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samwpmarleau · 5 years

Note

Rhaella x Doran her first Yule/Winterfest/whatever in Dorne and the Martells giving her gifts that actually suit her and her interests. I head canon that Rhaella was an accessory and afterthought to her parents- Aerys was the Heir and her parents were narcissists so Rhaella got expensive crap that she hated (she wants books, they give itchy clothes in colors that wash her out, etc)

Another anon asked: I love your Rhaella x Doran fics!! Would it be possible to get a baby betrothed Rhaella post Summerhall worrying that her father will try & force her to marry Aerys, only for Doran or Loreza to swear that will never happen.

@riana-one asked: I think I owe a few fics at this point but could you do Doran x Rhaella happily married & dealing with the political specter of Aerys’s growing instability?

Holidays are among Rhaella’s favorite days of the year. The gaiety, the feasts, the mummers’ productions, she loves seeing it all. What she doesn’t much care for are the gifts she is given to accompany the holidays. Her septa had taught her to be gracious to be given anything, and yet it is as if no one knows her interests at all.

She finds little use for material things, and yet that is almost all anyone bothers with. Heavy earrings and necklaces that weigh her down, hideous and scratchy dresses she would rather use as curtains than wear, garish golden statues that she shoves in her bureau instead of displays. She would rather no gifts at all.

When she makes her new home in Dorne as Prince Doran’s betrothed, she expects more of the same, if perhaps of a different style–silk instead of cloth-of-gold, perhaps, or lapis lazuli instead of rubies.

And so she is surprised when on Maiden’s Day she is adorned not with earrings or a necklace but with a crown fashioned entirely of colorful blooms and The Loves of Queen Nymeria. She thanks everyone, down to little Elia who had helped pick out the flowers, and actually means it.

The crown wilts within the week, but Rhaella’s delight blossoms.

The next year brings with it horror, shock, sadness, and guilt. Rhaella is invited to the gathering of her family at Summerhall, but the thought of seeing her parents, her parents who have never warmed to her betrothal, makes her shy away. She does not want to leave the comforts of Dorne only to be berated and insulted, going hoarse from how often she must defend herself and her family-to-be.

So, she writes Grandfather and tells him she won’t be attending. He writes back to ask her to reconsider, adding in something cryptic about dragons that makes her shiver for reasons she doesn’t know. Still, she refuses, and so he promises to visit one day.

When the news reaches Sunspear of the conflagration that consumed Grandfather, Uncle Duncan, Ser Dunk, Great-aunt Rhae and two of her children, too many servants to name, and leaves Aunt Jenny nearly mad with grief, Rhaella can’t comprehend it. Loreza has to inform her thrice before she fully realizes it is no joke. Worse still, no one can figure out exactly how the disaster happened, other than rumors of wildfire–but, everyone asks, why would there be wildfire there to begin with?

She goes to the burial ceremony in King’s Landing, though it feels an empty affair, for there is nothing left to bury. The fire had consumed even the ashes. The crowns her family had left behind are burned instead, as though that is any compensation.

Father is king now, Mother his queen, and that feels an odd thing. As days pass, the court in full mourning, Rhaella begins to notice her parents looking at her not with disdain but with calculation. Her skin crawls, dread growing, until one day she seeks out both Doran and Loreza. She crosses paths with Aunt Rhaelle on her way, and her fear must be awfully apparent, for Aunt insists on knowing the cause.

“I think they will try to marry me to Aerys now that Grandfather’s gone,” she admits to the three of them. Doran’s eyebrows knit together, and Loreza and Aunt share a glance. “I’m not wed yet and Father is king. He could break the betrothal and command this.”

“That will never happen,” says Loreza at once. “I will not let it.”

Aunt reaches out and pats Rhaella’s hand, her black eyes determined. “Nor I, Ella.”

“But how?” Rhaella asks. She thinks of herself, just five-and-ten, and Doran, three years younger. “We are not old enough to wed yet.”

“Who’s to say?” Aunt asks, once more exchanging a loaded glance with Loreza. “No one need know there will be no bedding until later. We can have the ceremony at Storm’s End, even. Maester Cressen is a close friend, I am certain he would declare you no longer a maiden if need arose.”

Rhaella had not expected this…this haste. She is not ready to add the title of wife. “But–”

“Yes,” says Loreza, energized. “Yes, and no one could claim Dornish trickery in Storm’s End.”

“Even if it is,” Rhaelle smiles. “They do so often forget I am a viper, too.”

With that, what had started as Rhaella merely wanting to air her fears and receive some comfort becomes a scheme to have her married in a matter of months.

It is a mild scandal, when all is said and done, but true to Aunt’s word, there is no bedding–just a kiss to seal the vows, a Martell cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She hears tell of her parents’ wroth–but there is naught they can do now, and once more Rhaella can breathe.

As a child, Rhaella remembers being afraid of Aerys, of disliking him as much as he disliked her. Yet for all that, as the years go by and whispers of madness abound, especially after the fracas at Duskendale, Rhaella finds it hard to wrap her head around. Aerys had been awful, but mad? But there is no disputing his rages–if he is not mad, then he is cruel beyond measure. Is that better?

Through it all, though it makes her feel like a terrible person, she thanks the gods that it is Mina Tyrell who is Aerys’s queen and not her. She had come so close to that very thing, but instead she is wed to a man of unerring kindness and lives in a land of unerring generosity, whereas Queen Mina…does not.

Yes, Rhaella has plenty of sympathy and sorrow for the woman, whose pain and bruises cannot be covered up by any amount of paints, but she can’t summon up regret.

How so, when she feels such joy whenever she watches her family play in the Water Gardens, when the babe kicking inside her–their sixth, despite an early agreement to only have two or three–brings her such contentment, even more so when Doran folds his hand over hers on her belly, speaking promises of love and safety? How so, when Aerys doesn’t have a caring bone in his body and her prince has nothing but?

She stands out on the balcony, unable to sleep, letting the warm, salty breeze wash over her. She knows she is protected here, that she cannot be touched, but still she worries. For the realm, if not herself. Queen Mina is pregnant again after two miscarriages; Rhaella can only imagine the pressure in wanting–no needing–this babe to live and to be a boy. To give the realm an heir at last.

Who would crumble first, Aerys or his bride? Rhaella doesn’t know.

She hears the rustle of sheets behind her, then Doran’s quiet footsteps. “I’ve much on my mind,” she says in response to his unvoiced question. She leans back against him, letting his scent calm her. He has little of Oberyn’s lithe muscle nor Elia’s delicacy, but his heartbeat is strong as any, and as familiar as her own. “Aerys is worse than Father ever was, and we are all at his mercy. I worry what will happen if he goes unchecked.”

Doran is silent for a long while. In the beginning of their marriage, his habit vexed her something terrible, that he would wait so long before answering, even in an argument. But she’s grown to appreciate it, his lack of impulsiveness, how much time he spends puzzling out his opinions. There is plenty of fire within him, but he is careful how he uses it, and in his capacity as the leader of a kingdom, it’s served him well.

“You know of my brother’s friendship with Ser Willas,” says Doran carefully. “It seems there has been…talk.”

“Talk?”

“The Tyrells do not like Aerys’s madness any more than you do. They await the birth of Queen Mina’s child with great interest.”

The implication is clear as the Sunset Sea. Rhaella’s chest feels like it is caught in a vise grip, and she squeezes Doran’s hand. “Then let us pray for a boy.”

#rhaella targaryen #doran martell #rhaella x doran #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #loreza martell #rhaelle targaryen #my fic #compliance: canon au #anonymous #riana one #combining the three prompts because i'm lazy and they all can fit in the same verse #also i delayed summerhall a year so everything isn't quite so bunched up #btw as it says on my blog i'm not taking new prompts #i'm filling old ones

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starswornoaths · 5 years

Text

The Flames of Her Fury

Aymeric is slow to trust, even those who he wants to trust. On any other day, Serella would have the patience for him. Today she is fighting for her friends’ lives.

Or:

Serella asserts herself, and Aymeric has the first inclination that maybe he’s a bottom.

(This isn’t NSFW I’m being an idiot it’s just about them talking before Alphinaud and Tataru’s trial)

When he received word of the arrests of Master Leveilleur and Mistress Taru, Aymeric only found himself surprised by half. That they were accused of heresy was, while deeply unsettling, only surprising in so far as it happened so soon.

A frown marred his face as he mulled over Lucia’s report of the situation; that it was Ser Grinnaux of the Heaven’s Ward that laid such charges against them, vague as those charges were, was of grave concern; though no one voiced it, the writing was on the wall: this was meant to get rid of a perceived threat.

Still, that threat was clearly not with the accused—capable as they were no doubt were, this was a shameless ploy to eliminate the Warrior of Light by association.

Because Serella would intervene; even knowing her as little as he did, he did not doubt that she set out for a solution the moment she was informed. Heavy thoughts bade he wonder if this would be another notch upon her sword or her moment of ruin. He could only hope for the former.

Thus the notice from the lift guard that the Warrior of Light was requesting an audience did not come as a surprise, and she was swiftly granted entrance.

Even less surprising was her hurried gait as she walked in. He did not even have the opportunity to stand and greet her before she was at his desk.

“I won’t pretend you don’t know,” Serella began, foregoing her own greeting. “That Alphinaud and Tataru have been arrested on charges of heresy.”

“I was informed,” Aymeric answered. “I must extend my apologies—“

“You had nothing to do with it.” Serella dismissed. “And I don’t have time for pleasantries.” She grimaced. “Haurchefant sent me to you in the hopes that you could help me.”

“Regrettably, there is little I can do to stop it.” Aymeric said, and folded his hands together atop his desk.

“What?” Serella balked, as if surprised. She shook her head and tried to explain, “No, that’s not—“

A flare of anger sparked in his chest; here she had come to him but a week ago insisting they be honest with one another to build trust, and already she not only wished to use him for his position, but to demure as though she was not? Had his suspicions of her intent been right all along? Though he did not raise his voice, he did not hide the way his frown deepened.

“The Holy See has formally arrested them.” He said in a clipped tone. “Were I to try and step in to release them—“

Serella’s hands slammed upon his desk hard enough that he jumped in his chair. The noise was sharp enough to pierce through the anger, the thud heavy enough to douse the conflagration in his chest. His heart pounded in his chest from beneath her fiery gaze.

“I need you,” she said, her tone low and dangerous. “To pull your paranoid head out of your own ass and hear me.”

The last words were snarled, her scarred lips pulled back enough to bare her teeth. Without meaning to, Aymeric straightened in his seat and moved his hands to his lap, gaping up at her intense visage with wide eyes. Her ferocity had never been directed at him, and as he watched the fire burn in her mismatched eyes he at last understood how she had turned false gods to ash.

“Let me be clear: I do not want you to intervene.” She continued in that warning tone of hers.

Unconsciously, he shivered from the ice in her voice. She loomed over him in a way none had dared to since he began to climb up the ranks of the Temple Knights. His pulse quickened, and the heat in her gaze slid down to settle low in his gut— and was promptly shoved away because what was he meant to do with that particular feeling.

“It would be stupid.” She continued. “Even if they were cleared, they would only be targeted more than they already have.”

“That they would.” Aymeric conceded softly, still more than a little surprised.

“All I am asking of you,” Serella said, her tone slowly thawing into something more neutral. “Is to tell me how I can save them.”

It was subtle—if she had not been leaning so close to him he might have missed it, but he saw the way she winced when her voice cracked. Her mask of stalwart and unflinching fury slipped, however momentarily, but it was enough to quietly remind him that she was fighting for two of the only people she had left on this star—doubtless it only made her more desperate.

You are capable of kindness, he chastised himself. Remember that.

“It would seem,” he said hesitantly. “That I have presumed in error.” He lowered his eyes, humbled. “Forgive—”

“Later.” Serella snapped. “Tell me how I can fix this. Please.”

“They can demand a trial by combat—and doubtless Master Leveilleur will.” Aymeric said quickly. “Mistress Taru, however, can select a champion to fight in her stead.”

“Me, then.” She said simply.

“Precisely.” He confirmed with a nod. “Though her champion must needs be present—“

“Thank you, Ser Aymeric.” Serella cut him off, already pushing away from his desk and running to the lift. “I’ll report in after I win.”

“And that is already a foregone conclusion?” He called as she slipped inside the lift.

She turned to look at him as the gate closed.

“It is.” She said. “Because it has to be.”

Her words stayed with him even after she left.

He could not help but be humbled by the encounter. While her outburst had been more than a little…unexpected, he could concede that it was not without merit—or at least, was understandable, given the circumstances. She had come only seeking his advice, after all, and he had to quietly concede that his assumption was uncalled for, and his reaction outsized. It would seem they both bore the pain of thawing to one another, he thought to himself.

Aymeric weighed his options carefully. He spoke truthfully when he said that there was nothing that he could do; even if he had the political sway for it—which he lacked besides—the backlash would doubtless put them in greater danger. Serella had the right of that. Still…there were some areas in which he had a modicum of latitude.

The linkpearl frequency that he dialed was one he had memorized from repetition, and he was soon tapping his earpiece as the call connected.

“Ser Handeloup,” his Second Commander announced himself.

“I require your discretion in this discussion, Second Commander.” Aymeric said. “Pray speak as though you are conversing with a friend.”

“Of course,” Handeloup replied in a conversational tone.

Good, Aymeric thought. The less it seems that this is an important call, the better.

“If I recall your schedule correctly, you are currently at the Tribunal?” He asked, even as he thumbed through the day’s patrol routes and assignments to confirm what he had said.

“Only just,” Ser Handeloup said easily. “But yes.”

“There is a trial of heresy for two of the wards of House Fortemps on the docket today,” Aymeric explained. “Can you confirm that it has not yet begun?”

“A marvelous question,” Handeloup replied casually—good, he was keeping up appearances. There were a few moments of static before he spoke again. “From the sound of it, there is nothing going on at the moment.”

Then the judge has not yet brought them to face their charges. There was still time…

“I would ask you to invoke a request of documentation on the orders of the Lord Commander.” Aymeric said after only a moment’s pause. “I would know more of these charges and what evidence they are based upon.”

More like he would stall the judge long enough to guarantee that Serella could get to the Tribunal before the trial started, but still. Nothing stalled bureaucracy for another half bell or so like paperwork.

“I can do that.” Handeloup said. “Anything else I can assist with?”

“Only that you might bring the requested documents to the Congregation at your earliest convenience.” Aymeric answered. “Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Ser Handeloup.”

“Of course,” his Second Commander replied. “Until then.”

With the call ended, Aymeric leaned back in his chair, his hands resting in his lap. Technically, he was only asking Ser Handeloup to perform a task he would have had to have done regardless—he only asked that it be done sooner rather than later.

Punctuality did not correlate to preferential treatment, after all. Any who might try to accuse him of it would only be mocked for their overreach. He could only pray that Serella would make it count.

It was less than three hours later that Aymeric heard word that she had, in fact, made it count—and count soundly, from the sound of it. To hear Haurchefant explain the battle in breathless detail, Ser Grinnaux should offer thanks to Halone that he still possessed all of his limbs.

Aymeric felt only a little guilty that he regretted not being able to see that.

Still, if that had been the ultimate conclusion to the whole ordeal—with the Warrior of Light as the victor and the wards of House Fortemps cleared of their charges—then that would have been more than enough, sight unseen. So when he was notified later that evening that Serella was awaiting admittance to his office with a package, he had to admit, his curiosity was piqued. He permitted her entry.

Serella came to him with steps lightened from her earlier burden and an apologetic smile upon her face. She had taken the time to change out of her armor, and came to him wearing a simple shirt and pants, obscured only by a thick gray cloak. This would be the first time he had ever seen her out of her armor, he realized with a start—it struck him as significant, even if he could not parse out why.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mistress Arcbane,” Aymeric greeted her from his desk with a smile. “And may I express my relief that the trial came to such a satisfactory conclusion.”

“I’m just glad it’s over.” Serella said, sighing. “But I didn’t come here for my ego to be fed.” She shifted her weight to one foot in front of his desk, her expression bashful. “I came to say thank you,” she explained before adding, “and…because I owe you an apology.”

He respected her too much to pretend at ignorance, though all the same, he felt an apology was unnecessary.

“You owe me nothing—“ he tried to say when she held her hand up.

“Please don’t try to excuse my behavior.” She implored him with a shake of her head. “I got in your face and spoke out of turn— you didn’t deserve that.”

“Given the circumstances,” Aymeric said amicably. “I am in no position to fault you.”

“Nor I you,” Serella replied. She shrugged a shoulder and looked over to the window before adding, “I thought about how it must have looked from your perspective for a bit there—and I’d have drawn the same conclusion you did.” She lowered her gaze. “Truly, I’m sorry for the way I treated you. It was beneath us both.” She met his gaze evenly. “I’ll carry myself better going forward, you have my word.”

Aymeric could not help but be pleasantly surprised—though he was considered young for his station by most standards in both military and political fields, many of his political colleagues might as well have been toddlers for how well they handled any given situation where they might have even tangentially been at fault, so such a direct apology was…welcome. His expression must have given some part of him away, as Serella fidgeted.

“Have…have I offended?” She asked hesitantly.

“Not at all,” he said immediately. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” He cleared his throat and explained, “I am unaccustomed to receiving apologies of any magnitude that were even half so sincere.” He offered her a slow but genuine smile. “You are a breath of fresh air, Serella Arcbane.”

“Yeah, well,” she fumbled for a moment, clearly flustered by the comment. “Likewise—you actually took the time to hear me out.”

She gently laid the box she had brought in with her upon his desk—a small box, but he recognized the white and gold parcel wrap from a chocolatier he had been known for frequenting. He quietly wondered if she knew that part, and hadn’t simply asked around for a reputable sweets shop; there were only so many in the city, he remembered with dismay.

“I remembered you liked confections, but I had no idea what you would like,” Serella said apologetically. “But I was recommended this place for sweets.”

“By whom?” He asked, eyeing the wrapping. “They have good taste.”

“Haurchefant,” Serella admitted with a smile. “I figured it must be good— was the only store I’ve ever heard him recommend by name.”

Aymeric laughed at that—the two of them had often gone in their early days of knighthood together and spent damn near every gil they had on good chocolate and taffy to share with the then young Lord Francel. Of course Haurchefant would remember—he had often admitted that those were some of the few happy moments he had within the city before his transfer to Camp Dragonhead.

“I am surprised he did not remember my old order there.” Aymeric said, already beginning to tug at the gold ribbon wrapped around the box.

“Oh he does,” Serella said with a wry twist of her lips. “He just wouldn’t tell me.”

That was a surprise—much as he adored his old friend, Haurchefant was, above many other things, the biggest gossip Aymeric personally knew.

“Believe me, I asked him.” She said, holding up a hand. “But he told me, ‘isn’t it better to learn yourself?’” She rolled her eyes goodnaturedly. “That these were meant to be a surprise olive branch was beside the point—I evidently still had to learn for myself.”

“Ever has Lord Haurchefant had a proclivity for mischief,” Aymeric mused. Sliding the lid of the box off, he peered down at the confections within and arched a brow. “May I ask who chose these sweets in particular?”

“I did.” Serella said, and he heard the shrug in her tone without looking up at her.

They were truffles— what flavor, he could only guess— wrapped in white chocolate and dotted with blue icing on top. Mamelons d'Halone. Reminding himself that he was no longer a boy of twelve summers, he fought back a snicker.

“An interesting choice.” He said instead, though he could not help but smile wider. “May I ask what made you decide on this?”

“Because it seemed a good icebreaker.” Serella said with a grin and a shrug of her shoulders. “And I was a tit earlier.”

Aymeric was not proud of the laugh that bubbled up in his throat at the joke.

“Alright, now I am a touch cross.” He admitted around his chuckling, and though he gave a valiant effort to looking annoyed, her grin dissolved his attempts. “That was not funny.”

“You laughed, so it counts.” She countered. After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “there’s...there isn’t any cultural significance to these, right? I mean, I asked at the shop and they said no, but—”

“Only that young students of the scholasticate laugh at them in the windows.” He reassured her, giving in to his chuckling and holding up a hand.

“Good.” Serella sighed. “There’s a similar truffle in Gridania— but it’s named after Menphina instead.” She pointed to the sweets inside the box. “And there’s a little pink nub on the top instead of blue.” She shrugged. “But I’m guessing that’s just to be funny because it’s cold here.”

“A rather bold assumption,” he tutted playfully. “That Ishgardians are capable of humor.”

He delighted in the startled sputter of laughter that Serella coughed up, staring at him with wide, surprised eyes.

“Did…” She asked slowly, her grin widening by the second. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Not at all.” He dismissed. “I made an observation.”

“True enough,” she sighed. “How could I think you could be funny?”

“How indeed,” Aymeric said. Eyeing the chocolates, he saw the unique opportunity they represented. “As recompense for presuming me capable of humor, I would request your assistance in enjoying these.” He looked to her as he gestured to the box. “I fear I could not eat them all alone— and I would enjoy speaking with you more.”

“Ah,” Serella mused with a knowing nod. “You’d like to be kept abreast of how things are going?”

Aymeric’s lip twitched— and he hated that it did. Her eyes, hawkish as they were, saw it, and she flashed him a toothy smile.

“You smiled.” She observed.

“I shan’t be making a habit of it,” he promised, even as he gave up and laughed again. “Come, I shall prepare tea for us to partake in— that is,” he caught himself; she hadn’t accepted his invitation. “Provided you are amenable?” Fearful of being seen as presuming her consent, he fumbled to explain, “truly, I would never press the issue. I only wished to take a moment to speak with you, and—”

He had an entire, long winded explanation for what amounted to ‘I want to know and trust you,’ that he was prepared to launch into when she started to laugh before he could truly begin. He looked up at her, and any of those carefully constructed words he might have still had in his head faded.

Serella was smiling at him, but for the first time it was...different. Her expression was soft and comfortable, and a warmth he had not realized she had made her smile glow with radiance. That her face was almost half scar did not matter to him as she met his gaze with a tilt of her head and a mirthful twinkle in her eyes.

Beautiful, his mind whispered. He ignored it.

“I would be more than amenable.” She said, her tone matching the softness in her eyes. With a huff of laughter, she added, “though just black for mine, if you please.”

“Of,” his throat felt dry and his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again, “Of course, Mistress Arcbane.” He gestured to a chair nearby. “Please.”

“How many times do I have to ask you to just call me Serella?” She asked him with another of those bell-clear laughs.

“Perhaps a few times more,” he said with a faint smile of his own as he set to fixing the kettle. “Though I would not wish for you to feel as though you must accept my invitation—”

“Aymeric.” Serella said.

He looked up from the kettle, surprised; she had never said his name before without his title, and he had not heard his name said in such a patient sigh since he was a boy— though this felt...different. Kinder. There was a faint...something that fluttered against his ribs but he pushed that down as far as he could— he wouldn’t even know what to do with that little budding...thing in his chest.

“You can call me here as often as you like,” she said, her smile still soft as gossamer and still doing odd things to his thoughts. “And if I can, I’ll come because I want to be here.” She looked down at her lap, though her smile did not fade. “I want us to be a team— perhaps even friends.”

“Then our goals align once more.” He said easily and earnestly. “Shall we start here?”

“I think,” Serella said, beaming at him as she settled her hands in her lap. “I think we shall.”

And once they had their cups in hand, they did.

#Serella Arcbane #Aymeric de Borel #I am as ever your shield #see also: that time Aymeric didn't realize he liked powerful women yelling at him but here he is #ffxiv #mild spoilers for early Heavensward #I need to pull more of these out of my drafts tbh #a snow day seemed a good opportunity for that #this is mostly establishing them choosing to be friends vs. just being colleagues #this is where stuff starts to really be a *thing* for them #hope you like it!

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noxian-rose · 7 years

Photo

| EMPRESS LEBLANC BACKSTORY | WRITTEN WITH @the-ravenous-flock

"Evaine...?" The world goes quiet in moments. Her eyes betray a moment of apology. Everything resumes in a cacophony of noise, how men dying at his feet. But his eyes cannot leave her frame, her staff raised to fight. To take everything. His age weighs him down as surely as his heart. His staff falls from numb fingers. The Grand General falls into his seat moments later.

"Kill any attempting resistance, we will rendezvous in the meeting room when the dust settles" She states to a group of her magi in the midst of pulling signature ethereal chains around the neck of a former commander.

LeBlanc merely observes the color wash from his pleading eyes without much of another word; her fingers letting go of the illusionary chain, only to turn around and find Jericho's eyes cemented to figure. Unblinking, still as the most stagnant waters as if frozen in the singular moment that had taken place before the sounds and people surrounding him had come to a halt in his eyes. Emilia shook her head and settled her attentions on the matter at hand, continuing forth with the rest of the others.

A stronger man would have fought back. A wiser would have escaped to fight another day. Jericho feels neither of these can apply anymore. All his plans, all the sacrifices he'd made. All for naught. They had gone up in smoke, much like the flames sprouting from High Command itself. His bones felt stiff, his muscles burned. He'd not sustained any damage whatsoever, but he could not move. Once more, his voice barely broke through the carnage, still disbelieving. "Evaine...?".

His eyes could not pull away from the woman he'd loved. The woman who had listened to him, in the dark of the night.

The woman who had stabbed him in the heart.

Despite the voice of reason that was her better self, she turned back to him; still not having moved in the heat of the moment. For a moment she thought she had hallucinated the voice that came from within the man slumped in his seat, utterly defeated by the vulnerability that was her presence.

How long had it been since she had last heard him utter her name so defeatedly? Certainly not the night before.

Emilia approached him once more, standing before her dearest raven with her porcelain visage and ever so smug smirk. Victory; the taste of the purest honey that she had long served him through the years without even the slightest sample. "Jericho, darling why must you look so terribly downtrodden? Is this not the victory we both yearned for so desperately since our youth?"

The voice before him taunted him, trying to get a rise out of him. A younger Swain might have taken the bait. Swain was not a young man anymore.

The wine they had drank the night before, the way her laugh lit the night. The way the moonlight played off her porcelain skin. All this and more danced through his mind unbidden. He could taste nothing but ash upon his lips. Where she'd kissed him tenderly the night before, promising her live to him.

Despite priding himself as a tactician without equal, Swain could barely breathe, let alone think. His eyes watched the remains of his men die by the score, falling to flame and spell and blade. Yet, his eyes never left the spectre of the woman before him.

"I know better than to think Emilia would share any sort of power." The words echo to him, barely recognizing the words as his own. The world flickers and warps, and he barely manages to stay conscious. "Even in my wildest dreams, I would never have expected this. Never would have believed it possible."

"But Evaine died years ago. I now see that clearly. I've merely been following the shadow of a ghost."

The mere spectacle of his crimson hues sitting still before her only served as a reminder of their actions the night before; his silence only magnifying the ache that lingered within her like venom, corroding away at the walls she had fortified Evaine in for years. She needed to leave, follow her army the way he had led the men and women of Noxus for decades without as much as a stutter in his stride. But her feet refused to comply with her desire, walking forward than backwards as she had so wished. Emilia knelt on the floor, her hands cupping his cheek the same way she had done when they shared a tender kiss, nevermore. "Jericho." She whispered "Is this not what you wanted?"

He barely manages to sit straight in his chair. We're he to die now, he'd do it with his back straight. And, even though he knows the woman he loved may as well have not existed, he still cannot bring himself to harm her face. His eyes glaze over, a coldness setting in his chest.

"So then, Matron. Make your final move."

He utters the challenge as a token. He has no fight left. He can't even tell, numb as he is that tears stream down his face.

Beatrice swoops in from the rafters, blood coating her once pristine feathers. Most of is not hers. She screams all the way, talons extended. She cries for her master, fury incarnate. Blood flows freely from anyone fool enough to fight her. And then her many eyes catch Swain, and then her rage is tenfold. A word of power is uttered "Harlot!"

Unholy flame streams forth from the devil bird, a mighty conflagration that shames the kindling produced by the Rose. She dives for LeBlanc, harpy-like screeches issuing forth.

She is stopped by the hand of her master.

"No, Beatrice."

The flames die as quickly as they grew. Her hatred, however, still burns. Six crimson eyes turn to the Deceiver. They promise torment without end, and death a blessing. However, the Grand General awaits his own judgement all the same, tired old eyes barely registering the flowing tears.

"Play your final move, LeBlanc."

Tears. Tears that she had once remembered long before the game had truly begun. Tears that didn't even make their presence strong even when she had killed her own blood prior to becoming Matron. Glassy amber eyes shifting to the horrific sight that was Beatrice lurching for her without a hint of remorse evident; then Swain's hand halting the creature; a drop of blood from the bird's talons falling unto untouched cheek. LeBlanc draws away from him, ever unfeeling and composed as her official title dropped from his lips like bile.

She stands from the ground silkily and continues "We do not fall short on deals as an organization, as you know. What you desire from us will be yours, your master will be kept well treated. What say you?"

By this point, Swain has lost consciousness. The shock renders him cold, and dead to the world.

However, the bird scorched the wood it stands upon, protecting her master. Words spill into the aether, a terrible sound. Lesser men fall to the ground, bleeding from their ears.

"A gilded cage, then. So be it. Know this, Deceiver. You will die alone in the dark, forgotten to the annals of time. And my master will be the one to burn your Rose to ashes black as your namesake. And, as you die, I will be there." As she speaks, Beatrice conjures a vision for LeBlanc. An ebony throne. A Rose in bloom. A war. A child. Then fire. Pain. Six burning eyes. A field of corpses. A golden staff shattering. Screams. Jericho walking away into the night. As quickly as the images fly by, it ends in moments.

"You may hold onto Jericho for now, doll. But he is mine.". With that, the bird disappears out the window, leaving a comatose old man behind.

She listened to Beatrice's words wordlessly and let the vision wash over her without as much as a blink of her eye; rather, a smirk took it's rightful place across her lips. The creature's words did nothing to unsettle her despite the intentions set. It would take more than a mere bird to bring her Rose to ashes, and she would make sure to secure the position of authority her organization had slid into before the inevitable death of her physical vessel.

Beatrice proposed a fitting challenge for a woman of her stature; and LeBlanc was not a woman to ignore such trials. If this was the way she wanted to play the game, so be it. She conjured her clone and ordered the duplicate to walk to Swain's unmoving body. LeBlanc grasped his shoulders, moving him away from the chair while her clone took charge of his lower body. "We need to move him elsewhere. The Black Rose's sanctuary" Evaine stated. Her clone nodded and followed in her footsteps as they both moved out towards the underground headquarters.

#black rose archives | (drabbles.)#// ayyy shoutout to the-ravenous-flock for being so rad!#// also rip my feels #the raven and his thorned rose | (swain and leblanc.)#// holy shit this is long lmao #death to the raven; nevermore! (empress verse.)

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