothing to do but wait for Bronte and Sophie to arrive.

-

Bronte and Sophie were currently having a muttered argument over having to pretend to be father and daughter.

“Well it's not like I really strongly desire to be your kid,” Sophie muttered to him as she fumbled through the pile of human clothing the others had brought. 

“And it’s not like I have a strong desire to have you as a child,” Bronte muttered back, but he didn’t seem actually that grumpy.

“What about ‘I’d be proud of you if you were my daughter’?”

“I’m just saying that you’ve accomplished incredible things.”

“That sounds pretty fucking kind to me.”

Bronte huffed. “I am not kind, I am very mean. But...I would be very proud of you.”

Sophie tossed a t-shirt at him. “Here, you can wear this. My human dad had a literally identical one. Plus, can’t you be a proud mentor already?”

“Well yes, I am a proud mentor. Now shush, stop making me look nice in front of the rest.”

“Ha, I’ll ruin your evil reputation.”

“Everyone knows I’m the Councillor not to fuck with,” Bronte grumbled as he took the jeans Sophie was handing him.

“Haha no. That’s like, Emery.”

“Emery has the backbone of a chocolate eclair.”

“I heard that!” Emery shouted from the background.

“Good!” Bronte shouted back.

Sophie, meanwhile, was picking up a beanie. “Here, you can use this to hide your ears.”

“I hate modern human fashion,” Bronte grumbled, but he left to get into the clothes anyways. He looked very strange in jeans and a t-shirt, the bright orange beanie hiding his pointed ears and the casual human clothing greatly reducing how intimidating he was.

“Hi, temporary dad,” Sophie told him. She had gotten into her old human clothes before even coming to Eternalia, and was surprised at how strange the jeans felt after years of elven clothing. 

Bronte just sighed. “How am I doing at the whole ‘looking human’ thing?”

“You gotta slouch a little more. And stop glaring at everyone. You’re a chill dad.”

“I am not,” Bronte muttered, but he softened his stare and posture a little bit. 

“Great!” Sophie told him. “Let’s leap there, shall we?”

“Let’s go.”

-

It was almost ten minutes after nine when a knock sounded from the front door.

Brenda went hurrying over to open it, shooting Oralie a smile as she did. “Oh, hello! Would you be Oralie’s brother and niece?”

“That’s us,” Oralie heard Sophie say in flawless English. “I’m Sophie, and this is my dad, Bronte. He doesn’t speak English super well- we’re an immigrant family.”

“Ah, and you’ve lived in the UK most of your life, Sophie? That makes sense. Anyways, I’m sure Oralie is eager to see you.” Brenda turned back to Oralie. “Your family is here!”

Oralie stood up, giving Brenda her best reassuring smile as she hurried over to the front door. “Sophie! Bronte!” The others may have been dressed in strange human clothes, worry on their faces and tension in their stances, but they were here. They were here.

To her surprise, Bronte rushed forward and threw his arms around her tightly, solidifying for Oralie that he really was real and here. 

“Bronte!” Oralie hugged him back just as tightly, letting herself relax for the first time since Gisela had grabbed her that day. 

“I was so fucking worried,” he whispered. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Why would you fucking apologize for being kidnapped by the Neverseen?” Bronte pulled back, and Oralie noted the tears glimmering in his eyes. “It’s not your fucking fault and it’s never been your fucking fault. I am going to hurt every one of those dipshits, though.”

“It’s okay, Bronte. I’m okay.”

“Your face is covered in bruises.”

She winced. “Yeah.”

“I’m still going to hurt them.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re going to be okay,” Bronte added quietly. “I’ll make sure none of them lay a hand on you ever again.”

Oralie could feel herself tearing up a little at that, so she pulled him into a hug again. Bronte didn’t protest, only hugged her tightly and let her fall apart for a minute. 

-

Meanwhile, Sophie was having an awkward conversation with an older human couple. “Yeah, we were really worried about my auntie Oralie.”

“Her injuries were pretty bad,” agreed the small, round-faced one who had introduced herself as Brena. “I do hope you’ll bring her ex to justice.”

“We will,” Sophie assured them. “Br- Dad will make sure of that.”

“He sounds like a sweet brother,” the other, Susan, said.

“Yeah, he and my aunt are really close. We don’t really talk much with grandma and grandpa because they live so far away.” “Do you just live with your dad?” “Just the two of us,” Sophie agreed. “It’ll be nice to have my aunt around.”

“I can imagine.” Brenda smiled fondly.

Sophie glanced over at Oralie, who was absolutely covered in bandages. “Are we going to have to pay you for medical bills?” “Well, they put her down as Jane Doe. And we offered to pay the initial fees, but they’ll probably bill you for the rest once they figure out who you are.”

“Gotcha. I’ll tell Dad, we’ll see if Auntie is covered by our insurance. We can pay you back for the initial stuff too-”

“Don’t worry about it, hon,” Brenda told her. “We’re happy to help, and it’s a good thing that Oralie is safe now.”

“Thank you so much.” Sophie made a mental note to have the elves help these two out in some way. 

“Of course, dearie.” 

Susan handed her a slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number, contact the two of us if you need any extra help.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said again.

“Sophie!” Oralie’s voice called. “We are heading home!”

“I better go, but thank you again and I’ll keep in touch,” Sophie promised.

Susan and Brenda waved as she hurried away. 

-

The trio arrived back in Eternalia to a lot of commotion and excitement. 

First, Oralie got swarmed by the other Councillors, who she was surprised to realize were genuinely glad to have her home. They looked in varying states of frazzled, ranging from Alina (perfectly groomed as ever) to Terik (whose hair was sticking straight up). And they greeted her with maybe less dignity than was generally required from the Council. 

“Oralie!” Clarette called. “You absolute fucker!” 

Oralie knew that was her way of showing worry. “Hello, Clarette.”

“Thank goodness you’re back,” Terik said. 

“We were all incredibly worried,” Emery agreed. “Especially Bronte.”

“Shut up, Emery,” Bronte grumbled from next to her.

“I’m not wrong, and you know it.”

Even Liora waved hello, and Noland signed enthusiastically to her about how good it was to see her safe.

Finally, Elwin cut through the commotion, shoving through the Council very politely. “Excuse me, excuse me, but if Councillor Oralie is hurt than you’re going to need a doctor!”

Oralie smiled over at him. “Elwin!”

“Oralie!” He pushed past Emery, looking her up and down. “Oh dear, oh dear. Did they take you to a human hospital?”

“Yes, they did.”

“Right, well I’ll have to start undoing some of that damage, then.”

So Oralie sat on the grass outside of the castles in human clothes as Elwin gave her what felt like a million different elixirs. “Sophie, is this what it’s like to be you?”

“All the time,” Sophie told her with a laugh. 

“This is probably my comeuppance for the time I laughed at Bronte after he got stabbed on accident during a diplomatic mission to the goblins and had to drink some truly disgusting sludge,” Oralie mused.

“I’m still mad about that, you know,” Bronte huffed.

“I know, you hold a grudge.”

“With good reason.”

“I only laughed a little bit,” Oralie protested. “And only after I was certain you were going to be okay. His face at the medicine was so funny, you should have seen it,” she added to Sophie. 

“Oh, I bet.”

Bronte threw his arms up with a huff. “None of you respect me.”

“Nope!” Elwin said cheerfully. “Plus, you turned down an emotional support stuffed animal.”

Oralie made a shocked face, causing Sophie to giggle. “You can’t do that!”

“Yes, I can.”

“Hmm. Well I’ll just have to get you one and sneak it into your castle.”

Bronte grumbled under his breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you the key!”

Oralie couldn’t help but smile at the familiar grumbling. “Too bad, you did.” 

“I’m happy to provide the stuffed animal,” Elwin told her. “I have an alicorn named Mr. Sparkfluff if you want him.”

“That sounds perfect, actually.”

“I should warn you, he’s sparkly.” Elwin handed her a very sparkly stuffed alicorn, and Oralie giggled. 

“He certainly looks it! Alright, Bronte, am I sneaking in at 3 am to leave him on your sofa, or are you just taking him home?”

“It’s not like you won’t show up at 3 am if I don’t,” Bronte grumbled, but he reluctantly took the alicorn. “Does his name really have to be Mr. Sparklefluff?”

“Yes,” Oralie, Elwin, and Sophie all said in unison.

“I guess this is just my life now. Do remember to knock if you come over at some ridiculous hour of the night. Sometimes I’m even asleep.”

“Rarely,” Oralie murmured to herself. She tried to smile. “And don’t worry, I’ll knock when I come bother you about whatever paperwork we’re doing this week.”

“Lovely. If it’s more about ogre-troll relations, I vote we give it to Emery.”

“Is it going to be?”

“Probably.”

“Just going to betray me like that, Bronte?” Emery asked as he wandered over.

“Yes.”

Emery sighed and turned to Oralie, shaking his head in mock-sorrow. “It’s a cruel world out there. Betrayal by your own friends.”

“Cruel indeed.” She laughed, finding it easier to forget the darkness of her Neverseen cell in the bright sunlight of Eternalia.

After a minute, Elwin and Sophie joined in, and Emery chuckled. Even Bronte smiled. It wasn’t really that funny, but they were all here and alive and somewhere near okay, and that was reason enough to be happy right now. 

#Councillor Bronte #semp writes #councillor Oralie #sophie foster #caps tw #keeper of the lost cities #councillor Emery #Fintan pyren

[snusbandxknifewife]

So @the-chick-of-the-air mentioned something about wanting to know what Cardan said to Randalin and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. This is my attempt at writing what went down during that conversation, I hope you all like it!

~~~~

As Cardan Greenbriar drags his advisor into a separate room, all hints of a spoiled faerie boy are gone, replaced completely by the grace and danger of a High King who has been faced with treason.

“What vile, worm-hearted god spoke in your ear and gave you even the faintest idea that it was appropriate to enter the room of your wounded queen?” He hisses in the larger man’s ear. “And how, pray tell, did it convince you to stoop low enough to then question her sovereignty?”

A colossal, thorn-covered vine sprouts from the stone floor by the chamber door, actively shattering a brick as it moves to slam the door shut.

Randalin visibly swallows. “Your Majesty, please—“

“I must admit, Randalin, I thought you wiser than that,” Cardan continues. “I thought that you, for all your sniveling and spinelessness, would have enough foresight to see that your little plan could’ve never succeeded.”

The delicate pink roses in their little porcelain pot, set on the windowsill to capture sunlight, wither and die. Where their rotting petals fall, nightshade rises.

“I would’ve thought you would know my wife would never back down from a challenge. Especially one put forward by such a cowardly and insignificant man as you.”

Randalin stands, rooted to the floor by brambles growing over his feet, their thorns digging aggressively into his leather shoes. He watches, unable to move, as the boy king walks to where a cask of wine has been left on a table.

Cardan forgoes a goblet, instead gripping the neck of the wine bottle between his lithe fingers and turning it up, his eyes never leaving his advisor as he takes a long drink. When he sets the cask back down, wine as red as blood drips from his lips and down his chin, staining his moon-pale skin the same way castoff stains a wall during a murder.

“I would’ve thought you would realize that, even if it had worked, I’d find out about your meddling.” His voice is deadly quiet, his eyes swirling like whirlpools. “And I surely would’ve thought you smart enough to realize I wouldn’t appreciate someone taking away the woman I worked so hard to get back.”

“Your Majesty—“

“Have you ever been in love, Randalin?” Cardan cuts him off, his head tilting to the side and causing a stray drop of wine to fall onto his undershirt. “Have you ever looked into the eyes of another and felt your heart stop? Known that, as long as you live, no one will command your thoughts as this person does now?”

He steps closer, his boots clicking against the stone floor and the brambles at Randalin’s feet tightening with each step.

“Have you ever been given love, against all odds, and lost it?” He whispers in the shell of his advisor’s ear, a growl low in his throat as he does. “And were you then given that love back, only to find that someone you’re meant to trust is trying to rip it away once more?”

“The people of Elfhame will never accept a human queen.” Randalin tries, his face reddening with pain as a thorn succeeds in working its way through his shoe and into his toe.

“The people of Elfhame can all be damned.” Cardan smiles wolfishly, stepping back so he can loom over his foolish council member. “The land has chosen her, and it is the land’s support that proves a ruler’s worth here in Faerie.”

“Just because she said she was healed with the land’s help doesn’t mean we can believe her. Humans are liars, Your Majesty.”

Cardan Greenbriar walks away and turns towards the window, towards the land he and his wife will rule over until they choose for it to be otherwise. Beyond the gentle swaying of the curtains, a robin flaps by and the stars twinkle with the light of a thousand little suns.

“If you do not believe your queen’s word, believe Grima Mog, for she saw it happen.” The High King announces as he continues to look out the window, leaving the council member sweating behind him. “Jude stuffed her gutted belly full of soil and Elfhame chose to heal her. Flowers grew from the ground where her blood fell. The land answers to her, as it does to me.”

Randalin’s eyes widen. A human, a mortal with magic gifted by the land—

“How many people do you think my wife has murdered, Randalin?” Cardan’s voice is soft, the tone of a boy in love talking about his partner’s knack for making flower crowns. Not the voice of a ruler discussing his queen’s violent tendencies.

“I’m well aware that Lady Jude is—“

“High Queen Jude.” Cardan corrects, his voice void of all softness once more. “She is High Queen Jude. If you refer to her as anything else ever again, you do so at your own peril.”

“Your Majesty, if you would let me finish—“

“I shall let you finish a sentence when you begin to speak something other than nonsense.” Cardan’s tar-black eyes have the same devilish coldness in them that they had when he ripped that faerie boy’s wings at a revel so many moons ago. “Now refer to your queen by her proper title, or face the consequences.”

Randalin lets out a sigh and grits his teeth. “I am well aware that High Queen Jude is a woman with violent tendencies, but I do not know just how many lives she has claimed.”

“Nor do I.” Cardan smiles the smile of a man besotted. “She has a talent for swordplay that is unrivaled. Any night she is in my bed is a night in which I do not fear assassination, for I know my wife could kill anyone in her sleep.”

“Even you, Your Majesty.” Randalin tries to impart wisdom into his king, tries to show the boy just how dangerous this mortal girl is for both him and the kingdom.

“Especially me.” Cardan smiles as he catches Randalin’s eye, completely aware of what the older man is trying to say and also completely aware of just how wrong he is. “But she has had many chances, and she has yet to take them. Death at the hands of a god so sweet would be a gift, indeed, and yet I seem incapable of receiving such blessings.”

The brambles are growing up Randalin’s legs, cutting into his thighs and wrapping around his wrists as his arms stay by his sides.

The young man in front of him has danger etched into every line of his very being. The High King standing in this study is not the High King of days past, nor is he the High King one would ever wish to meet. Cardan Greenbriar is poison personified, malice dripping from his fanged smile and echoing in the light tapping of his fingernails on his elbow.

For the first time since hearing a doomed prince’s prophecy, Randalin feels true dread gather in the pit of his stomach.

“Do you think me a violent man, Randalin?” Cardan, who has always taken after felines in both his look and his mannerisms, seems far less cat-like than usual. It’s like his fangs hide venom, his body readying, not to pounce, but to strike.

“I’d never insult my king by suggesting something so rude, Your Majesty.”

“But you insulted your queen by suggesting that she abdicate her throne.” Cardan’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks and his smile grows cruel. “So do humor me this once.”

If the fae had warning sirens, they’d be blaring in Randalin’s head right this very moment.

“No, Your Majesty.” A bramble works it’s way under his doublet, drawing blood the entire way. “I think you do not have a taste for bloodshed. At the very least, not one as strong as the High Queen’s.”

Cardan smiles as the council member finally refers to Jude by her correct title.

He steps away from Randalin once more, walking over to the bookshelf by the desk and pulling a random leather bound volume out, fingers tracing over the lettering on the spine and longing for a more familiar title.

“You know, I’ve read my fair share of mortal stories in my day,” he announces, outwardly calm even as the thorns continue to torture his advisor. “The humans have a saying, a warning of sorts, about how even the devil runs when a good man goes to war.”

He opens the book to a random page, completely ignoring the words as his nails drag down the binding.

“Now, for all my distaste in violence, I wouldn’t call myself a good man,” he continues with a small quirk to his mouth, just a little upward tilt. “I am cruel, I am petty. I delight in the suffering of those who wrong me and I’ll settle for hurting those who are lesser, if I’m unable to harm someone I feel truly deserves it.”

His foot starts tapping, a quiet beat to him but a deafening war drum to Randalin. His ears pick up the sound of a racing heartbeat and his smile grows.

“I tortured even the woman I love for years, albeit not in the ways she likely would’ve preferred, but what good is torture if someone likes it?”

He snaps the book closed and Randalin jumps as best he can in his thorny prison.

“I suppose that makes me more dangerous in war than a good man would be,” he thinks aloud as he slowly turns his gaze back to where Randalin appears to be in the process of soiling his pants. “Surely if the devil runs when a good man goes to war, he would sprint when a man of questionable morals joins the fray, don’t you think?”

“Please, Your Majesty, my recommendations were only voiced out of a concern for the well-being of the kingdom.” Randalin, a man used to lording over those beneath him, sounds dangerously close to begging. “I did not mean to offend you!”

Cardan laughs, a joyless and wicked sound. “But you have offended me, Randalin,” his eyes are wild and his grin reckless. “You have questioned my ability to choose what is best for my kingdom and you have insulted the woman who occupies my every waking thought. You have even made the grievous mistake of disturbing my wife in one of her extremely rare moments of weakness, a moment where she undoubtedly needs all her time and energy to rest.”

The nightshade occupying the rose’s former home overgrows it’s pot and begins spilling down the side of the windowsill, flowers reaching towards Randalin like little fingers.

“Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness,” Randalin’s voice almost catches in his throat. “I won’t ever suggest that High Queen Jude abdicate again. I promise!”

“Good,” Cardan says as he steps within reach of Randalin.

Randalin lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing forward.

And it’s all a moment too soon, for the High King lashes out in the blink of an eye, his long fingers wrapping around the advisor’s throat and pushing his head back against the stone wall with an audible crack!

“Because I am the man of questionable morals, and this is war,” Cardan continues as Randalin’s spine screams in agony at the angle he’s been forced into. “I, Cardan Greenbriar, High King of Elfhame, declare war!”

His fingers tighten around Randalin’s throat, his nails already leaving bloody half-moons in the older man’s skin as he presses his forehead to the council member’s.

“I declare war on everyone who opposes my wife’s right to rule beside me as my queen and my equal,” his eyes are wild, barely containing his rage. “It is a war that is unending, a war that is complete and total, a war that I have no qualms about getting violent during.”

Randalin tried to swallow, but he can’t as the king’s hand digs into his throat even harder.

“I, a man without a love for swordplay, will take up a blade. I, a man without a taste for bloodshed, will slit a thousand throats,” he continues, “if that is what it takes for my people to respect my wife.”

Randalin’s vision swims in black, his face beginning to turn an impressive shade of purple as blood starts to gush from bramble-inflicted wounds.

“And as for you,” Cardan is close enough to see tears gather in his advisor’s eyes. “You who was bold enough to openly question the High Queen, I reserve my greatest act of violence.”

The nightshade from the windowsill has reached Cardan’s feet. It begins to grow up his legs, over his waist and down his arms, forming a crown atop his head as Randalin watches in horror.

“I will skin you alive and bleed you dry, forcing you to watch the whole time,” he leans down to whisper in Randalin’s ear. “I will break your bones and tear your flesh, and when I’m done, I will find a way to erase every mention of you. No book in Elfhame will bear your name, even the stars will rearrange when I tell them to.”

“Please—“

“And then I promise I will use your hollowed our skull as my wine goblet for the rest of my days, just because I can.”

Randalin’s knees quake as his body gasps for air.

Cardan lets him go, watching in disgust as the man falls into a pile of blood-stained brambles with a sob.

“I promise this on my honor as High King, and on the vow I made with my Wife, Jude Duarte Greenbriar,” Cardan’s voice is the voice of an executioner. “So help me gods, I will rip the world apart for her.”

“Your Majesty, how can I atone?” Randalin is reduced to weeping, his hands covering his face as he cowers at his king’s feet.

“Never question the High Queen’s sovereignty again, and see that anyone else who dares to speak treason against her understands exactly how far I’m willing to go to support her right to rule beside me.”

The nightshade around Cardan disappears, withering back into the pot before dying and being replaced by pretty roses. The brambles around the room fade into nothingness, only a broken stone and a few blood smears left to remind anyone that they were ever there.

“And do hope that I don’t have to resort to violence again,” Cardan smiles that cruel little smile he wears so well. “Jude is so much more adept at wielding the hospitality of knives.”

~~~~

Tag list: @cardan-greenbriar-tcp

#cardan greenbriar #randalin #tfota #queen of nothing #jude duarte #mentioned #tyrannosaurus lex writes #hope yall enjoy #hope i didnt make it too violent #but that it was violent enough yknow #cant have someone do a 180 that hard without a little threatening

[titanias-stolen-shoes]

I have time now. A day before the last episode. Anyway this is long as hell sorry.

I’m gonna start with Swifty because fuck that little gingerbread man.

Swifty had been tasked to follow Ruby and heard the entire conversation that the immediate Rocks Family had. He heard how Ruby thought Saccharina had the capacity for good and Amethar immediately recoiled at the mere mention of Saccharina having an ‘accident’ (“that’s my daughter!”) on the battlefield. Swifty intentionally left those bits out likely because of the chaos it would cause. He knows Saccharina is very emotional around these people and even since they came into the picture, she’s been changing. Less murdery and more restrained. That gels with literally nothing we know about Swifty.

As for the conversation they had, I’m really happy with how Ruby handled it. She got what she wanted with Caramelinda finally treating her like an adult and she behaved that way. She didn’t jump to conclusions and she thought about Caramelinda’s question. She probably thought about their interactions with Saccharina carefully before saying that she could be good if she was surrounded by better people. And that’s honestly just it! Saccharina clearly amassed followers and kept them somehow without them all killing each other and has done it for years, which means that she is both charismatic enough to solve problems amicably and powerful enough to keep them together. She thinks about what she does before doing them and looks to others to make sure she isn’t going overboard or being risky. Ruby can see that Saccharina is doing these things, but her problem is that she has murdering marauders as her council. That interaction also didn’t completely put her on level with her parents despite what Caramelinda said. Ruby could voice her opinion and they would take them into consideration, but at that end of the day Ruby would still defer to her parents because they’re more experience than she is.

Amethar, like most things, decided it was best not to talk about it at the moment while they were about to go into battle. While there’s a method to his madness, Caramelinda said it best with “The delay of conversation has been, perhaps, your most cardinal sin,” though not quite in the context I’m talking about. And it’s understandable. Amethar is a war guy and delicate conversations never came easy to him. It’s better to just do what needs to be done right at the moment (storming Castle Candy) and leaving it until after. When Saccharina would fully expect to take the throne. And when she would figure out that they knew and didn’t tell her right away when it clearly involved her.

With Caramlinda, I have to admit while I have been the number one advocate of Caramelinda (and, believe me, I still love and understand her), I can’t even fathom what she was thinking suggesting Saccharina have an accident was really going to solve. Caramelinda has lost everything she ever worked for along with her daughter and Lapin and is frantically trying to regain her footing after the one thing she’d been making sure didn’t happen, happens all around her without ever once slowing down. However, just because Saccharina is dangerous doesn’t mean she’s a threat. Saccharina, as far as they had interacted with her, has been very amicable. She’s nice and lends her time and power and energy very generously. Saccharina can be very good, but Caramelinda can’t see that past her own idea of what is best for Candia.

Saccharina’s reaction to what Swifty said is incredicly understandable. From her perspective, Amethar, Caramelinda, and Ruby had found out that Amethar was still rightfully king and plan to kill her so the throne never goes to her. There wasn’t much else she could get from that. And still—still!—she wanted to please them and give them the benefit of the doubt because Swifty is the one who told her. She wanted to make sure that that was their intentions because if not then a fight could be avoided.

And Theo (whose heartfelt agreement with Saccharina about trying so hard and giving so much to people who just don’t appreciate them killed me on the spot!), was coming to their defense at first because he knows these people. He’s known Amethar for a long time and fought together with him and Ruby’s been under his protection literally since she was born. He knows them. At least he thought he did. He thought he knew that Amethar wouldn’t hurt her because family is everything to him. He thought he knew that Ruby was too kind to suggest something so cruel. But when he sees Saccharina standing in front of him, telling her entire truth to him, he has to rethink that. He has to come to terms with that while he serves them, maybe he doesn’t actually know them. Maybe he can’t be sure that family is everything to Amethar because look at how he treats Saccharina. Look at how dismissive and distant he is to her. Maybe he can’t be sure that Ruby isn’t capable of something like that because look at how she seemed to agree with taking out Saccharina. Look at how she kept secrets from the one who protected her through everything. And as he thinks that, he has to come to terms with these facts now laid out before him—a woman telling him nothing but her entire truth and his resurfacing feelings of resentment and Lazuli’s first order to him—and pick a side. And so, he picked a side.

#anyway theo is my favorite character #i haven't said it much but like i love him dearly #a crown of candy