#The Burdens of Lordship AU

[jakegooglyeyes]

Emblem of Roses - 4

Pairings: Jake Gyllenhaal x reader, Maggie Gyllenhaal x reader (Medieval AU)

Summary: You were content with your quiet life as an illegitimate daughter of the King, hanging out with the maids and learning your craft. All that ended when your father married you to Lord Gyllenhaal, the Usurper, as a peace offering and a hostage.

Word count: 5,300

Warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI , RPF, DUBCON, angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, hate to pining, polyamory, slow burn with smut, political marriage, mean!Jake to pining!Jake, cunning!Maggie, kind!reader.

Chapter warnings: light smut, dubcon, dry humping, drinking.

*** Your online experience is your responsibility. You have been warned. If any of these content upsets you, DO NOT READ!!! ***

A/N: @gyllenhaalstories I did it, I finished the chapter. *cry* The chapter in which we learn why milord doesn't remember reader's face.

Divider credit: @firefly-graphics​ 

The pungent aroma of fermented fruits and honey invades your senses as you tumble on the earth, bearing the burden of an entire grown man. His Lordship keeps muttering his apologies into your ears in his intoxicated stupor. His drunken struggles only push you further into the ground.

"My Lord, please move."

You croak, elbowing his chest to prevent the man from collapsing on you. The disgrace of your wedding night resurfaces in your mind as his body heat and musky scent envelop you, making the winter night almost too hot to bear.

"Shifty rabbit, I am no Lord to you."

His words come out slurred and a little upset. He pushes himself up with his arms, but his entire lower body weighs you down on the cold, dusty stone floor. He gazes longingly at your form in the dark, licking his lips dry from the excessive drinking.

With a subtle shake of your head, you dodge the air saturated with alcoholic vapor. You are grateful, at least, that Lord Gyllenhaal is oblivious to the identity of his own wife, or so you pray. Whatever ale-infused fever dream has taken hold of him, you decide to comply and bide your time, waiting for the opportunity to wiggle away.

"Cat's got your tongue? Have you forgotten the stupid name you call me?"

With his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, the Lord runs his fingers on your lips, giggling like a fool. Then, as if he has found an entertaining plaything, he begins to rub and stretch your cheeks like a pile of dough. He does not seem to care if you even want to participate in this nonsensical, one-sided conversation.

With a deep inhale, you marvel at this frivolous facet of his personality while suppressing the temptation to knee him in the groin. The last thing you want is for him to regain awareness. Fortunately, his childish antics fail to amuse him for long. His hands slow down to a halt as he cups your face delicately. Your eyes begin to distinguish his quiet, slumping silhouette in the dark. A comforting warmth spreads across your stomach, then your chest, as he descends to be closer to your face.

"Have you forgotten me?"

The Lord is now so dangerously close that the very tip of your nose brushes against his. You reflexively tilt your face to the side, extending your arms in an attempt to support his weight and maintain a distance between you. His cold lips, seeking the softness they desire, land on your cheeks instead, eliciting a displeased grunt. The roughness of his beard scrapes against your skin as he continues his search, led by his mouth. The frigid touch of his lips explores your cheeks with tender care, worried he would miss a single inch.

"Are you angry?"

Unable to get what he wants, he sounds defeated. He is so close to you that you can sense the vibration in his broad chest as he groans. You have no desire to answer him, and the drunkard probably cannot comprehend whatever you say.

"You must be. I didn't come back for you."

His incoherent monologue goes on as he cradles your face with adoration, fingertips dancing on your cheeks. The heat from the palms seeps into your skin, making you feel the rough patches formed by many years of wielding the sword.

You want to say something in response, but the sudden firm grasp on your breast stops the words in your throat, followed by the ragged breaths of the man looming over you. The Lord ceases apologetic fussing, and the underground chamber falls into silence.

Though you have never considered yourself feeble or fragile and are used to arduous manual labor, you find it a monumental task to dislodge him. Despite your best efforts to shake him off, his superior grappling skills, honed through years of wrestling with the bannermen, ensnare you like stubborn vines. Every time you successfully worm your way out, he finds a way to recapture you, trapping you once more in his arms.

The pathetic wriggling presents the Lord an opening to make his way between your legs. His body causes the thick linen skirt to hike up your knees. Any leverage you may have is nullified by the thighs pressing into yours. Your right arm is stuck between your body while you try to push him away. And your remaining arm is left flailing blindly as he keeps one hand underneath your neck. His free hand runs down your side, fondling and squeezing every inch of you he can reach.

Your breaths hitch as the sudden touch catches you by surprise. You can neither see nor move, but the hard protrusion grinding against your pelvis is a tale-tell sign of the Lord's craving. His boots dig into the ground like an anchor as he slowly rocks himself into your hip. Audible sighs of pleasure escape his lips while he looks for release.

The sound of your teeth grinding together fills your ears as you struggle to determine if you feel humiliated or upset. The Lord has never spared you a kind word since the moment you set foot in these walls. To him, you have always been nothing but the wretched royal spawn. Yet here he is, seeking pleasure from you, mistaking you for his dearly long-lost beloved. He is capable of displaying affection and tenderness, just not towards you, his lawfully wed wife, not even as a farce. You cannot help but feel envious of the woman you have never met, the servants, everyone. Your pride is injured, and a stew of repressed bitterness begins to simmer within your heart.

Inexplicable greed creeps into your thoughts, causing a yearning that is both intense and insistent. It whispers into your ear, urging you to seize what is being offered. And, as the Lord's grasp tightens and his fingers manipulate with dexterity, it becomes increasingly difficult to resist the lure of this inner impulse. The warmth emitting from him is simply too comforting.

Sensing that your resistance has stopped, the Lord loosens his hold, falling on top of you as his breathing roughs. You let your free arms lie still on your sides as you bear witness to the Lord's charade. His dry thrusts become more urgent as his fingers fumble with your clothes.

The chilling air current of a winter night licks your skin like the edge of a sword as your chest and belly are exposed after a sharp tearing noise. You instinctively bring your hands up to cover your breasts, only to find the Lord a step ahead. Your breath is caught in your throat when an unfamiliar blistering heat covers the frigid skin of your mounds. The direct sensation is wholly different from being felt through clothes.

You cannot hold back an embarrassing whimper when a hot, wet mouth encloses one of your nipples, sucking in earnest. The hand on the other breast moves in tandem, a motion you can only describe as a hungry kitten pressing its mother's teats for milk. Your face burns with shame as the Lord nibbles on your bud like a scrumptious morsel.

The noxious aroma of wine and the dank air of the basement make your head loopy. You must be ludicrous as the thought of indulging him until he is sated begins to seem plausible. Your hand rises, your fingers brushing against the side of his head, where you feel the heat of his flushed cheeks. The Lord emits a soft groan, interpreting your gesture as encouragement.

Your body and his entangle as he starts to rub against you with vigor. His fingers refuse to let any bare inch of skin escape, caressing and pinching your naked flesh. You whimper and writhe underneath the Lord, unable to cope with the unfamiliar pleasure slowly building up. Although your lower body is still clothed, you can feel his hardness sliding along your untouched private part. The nasal growls in his throat get increasingly desperate as he inches closer to his rapture.

Guiding by instinct and lust, the Lord props himself up and fiddles to undo his trousers, freeing his painful erection. Then, not having enough patience to get rid of your remaining clothes, he searches for your hand and pulls it toward his stiff manhood before wrapping your unwilling fingers around it. The Lord's shaft throbs as his precum slathers your palm, allowing him easy movement. You do not want to know what is in his fantasy as the Lord thrusts into your hand while vocalizing his ecstasy.

With a final jerk, the Lord lets out a shaky breath. Hot, sticky ropes of him land on your breasts and stomach. He falls on top of you, breathing heavily, having been spent and exhausted. Unbeknownst to your husband, a hidden contraction in your core makes you flustered and frustrated. You cannot explain the yearning emptiness you are made to feel.

However, you soon realize you do not have the luxury of caring about your needs. As you struggle to push the man off, you hear approaching footsteps from the stairs leading down the basement. Panic grips your heart as torchlight illuminates the previously unlit storage chamber. Quietly, you free yourself from underneath the unconscious man and seek refuge behind the stack of barrels, holding your breath and desperately clinging to your disheveled clothing as the footsteps draw near.

Loud splash echoes inside the chamber, causing the Lord to grumble in protest as freezing water dumped over his head. You strain your eyes, trying to peak at the yellow flame of the torch. Two feminine figures, Lady Maggie and the middle-aged steward, still holding the empty bucket, stand over the Lady's troublesome brother. Their presence starkly contrasts with the moment of intimacy that had just transpired.

"My Lord, please stand up. The guests are waiting for you."

The Lady's composure conceals her inward frustration at the shameful spectacle. Although you cannot discern her expression through the narrow gap between the barrels, it is clear that she is not happy. The Lord's eyes sting at the torch's lights as he looks up at the women. Finally, he tenses up and comes to his senses. The fleeting remnants of his drunken hallucination vanish, but the sage's fragrance lingers, albeit almost too faint to notice. With a muttered curse, the Lord fixes his attire, salvaging what is left of his dignity, before furiously storming out of the underground chamber.

Lady Maggie's blue eyes resemble two inky pools under the faltering torch as she stands motionless in the middle of the chamber. The sudden departure of her brother amid the feast has left her juggling with the phony sycophants and inebriated nobles. She correctly suspected that her brother was hunting for more wine to drown his thoughts with, so she went to the basement to look for him. With the feast going on, the basement is frequently visited by servants. She does not want the Lord to be caught in an intoxicated state or seen defiling a hapless kitchen maid. These could ruin years of her effort to build up her brother's image as a righteous man.

"My Lady." The steward cautiously approaches her mistress and whispers something in the Lady's ears, which you cannot hear. You can only see the Lady's brows furrow for a moment before she goes back to her mellow impression.

"The guests are demanding his Lordship's presence. What would you have us do?"

The steward asks. Though she is nervous, her voice is as calm as ever, befitting the Lady's most trusted servant. Lady Maggie's eyes finally shift from the empty space where her brother was only moments ago to the steward, and she lets out a deep sigh.

"Gather the servants and inform them that the feast is to be concluded early. Tell everyone my brother had one too many drinks and has excused himself back to his chamber. Ensure guests are properly escorted back to their quarters."

With that, the Lady turns on her heel and strides out of the basement, with the steward quickly trailing behind. The underground chamber once again becomes a dark, cold hollow. You wait until you no longer hear footsteps and leave your hiding place.

Lord Gyllenhaal stumbles up the stone steps leading to his chamber, his thoughts a jumbled mess. His mind berates him for his irrational behaviors. He cannot explain what came over him in the basement, and the pleasant scent of sage still clouding his senses only adds to his confusion. Pushing through the decorated door, the Lord collapses onto his bed. He finds himself in torment, struggling against his desire, still slowly burning inside. Despite his best effort to suppress it, he cannot resist the fixation on the past.

As he lies on the bed, the Lord is consumed by doubt. He tries to make sense of what has just happened in the basement and questions the authenticity of the experience. Was the woman just a figment of his imagination, a manifestation of his longing? The uncertainty plagues him, leaving him to wonder if his mind has played tricks on him.

In that fleeting moment of bliss, the Lord believed the person in the basement was her. The sensation was so familiar and endearing that he felt it ingrained into his flesh and bones. His nerves were ablaze with excitement as the Lord reminisced about the warm body beneath him back then. It was too dark, and he only had his senses to rely on. Yet, there is an earthy aroma that lingers in his memory.

The Lord takes a moment to calm himself, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves and regain clarity. He shuts his eyes, racking his brain in search of the source of the scent. As the memory slowly returns, the Lord realizes the last time he encountered the smell was in your presence. He had overlooked it then due to its subtlety, but the realization now causes a wave of frustration to wash over him. The Lord rises from his bed and begins pacing the room, trying to rid himself of the strange feeling that has taken hold of him. He feels conflicted. He is not so blinded by hatred that he would blame a mere illegitimate daughter for everything her father has done. If anything, you are but a pawn in other people's twisted schemes. He knows that. And yet, he has been disturbed by your presence since the moment he saw you.

As if possessed, the Lord makes his way toward his so-called wife's chamber. He pushes the door open and scans the room, expecting you to be inside. But you aren't there, just like the other day. The space is empty, save for a few pieces of furniture and a burned herb's scent drifting gently. The bed is neatly made, and the hearth is cold. He notices small herb plants dotting the windowsill that he did not see the last time he was here. The Lord walks over to them, inspecting the leaves and little flowers, finding it puzzling that they can grow during the harshest days of the year.

Lord Gyllenhaal gradually takes control of his emotions as he stands in your room. Despite his dislike for you, the subtle scent has a soothing effect on him. He inhales slowly, letting the air fill his lungs as a reminder to keep his composure. As he looks around the room, taking in the sight of the properly tended plants, he cannot help but feel a twinge of ill-suited sentimentality. He finds it laughable that this place brings a semblance of peace to his troubled mind and that he keeps giving himself to these late-night wandering.

As much as he is irritated that this feels like a game of hide and seek, where you have wandered is none of his concern. Any place you should not be is well-guarded enough to prevent you from doing anything stupid. He decides to let the matter be for now and takes a final deep breath, savoring the scent of herbs one last time before leaving the room and closing the door behind him, lost in thoughts.

You stand by the well, cleaning yourself with haste. The freezing water serves to wash away not only the dirt but also whatever the Lord has left behind, dissipating the heat on your skin. Your bones are creaking from the piercing cold, but you do not care. You only want to rid yourself of the evidence of tonight. Once done, you quickly get dressed, securing your torn clothes with a rope, and make your way back to an empty chamber, oblivious to the fact that you have narrowly escaped the Lord's sudden visit.

With a strike from the flint, the fireplace begins to crackle. You breathe a sigh of relief when you feel the soft bed underneath your back, snuggling deep under covers, trying to get warm from the chill that has seeped into your bones. Your thoughts drift to the ordeal you faced in the basement. You wonder if the Lord recognized you, and the idea of being caught by him is frightening. But the fear is accompanied by a strange intrigue. An odd warmth rises on your cheeks as the images of the night are replayed in your head. You ponder the nature of the Lord's beloved one and what kind of person could bring out such vulnerability in his Lordship.

Unable to sleep, you jump to your feet and quickly retrieve a piece of parchment from your belongings, along with a quill and a small bottle of ink. Your promise to your mother weighs heavily on your mind, and you know she must be worried sick. But writing to her has been a challenge for two reasons. First, the constant demands of the fortress have kept you busy day and night, with little time for anything else. And second, you need to figure out how to get the letter to her. You are skeptical about asking Lady Maggie or the steward for help. The thoughts race through your mind as you dip the quill into the ink.

You stare at the blank parchment for a moment, unsure of what to write. You have been through so much since you arrived at the fortress, but you do not want your mother to worry more than she already has. You tap the quill's tip on the ink bottle, trying to find the right words. You tell her you are well, and the Gyllenhaals treat you kindly. You write about the feast and how things are different from the capital. At this point, you realize you have yet to see much of the fortress apart from the inner bailey. You stare at where the words trail off, having nothing more to say. Nothing that will not burden your mother. With a sigh, you roll the parchment and place it back in your chest. You may try again later when your thoughts are less muddled.

A series of knocks on your door makes your heart skip a beat. Your chest tightens as you wonder who could be seeking you out at this ungodly hour. The door opens slowly, and in walks Lady Maggie, wearing a soft expression, accompanied by the stern stewart. You can't help but feel a knot forming in your stomach.

"I apologize for disturbing your rest so late," Lady Maggie greets you with a smile. "But I must speak with you."

The steward places a finely crafted gown on your bed before departing, leaving you alone with Lady Maggie. She gestures for you to take a seat, and as she sits in the upholstered chair next to the desk, the soft glow from the hearth illuminates her graceful figure. Right now, Lady Maggie seems like a divine being from ancient mythology, and you can't help but feel that your modest, bare room is not fit to receive someone of her stature.

"I hope you are feeling well, my dear," Lady Maggie looks at you, noticing the distress on your face. You don't know if she knows about the mess in the basement. Your eyes fixate on the floor, unable to look straight at the Lady. Otherwise, you would know she has been observing you closely since she stepped in, taking in every change in your body language.

"I must request your presence at the feast tomorrow. There will be delegates sent by the King himself in attendance. People will question if the Lord is not accompanied by his wife."

"What?"

You are baffled by the news, and your tongue slips. The thought of meeting the King's people makes you uneasy. Not many of the King's council know your face, but those who do look at you with disdain. Moreover, you can't fathom why the King would send anyone here in this current state of affairs. You quickly apologize for being blunt, but the Lady doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she replies with another question.

"My dear, what do you think about this war?"

The sudden question catches you off guard. You don't know how to answer. Lady Maggie patiently waits for you. The room falls into an awkward silence. You wonder what the consequences are if your answer crosses her.

"I... I believe the Lord's cause is just."

That is all you can mutter. It is a laughable answer coming from the princess. If anyone resented House Gyllenhaal and this forced marriage, it would be you. There is no good reason for a member of the royal family to side with the man who has vowed to kill them all. But this is your genuine thought. You loathe the Lord for how he treats you, but you can't deny that he is a hero in people's eyes. On top of that, you are not the real princess and do not feel any connection to the King.

The Lady bursts into an uncharacteristic fit of laughter. You can't tell if she is mocking you or truly feeling amused by your answer.

"Clever little kitten." Lady Maggie murmurs to herself, seemingly satisfied with what she heard.

"The King has suggested a truce with House Gyllenhaal. Thus, his majesty has sent delegates here as a gesture of peace. That is why I would love for the princess to personally welcome the convoy. After all, you were the key that led us to this peace."

"Of course, my Lady. It would be my honor."

You don't want to meet whoever the King sent, but you have no choice. Despite the Lady's courtesy, this is an order. Someone like you has no place to voice your opinion. Within these walls, hers and the Lord's will is absolute.

"Has Jacob done anything to offend you?" The Lady suddenly changes the subject. The tone of her voice softens.

"No, my Lady." You still need to get used to hearing Lady Maggie call the Lord by his given name. Your mind wanders to the time he noticed you weren't wearing warm enough and the time he saved you from the horse. You realize this would be an excellent opportunity to be in the Lady's good graces.

"The Lord has actually been very kind."

Although not to the "princess."

"That's good, then. If Jacob does something unbecoming for the head of the House, you can always come to me." 

"There is one thing I would like you to remember." Lady Maggie stands up from her chair and approaches you. She reaches out and runs her slender fingers on your cheek, making you flinch. Her fingers are cool to the touch but don't make you uncomfortable.

"My brother may not be tender towards you, but you are still a lady of our House. Therefore, do not appear weak or easily intimidated. Do not let anyone think that House Gyllenhaal is to be trifled with."

The fingertips brush ever so lightly on your face. Then, not sparing a second, the Lady quickly returns to her chamber, leaving the ghost of her presence lingering on your cheek.

Lady Maggie sits before her brother, her expression stern and disapproving as she chastises him for yesterday. The early morning light filters into the room through the window behind her, casting a golden glow on the scene. The Lord listens quietly to her scolding, his head slightly tilted, showing little remorse. Despite her reprimands, he can't help but find comfort in the rays of sunlight that warm his skin. His mood seems to have improved from the past few days of sulking.

The Lady takes a long sip of her morning tea after she feels like she has done venting. She can absolutely complain until her brother's ears fall off, but there are more pressing matters concerning the King's recent move. And you, the Lord's wife.

"The old pig demands a truce?"

The Lord mulls over the news his sister has told him about, not caring to hide his contempt for the King. Lady Maggie nods and quietly hands her brother the letter detailing the King's proposal.

"What is he planning now? He sent us a fraud, but he still wants to pretend she is the princess?" The Lord expresses disgust as his eyes scan the scroll ridden with false flattery.

"The King thinks he outsmarts us, sending an illegitimate daughter, but he has dug himself into a hole. The seaport was opened again under the condition of a marriage between Lord Gyllenhaal and the royal princess. What happens if words get out that the old pig failed to honor the terms of our demand?" The Lady asks, sharing her brother's scorn.

"The port is under Gyllenhaal's control. Betraying us means he would risk our retaliation. But there is no reason for him to go this far... unless the girl has other uses besides being a decoy."

"Perhaps she was ordered to take my life." The Lord speaks as he remembers the gleaming dagger underneath your pillow.

"Unlikely. If the girl was an agent, she should at least make an attempt to get closer to you, not run around like a lost kitten." The Lady stares into the golden liquid in her cup. There is no telling what she is thinking about. Lady Maggie's lips tighten into a thin smile before she replies.

"No need to do anything rash for now. My eyes are on her. The girl is harmless."

The Lord's eyebrows relax slightly at his sister's words. If the Lady says you pose no threat, he will leave you be. Not that he worries about you causing any harm. The fortress has eliminated more than a few spies and assassins. But Lord Gyllenhaal remains skeptical. He has yet to understand the intention of Lady Maggie. Without a trueborn princess, House Gyllenhaal will have no claim to the throne as their original plan dictates. The royal family and pesky nobles would never allow such a thing. A bastard daughter is more a less discardable in their eyes.

"You knew the moment she stepped foot in our Keep, did you not?" The Lord turns his gaze to his sister. Lady Maggie has lost interest in having you give the Lord an heir. If what his sister assumes is true, should the solution not be annulling this marriage and letting the girl go.

"The King agreed to our demand so easily. Naturally, I had my doubts... Say, brother. Would you willingly marry me off to your enemy?" Lady Maggie asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The Lord narrows his eyes as his question is met with another question. He stops and thinks for a moment. His eyebrows crease as his mind races through the scenario.

"No." He finally responds curtly. "I would never hand you to the enemy."

Lady Maggie nods in agreement. "Exactly. And neither would the King willingly give up his precious daughter just for a few trade routes. This bargain was risky from the start."

"So why keep her here?"

"Her illegitimate status is not ideal. But a bastard she may be, the girl is still the King's daughter and bears the King's mark. She is more valuable than you may think, brother." The Lady sets her teacup down.

"And one more thing. I ask that you treat your wife with honor and dignity. Regardless of who she used to be, she is married to you, as witnessed by the Gods."

The Lord scoffs at Lady Maggie's request. He finds it ironic that you avoid him like the plague, yet it was his sister that led you to be bound in this unfortunate union. He wonders what his dear sister would ask of him if you were the actual princess. Perhaps he must force himself on a drugged-up wife until you produce a child or something worse. Despite her talks of honor and dignity, Lord Gyllenhaal knows his own kin enough to know she is not above using despicable means to achieve her goals.

"You do not know where her loyalty lies." The Lord retorted. He does not feel obliged to be kind to the King's blood, bastard or not.

"Do not let your anger cloud your judgment. I know you are still mourning, but the girl is not to blame for what happened." Lady Maggie sighs. The topic clearly ticks her brother as the calm atmosphere is destroyed. She knows mentioning the past upsets him but has grown impatient with the Lord's constant brooding over a woman he spent a few weeks with.

A woman whose face he cannot even recall because at the time, his eyesight was temporarily lost due to an infection, having been imprisoned in a dark and filthy place for too long.

"Keep your nose out of my affairs, sister." Lord Gyllenhaal snaps.

The Lord stands up as he has done talking. He pulls the mahogany door open to find you standing there, wide-eyed and petrified at what you have overheard.

"How much did you hear?" The Lord's brows knit together as he questions you in a menacing voice. His pulsating vein on his temple tells you he is not too happy. You open your mouth to explain but can only gasp for air. The apprehension is simply too much. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see he has closed his fingers around the dagger by his side, ready to slit your throat if you can't give a satisfactory answer.

"Lower your voice. I called her here." The Lady speaks up from her seat.

You grip the front of the new gown until blood is drained from your knuckles. The last thing you remember is the steward told you Lady Maggie had requested your presence. You had presumed the Lady wanted to speak to you about the meeting with the royal delegates. But you did not expect to hear the Lord and Lady openly discussing your true identity. This whole time, they've known you are an imposter.

"Sorry to make you wait. Come." Lady Maggie calls to you with an ever-present smile as if nothing has happened. You swear you almost cry. The Lady could not possibly ask you to just squeeze your way past the Lord, could she?

Hearing Lady Maggie's reassurance is good enough for the terrifying man before you. He steps back and flicks his head towards the Lady, signaling that you are allowed to enter. You mutter a greeting to the Lord before walking in, keeping your head as low as you can, fearing it will be taken off your neck if you don't. You don't need to look to know the Lord's gaze is burning on your back as you approach the Lady.

"Beautiful." Lady Maggie compliments. "This one fits her perfectly. Do you not think so, my Lord?"

Her brother completely ignores her question. He follows you back in, closing the door behind him and trapping you between the two of them. The Lady pays no mind to his deathly silence. She asks you to take a seat opposite of her. The Lord leans on the wall, eyeing you like a cat watching a mouse unable to escape from an empty pot it has fallen in.

"Let's start from the beginning and properly introduce ourselves, shall we?"

Lady Maggie's smile vanishes.

"Who are you?"

Tag List:

@looloolily

#jake gyllenhaal x reader #maggie gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal imagine #maggie gyllenhaal fanfic #maggie gyllenhaal imagine #fic: emblem of roses #nat writes #fics #smut #cw: rpf #tw: alcohol

[o-wyrmlight]

S-sir affagato….is, is it true. Is what Carmel Arrow says is true. We’re…you going to betray me.

ANSWER ME!!!!

Bittersweet Friends AU

"Sir Affogato," Dark Cacao said, his tone firm but quiet, "I have a question for you."

Affogato hummed absently as he went about his work, contemplating solemnly the incense sticks he came alongside with. Amber for comfort and happiness, but most importantly healing--or cloves for pain relief and focus. There were so many options to chose from, each having their own benefit. Juniper, sage, myrrh--or perhaps something for sleeplessness would be more beneficial. The king already looked so tired all the time already.

His hands roamed over the options, pausing, debating, picking one or two up just to set them back down. Eventually he came to realize the silence, lifting his gaze to regard the cookie watching him almost piteously from the edge of his bed.

"Go on," Affogato said, gesturing vaguely as he returned his attention to his work. "You may ask, and I will answer."

"This question is... a difficult one to ask," Dark Cacao began, breathing a heavy sigh. He lifted a hand up from where it rested on his chest, running it over his face for a moment. Affogato paused briefly, watching him carefully, taking in the shudder of his shoulders and the unidentifiable hoarseness of his breath.

"So... I will be direct with it, then." The king swallowed thickly, lifting up his head to meet his gaze. "Affogato, is... is it true? What Caramel Arrow told me--that you are going to... betray me?"

"What kind of a silly question is that?" Affogato answered with an amical smile, turning his attention back to the incense sticks. Ylang-Ylang--antidepressant, pine... ah, opium. He picked up the small bundle and lifted it up, giving another smell just to be sure. With a soft hum, he turned toward the king's nightstand, setting up the incense sticks to be lit by the match. The king was still watching him even as he orchestrated his movements. If it were the one Before, Affogato might have found it off-putting.

But this wasn't that king. He couldn't defend himself against a warrior even if he tried.

"...Answer me," the King finally said. "I'd not blame you if such is the case. I am useless as a king as it is. I've no son to succeed me, nor do I have the ability to fight alongside my warriors. I am a king of my kingdom only in name, and I am only surprised that I wasn't killed sooner. But please be honest with me. That's all I ask."

Affogato paused at that, turning slowly toward him, the softness of his smile vanishing slowly to be replaced with the furrow of his brow. His Lordship rested there, settled three feet away on the edge of his bed, neither a god nor an ancient nor a hero--but a man, a cookie. Affogato had seen the Dark Cacao of Before in a similar state--a state of paranoia and desperation that led to him doing everything he could to prevent it--and in a way, that was reflected in the face of this cookie, as well.

But these two cookies weren't the same. The dark circles under his eyes were living manifestations of sleepless nights, slumped shoulders heavy with exhaustion and burden. His chest heaved with every breath, accompanied not only by injury but also by the weight of grief and desperate, desperate shame. Though while the Dark Cacao he used to know carried a wild frenzy in his eyes, looking at them now...

Briefly, Affogato's eyes flicker toward Dark Cacao's chest. Juniper, then, later.

"...Perhaps. Perhaps I was originally planning on doing so," Affogato admitted, taking a step forward. Another, to close the distance. His hand rested upon the king's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze even as he felt the cookie's body tense under his touch.

"But that was in the past, Your Lordship, before I came to know you less as a king and more as a fellow cookie. You have done me a kindness that I've scarcely before been given, and you've done so time and time again. So the answer is--perhaps, My Liege, I am undecided on the matter. Perhaps you can blackmail me with some of your cakes."

"Tch. Greedy," Dark Cacao scoffed, turning his head away. "For all I know, you could be poisoning me with your incense without my knowledge. I could already be too far gone, and I would never even know. Such a shameful death that would be, to die upon my bed, with not the injuries of battle or the wizened knowledge that comes with tired and well-earned old age--but by losing a battle with the very air I breathe, betrayed by my own body. What a waste."

"Then it's a very good thing that such toxins haven't touched your lungs, then," Affogato chortled, patting the king's shoulder. He would never--never have dared with the one Before, but this one wasn't the one Before. "You are one curious cookie, aren't you? Learning of my original intention of coming here, only to continue letting me touch you. It's hardly fitting behavior for a cookie so highly regarded as you."

"I am already dying, Affogato Cookie. I'm just waiting to see if my death will come any sooner than I suspect."

Affogato left not long after that, leaving the king to do his business and rest in bed. The opium would help him very much with that, help guide his eyes to heavy-lidded exhaustion that seemed to come so hard for coffee-jammed cookies some days. Affogato himself was prone to periods of insomnia that left him tired in the mind but yet wide awake--and while he didn't know if Dark Cacao was the same, something was affecting his sleep. Perhaps it was nightmares.

Perhaps it was the unhealing injury upon his chest.

Juniper, then, he told himself. For healing and curses.

#bittersweet friends au #dark cacao cookie #affogato cookie

[ao3feedsheith]

rise if you would for that is our curse

rise, if you would, for that is our curse https://archiveofourown.org/works/45669034 by captainhurricane "Lorian appears to be crippled during the fight (crawling instead of walking) due to willingly sharing the curse of his brother and the burden of lordship." I hear undying devotion, I think Shiro and Keith. Words: 1053, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron) Additional Tags: Dark Souls AU, Keith and Shiro as the twin princes, because i can and i want to, lowkey incest tbf, vague descriptions of what happens in-game via AO3 works tagged 'Keith/Shiro (Voltron)' https://archiveofourown.org March 11, 2023 at 03:02PM

#IFTTT #sheith

[ao3feed-tolkien]

And His Hands Ran With Gold And Shadow

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/yjXxIYs

by Tathrin

In a world where the Quest failed, and Shadow claimed all the lands of Middle-earth, Gimli took up the lordship of Erebor and all the burdens that came with it in the vain hope of bringing his people through the darkness alive. He knew that to do so was to damn himself, but it was the choice that his duty demanded of him as a dwarf of courage and honor. He expected the corruption of serving a Dark Lord to eat his soul from the inside out, and he was prepared to pay that price to spare his people. But he did not expect the terrible complication of a familiar golden head bowed low in chains before him.

Words: 1238, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: M/M

Characters: Gimli (Son of Glóin), Legolas Greenleaf

Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Boromir Lives, Boromir takes the Ring, Rings of Power, Dwarven Rings of Power, No one is having a good time, Not Even the "Victors", Not Quite an Everybody Dies AU but Probably Too Close To That For Comfort, trigger warnings for:, Past Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Coercion, Probable Consent Issues (not necessarily sexual) Due to Mental Domination/Corruption, The Corrosive Influence of Rings of Power, Watching Your Heroes Fall To Darkness

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/yjXxIYs

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

[strawberryybird]

happy 1 year to my government!au fic lol . can’t believe ive been Thinking Incessantly about this thing for a whole year .

i am saying this out loud where people can see it bc a) aint nobody else going to be proud of me about it so im proud of me about it. b) 2nd worst year of my life so far & i’m still kicking & swearing so it feels a little bit good to see the milestone happen.

anyway it’s been disgustingly difficult to work in character descriptions in a way that doesn’t sound like enoby dark’ness dementia raven way so to celebrate 1 whole year of fic writing here’s the background info on my ocs:

90% of this will never, ever be mentioned in the fic. like it’s all superfluous info to everyone who isn’t me. but here we go lol

amos amsbury: middle tier pegasus knight, black, fire emblem lordship blue hair in very close curls kept short. no jewellery to comply with the pegasus corps guidelines, but wears little pearl earrings on his off-days. knits all his own jumpers. allergic to shellfish. looks complacent only in relief of bunny & clara, but equally as ridiculous. he has 4 siblings - 3 older sisters & a younger brother. very close to his grandparents growing up, totally his grandma’s favourite child as he likes the same music as his late grandfather & she taught him how to knit/fibercraft. his family live 1hr30 ~ from the capital, but due to working ridiculous hours, he doesn’t see them very often. wanted to work with (winged)horses from childhood. has made knitted blankets for sister 2′s children but is making a quilt for sister 1′s new kid.

benjamin ‘bunny’ bunbury: the Prime Minister’s office assistant, tanned & covered in freckles, rib-length rose-colour curly hair he keeps in a half-ponytail or a bun with quills stuck in it. punctuated by gold jewellery (he’s fond of brooches and asymetrical earrings). dresses like a victorian dandy with a rolodex of embroidered waistcoats. ridiculous sweet tooth. disgustingly upbeat & very much a morning person, to the chagrin of the other 2. his mother was one of dorothea’s close  friends from the mittlefrank who died in the war. one of the conductors and his wife stepped in to raise him & dorothea felt an obligation to act as his godmother. she used to take him for ice cream at the port in enbarr. can’t actually cook food worthy of the name. went in for the heron cup at GM but came 2nd place.

clara chasuble: office assistant to minister von vestra, paler than parchment, deep purple hair - shoulder length, a bit limp, full fringe. wears glasses (shocking eyesight) with thin metal frames - squished rectangle shape. fastidiously wears matching silver stud earrings. wears office formal like its a school uniform - tie, trousers, blazer. lactose intollerant. makes homemade fudge with almond milk once a year (or bunny would not leave her flat ever). the one most likely to consider the consquences of actions, but not in a way that prevents her from being as equally ridiculous as the other two. she has 2 mums & 3 younger siblings under 10 y/o that she’s not particularly close with bc her mums won’t talk about the war inside the house. her family live south of enbarr proper, close to the port. earned an academic merit scholarship that would pay half her accomodation bill at GM, which is why she could reasonably affort to go. deputy head student of the beagle house in her cohort.

if the hair colours didn’t tip u off, they’re all bisexual (icons). and they’re hurtling towards a politically allegorical polyam triad. first and foremost they are shakespearian gravediggers before they are characters. to be in love with each other is the point of them. to be burdened with inglorious metaphors is the other point of them all. they’re supposed to reflect the relationships/foreign policies between each nation in fodlan: clara is supposed to mirror faerghus, bunny for leicester, amos for adrestia. the second point of them is to make ferdinand and hubert look ridiculous for hiring younger versions of themselves/their best friends, depending which way you want to look at it. i have a ridiculous amount of backstory for what are, ostensibly, political allegories. i think its all very funny. i am putting my intentions here just for posterity because it’s been a year & i’ve literally been planning endgame oc triad from ch4 and good god. i had to say it out loud.

where bunny & clara are effectively the derrivative of ferdinand-dorothea and hubert-edelgard, amos is the same blend of character traits from sumia and chrom fire emblem awaking. i deal *only* in references and intertextuality hahaha

#birb says what // #red tape!au #not to have emotions where people can see them but literally this fic has been so much fun to me #anyywayy here's the oc lore drop absolutely no one asked about #i have more to say but like god i need to get back to my actual work so badly #im aware my fic is not actually as good as it is in my head but i swear to god. i'll make it so. eventually. maybe by this time next year.

[heliosthegriffin]

The Burdens of Lordship

Jaune decided he needed to go get out for a night, and by himself.

It had been a long couple of months at Beacon, hard, difficult, and nowhere near-easy for a fake like himself.

But, he had made it so far with Pyrrha and his teams help.

He be dead without them, hells, he’d be dead without Ruby too.

But, with all these new teams coming in today... It felt so damn suffocating, even more than usual. Like they could see through him, see that he didn’t belong here.

So, it brought him here, getting dressed for a knight on the town, heh, he’d made a Yang.

A nice pair of cream slacks, a royal blue dress shirt, a black vest on top of it lined with faux-gold buttons, a pair of nice brown loafers, and fine leather belt to bring the suit together. Contrarily to Yang and Weiss’s opinion, he did know how to dress himself, being raised by his parents plus seven overbearing sisters taught him enough, it’s just, since he came to Beacon he’s actually had the freedom to wear what he wanted.

Tonight though? He want to look better than he felt. So, he brushed his a hair enough to look presentable, and went out into the dorm.

“Well, how did I dooooo-” Jaune didn’t get to finish as Nora barreled pasted into the bathroom, knocking him to the side.

Pyrrha stifled a laugh and Ren gave the barest hint of a apolegtic smile.

Jaune steadied himself, giving a laugh at his own expense. He couldn’t blame Nora for having to go to the bathroom, could he?

“Well, how do I look?” Jaune asked his partner and his friend.

Pyrrha gave him a friendly smile and nodded approvingly. “Quite lovely, Jaune. You look dashing.”

“Ah, thanks Pyr.” Jaune said with a slight blush, it always felt nice to be complimented.

Ren looked on more skeptically, with a hand on his chin. “Turn around.”

Jaune did as asked.

“Ok, do some stretches.”

Jaune complied with his team-mates wishes, surely he would notice if he missed something. 

“Alright, you look passable. Here,” Ren approached Jaune squirted a few drops of cologne, and helped straighten out his outfit. “And now you look, as Pyrrha put it, quite dashing.” Ren said with a light smile.

“Thanks, Ren.” Jaune said another light blush on his cheeks. “Well, I guess I should be going then.”

“Wait,” Ren said putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re forgetting something.” He looked over to Pyrrha and she handed the boys Crocea Mors.

Jaune looked on incredulous. “Why would I need Crocea Mors?”

Ren shook his head. “You’re a huntsman, you must look the part at all times. Plus...”

Jaune frowned, knowing where he was leading. “It’ll make me less likely to be mugged or something.” 

Jaune knew he was a still noodly, and looked kinda weak. But he was working really hard on that!

Jaune still took his blade without complaint, admittedly he has gotten so used to wearing it, he started feeling off when not wearing it.

Pyrrha rubbed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not like that Jaune, it’s not we’re concerned about you getting hurt, far from it, the odds of someone attacking you and them being huntsman trained are one in some hundred. We’re actually more concerned that someone might mug you and...”

Ren chimed in, “Well, you’re not Nora strong, but you’re being trained and have Aura, and that’s more than enough to hospitalize someone without one or both.”

Jaune grimaced at the idea. While he didn’t fancy himself strong or powerful, it as kinda hard to deny he hadn’t been making progress, last week he had managed to take off the head of one of the old drones that General Ironwood had donated to the academy. A regular human probably require much, much less effort.

So he nodded. “I see your point. Better to deter them, before they make a attempt.”

“Also, Ruby would be peeved if you didn’t start taking this.” Then Pyrrha pushed a black hand-canon into his hand. She then looked him in the eyes. “I’d also be rather put out, considering I paid for it.” A sly grin in her eyes.

Jaune sighed and equipped the gun to his waist opposite of Crocea Mors. Ever since he had started training with Pyrrha seriously, she had quite insistent about covering his ranged issues. So his devious partner, had behind his back teamed up with his best friend and local gun-nut, Ruby Rose, to make him a custom-hand canon.

Her evils truly knew no bounds. They had even come up with a name for it the devils! Noctis Mors.

Ruby had been a cruel task-master in teaching him the in’s and outs of shooting Noctis Mors, she had made him assemble and reassemble her until his hands bled gun oil. Suffice to say, while Noctis Mors felt a little strange on his hip, he was getting used to it.

“Thank you, Pyrrha.” He said, and pulled her into a hug, which she reciprocated.

“Better to have it and not need it, then to needed and not have it.”

Jaune smiled and shook his head, his friends were too good to him.

“Tell Nora, I said bye.”

Ren nodded his head. “You should leave before she loads you up with some grenades.”

Jaune shivered at the thought, he might be coming around to using Noctis Mors, but he doubted he’d ever get used to high-caliber explosives, He’d leave that to his crazy ginger bomber.

“Well, bye guys, I’ll see you later tonight.” Jaune said to his friend and Partner.

“Bye, Jaune.”

“Try not to eat to unhealthily!”

“I make no such promises!” Jaune said with a laugh, slipping out of the dorm.

Jaune made his way down the hallways of the dorm toward to the stairs that led outside. Where he encounters a quartet of familiar faces.

Jaune gave a friendly wave to Team RWBY as he walked towards them.

“Jaune!” Ruby said speeding over. “What are you up too? You’re not trying to ask Weiss out again are you?”

Jaune gave a eye-roll. “No, just heading out for the night. Just thought, I be a good friend and say hi.” Jaune said with stress on the word friend.

Ruby gave a laugh. “Sure, you are.”

The rest of her team caught up. Weiss in particular looked at him with suspicion,

“So, VB, whats the occasion for looking so sharp, you got a hot date tonight?” Yang asked giving him a approving nod.

“Hah, no, not tonight. I, uh, just gotta to get out for a night. You know? I just feel so trapped lately, and I want to not really think about things for a night.”

Ruby gave him a sympathetic nod.

While surprisingly Blake, the one he probably never interacted with, looked at him with a surprising level of empathy. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight.”

“Yeah me, too.”

Weiss then choose to cut in. “So, you don’t know what you’re looking for then?” Giving him a sharp look.

Jaune almost buckled under her gave, but straighten his back. “Uh, no, but, It’s not like I’m just idling around in Vale all nigh, I’ve got a couple places to hit up, but it’s not like I’m keeping to strict schedule, I either get to them or I don’t, I’m just trying to de-stress is all.”

Weiss huffed in disapproval, but said nothing in return. The Ice Queens love of schedules and appointments was approaching that of legend.

Yang then slung an arm around his shoulders, though she had to lean up to so. “Well, VB, that sounds fun and all, but Team RWBY as places to be and butts to kick, so go have your fun.” 

Jaune untangled himself. “That’s the plan, you guys go stop crime or whatever trouble you’ll get up to.”

“We don’t always do that!”

Jaune raised a suspicious brow at that.

“We don’t!”

“Sure.” Then Jaune turned and walked away, feeling as though he had won that conversation.

As he was leaving, he heard Weiss call out. “Arc.” Jaune turned to looked at her. “Try to not make a fool out of yourself, tonight.” The barest hint of what may one day be a smile on her face.

“That’s not on the list, but I’ll add it in anyway.” He said turning around, not bothering to try to find sort of conversation with her. He knew where they stood relationship wise, and if it could improve over time, that sounds good, if not, well all he could hope is keeping thing civil.

-------

Jaune made sure to pop something for his motion-sickness before he bordered the bullhead, so the flight down wasn’t as terrible as it could be, it was still awful, but at least he wasn’t spewing his guts everywhere.

His stomach feeling wobbly made he strike eating off the list for now, so he choose his first destination, and walked through one of Vales, many, many parks. Admiring the well-tended plant-life and occasionally waving at anybody who waved at him.

After his stomach settled, he decided to walk towards the closest bookstore, and just browsed till he founded something interesting. He had less-time with keeping up with comic and whatever came out of Mistral, since coming to Beacon. Still he left the store with couple interesting comics and even a couple books on stuff relating to huntsman actives.

Finally his stomach had decided to let him know, he could refill it. He ended up at a nice steak house, and somehow managed to get to a table in under a hour.

Jaune set at a table looking over a menu, he had already decided on what steak he want, now it was just onto sides.

A waitress then made herself known. “Hello, hello, what can I get you today?”

Jaune recited his order. 

“Right, well have it out as soon as possible. Also, from the rest of us here, we’d like to think you for your service.”

Jaune’s face crunched in confusion.

“Huntsmen are a invaluable part of our society, and as such, we’d like you to know that your meal is on the house tonight, if you require anything else, please just call.”

Then his waitress left, somehow managing to make Jaune feel appreciated and also like a complete piece of shit.

----

The meal was delicious, and Jaune had made sure to leave a nice tip anyway before leaving.

Did his dad get free meals like that? Did all huntsmen just get their bill wavered?

Jaune paused for a moment and sat on a bench, thinking.

He stares out into the evening light and all the people out there, living there lives, good or bad, they were still people weren’t they? They were probably didn’t even think about how to they need to get stronger, or how to kill the next grimm they face, were they?

They shouldn’t have to either? Should they, since that was his job kinda. Jaune thought for a second, he might not be a real huntsman, or even a real huntsman in training, but whats to stop him from faking it till he made it for real? What does it matter if the arms that carrys the sword has trained for two years or two months, if it can cut, it can serve.

If people were going to honor him as a huntsman, he was going to honor them by acting like one.

There wasn’t a smile on his face, but there wasn’t a frown either.

He didn’t have time to idle anymore, he needed to get back and work off this meal.

‘KAAAA-BOOOOM!!!’ A sound like none Jaune had heard before tore the air into pieces, it was so loud that it put any sound he heard before into a whimper. It was like the crack of thunder on a scale inconceivable, like lightning striking turned up to twelve.

His hearing was protected by Aura, and it was still ringing.

He turned his head towards the source of the sound, towards Beacon, and towards Patch, towards were he say the source of several more sources of the sound, and a terrible, but wondrous site.

Of what looked like one of those things Weiss summoned before, but bigger, on a scale that could cover entire city blocks! 

A pillar of sheer white light stuck Beacon, and in a moment of realization, what must be Signal on Patch.

A light so bright and terrible, Jaune felt it burn against his aura, and could see the fires start around the Emerald Forest. He carefully took his hand off his ear, the sound pound like a hammer into his head, and he could see the bones through his skin. He slapped his hand back across his head.

The pillars kept of their thunderous booming for several minutes, as Jaune covered his ears, watching in utter horror.

It felt almost like a the air was slapping against his bones, and sound was hitting against his bones, rattling and shaking them.

The ground as shaking too he realized.

Silence and darkness.

The pillars suddenly disappeared, and a vacuum of sound was left over.

The city was now dark and silent, as day left night along, as the lights in the city did not turn on, as the only light was that of the fires, there was no sound at first... Then the screams started.

AN: I can’t believe everyone, but, Jaune just got fucking Isekai’d.

#Jaune Arc #The Burdens of Lordship AU

[madelineorionswan]

Hogwarts: Spring break

Day 2: My brothers (siblings)

A/N: Day 2 people! so for a little twist, this is from the hphl au. And I know I haven't finished the character sheets for Albert or his siblings but don't worry, it'll come soon. Now enjoy.!

Summary: Albert burke, finally gets to meet his younger brother Alexander at a little family reunion.

Warnings: Fluff

"Are you sure they have the correct address?"

"Trust me father, I do, they should be here any moment,"

Today was a big day for Albert Burke. The spring of 1908 had already been an eye-opening experience for him. After graduating from Hogwarts, officially declared an adult and heir to the lordship, viscount William Wyevernbush.

But today certainly would be one of his greatest endeavours as today, he was to meet his brothers.

Now, this might sound strange to some. But with the twisted history, Albert has to bear the burden for 18 years, it isn't something out of the blue.

Albert Abderus Edmund Burke. The second-born son of Aurelian and Gwydion Burke. The one who never got to know his parents. The unwanted child. Albert hadn't seen his father or mother in the past 17 years. That is after they decided to abandon him.

At first, when Albert learned about his parentage, he was willing to believe that they left him for a noble cause. But after experiencing his tenure at Hogwarts and, meeting his estranged elder brother Ernest, he was proved wrong. Albert was shocked and beside himself as he learnt about his parent’s loveless ways of life and their ruthlessness toward others. And with those tales, his hopes and wishes of ever meeting them were thrown away.

But Albert still wanted to meet his siblings. He had briefly interacted with his brother Ernest, occasionally talking with him during classes or in the hallways. The two brothers found that they had a strong bond, despite not knowing each other for most of their childhood. They became good friends.

The other children were barred from meeting him. Ever. Albert was devastated.

Ernest, who believed that his estranged brother had the right to meet his siblings was beside himself at his parents’ declaration but would not disobey them. So after his and Albert’s graduation, he arranged for a secret meeting with himself, his younger brother Alexander and Albert at the latter’s adoptive home, Livingbourne house.

And today was the day the three brothers would meet. Albert, paced impatiently on the driveway of the estate, while William too, waited at the entrance. He knew it was a big day for the young lad he had loved as his own.

He had mixed feelings about the meeting. Of Course, he would be leaving the young men alone to bond, but he too was nervous as to what they would think of them.

Albert too was nervous, although not for the same reasons, as his adoptive father. Yes, he was a little nervous to meet his younger brother, but more than that, he was nervous about what they would… do.

He wasn't sure how to exactly put it. But Albert had no idea how the union would go. He was shy and quiet like Ernest, but what of Alexander? He hadn't known the boy who he now knew to be his brother. How would he react to his parents and himself?

Both the men were nervous but their worries were put to rest for a moment, as they heard the distinct sound of horses' feet trotting on the cobbled drive, mixed with the sound of carriage wheels.

Albert's face brightened and his lips pulled into his signature soft smile as he saw the dark green and black carriage come to a stop near the fountain. The door of the carriage opened, revealing a young man who bore quite the resemblance to Albert.

“Ah there you are Albert,” he said gleefully as he got out of the carriage. This was Ernest Adeodatus Richard Burke.

He got off and quickly pulled his brother into a hug, which Albert happily returned, after not being able to see or form a correspondence with him for several months.

While the two eldest brothers hugged each other, William smiled fondly at them. He might not have exactly approved of such a meeting, but he noticed the strong bond that they both held.

Smiling to himself, he walked inside, to assess the needs of their guests.

"Brother, I believe you are yet to meet someone," Ernest said, letting go of his brother and moving a little away.

“Uh, r-right, yes, Alexander,” Albert said, nervously.

Ernest chuckled and then called for Alexander. The youngest Burke brother had been observing the reunion of the two eldest ones from a little distance. He had smiled softly to himself as he too felt the slight warmth of familial relations, something he’d only seen with his brother and younger sisters.

To him, Albert felt like a known stranger.

He quickly got off the carriage once summoned by his brother and stood straight as a stick. Albert too stiffened up a little. Alexander cleared his throat and walked up to his brother. But instead of smartly introducing himself in the gentleman like manner his father had made sure to drill into his brain, he froze.

Both the brothers didn't know what to say. They didn't know how exactly to greet each other. Were they to hug or shake their hands or just stare at each other. Ernest, unfortunately, was stuck in an awkward situation and had to stand at a discomfiting distance away from the brother.

Time stood still for them and it felt like an eternity before Ernest cleared his throat.

As if snapping out of a trance Albert shook his head. He then smiled brightly and opened his arms for a hug. Alexander, couldn't refuse.

And that was all that was needed to bring the three brothers together, just as good as old friends.v For now they had found each other and a little piece of their family.

#albert burke #harry potter #fanfiction #wizarding world #hp fanfic #hphl au #hphl oc #hphl #day 2 spring break siblings #hogwarts: spring break 2022

[lesbiansforboromir]

*rattling my cup against the bars of my cage* a penny for your thoughts on theodreds relationship with eowyn? i've always struggled with her situation pre-TT and i can't imagine itd be something an elder cousin would want to know a family member has to deal with but feels immobilized in addressing in a definitive way. &on the subject of borodred lives!aus i would think that it would be difficult to come to grips with that same person feeling essentially driven to suicide by battle. thank you!:)

I love this mental image, I’ll put a thought penny in your cup

SO yes. Theodred’s... it’s good to expand your awareness of quite how dangerous Grima’s influence is. He is not alone, he must have spies within all aspects of Rohan’s society. And I think Theodred actually had to make some pretty sickening judgements in terms of Eowyn’s situation and what she had to deal with. The cold assessment he made was that Eowyn was favoured by Theoden and Grima. Her life was at far less risk than most of the other lives Theodred was weighing. And, additionally, Eowyn had some significant amount of power over both Theoden and Grima too. She could use her position to game their systems and try to slow Grima’s machinations as much as possible. 

So the judgement Theodred made wasn’t just ‘it’s too dangerous to try and remove Eowyn from Grima’s reach’ it was also ‘she is too useful where she is to remove her’. Eowyn’s bitter ‘have leave to burn with the house’ monologue is thoroughly earned, Theodred told her in no uncertain terms that he needed her to remain in this painful, terrifying and claustrophobic situation, where she had no real way of defending herself or fighting back. Meanwhile to Eowyn’s perspective, Theodred came and went as he pleased. His pride suffered Grima’s lies and Theoden’s shame of him, but then he left and continued trying and doing. And Eowyn was left with the aftermath, trapped by both circumstance and her own sense of duty. 

And Theodred knew what it was doing to her! It wasn’t until the very last year of his life that Eomer became Third Marshall, and I think that was because Theodred had tried not to need his support until the very last moment, just so that Eowyn could have her brother close by. Especially because!! Eowyn had only been nineteen when this situation formed! But Eowyn was not the only person Theodred cared about that he was forced to essentially take advantage of to try and keep the country from falling into Saruman’s lordship. There was a high human cost to this, even before Helms Deep. And this is guilt Theodred carries! And questions he asks himself later, did I ask too much of her? Was it necessary? 

Though, again, I don’t think Eowyn’s decisions in regards to the battle are that strange or even painful to Theodred. He still doesn’t think they are going to survive this war anyway. He doesn’t think anyone is going to survive. When they find Eowyn seemingly dead on the Pelennor he is aggrieved but not shocked. And it seems completely reasonable to him that she would want to spend what little life is left to her fighting for something rather than just waiting and worrying and trapped as she had been before. 

In the aftermath with everyone alive, their relationship is indeed a very heavy, painful and difficult thing to navigate. Eowyn herself is caught between feelings of both blame for Theodred pushing her into that situation, but also a frustration that his answer to the guilt of that decision is to be withdrawn from her. He wants to not burden her, but for her whole life all Eowyn’s been looking for is some equality and understanding with the men in her life. She wants Theodred to be open with her, she is tired of being the vulnerable one, the one everyone feels guilty for hurting, there’s a lot tied up within Eowyn’s anger and bitterness and frustration. And it takes a lot of very painful and often not very productive conversations to try and untangle all of it. 

The turning point for them is when Theodred asks if she wants him to keep trying to be in her life, to be close to her, it doesn’t seem to be working. And Eowyn says yes! She is honest and clear! I want you to keep trying, even if it’s not working even if it never does work I want you to still reach out, even if I snap at you and even when you can never say the right thing and even if that never changes. And she expects Theodred to leave, find his limit and give it up as a lost cause. But instead, he says alright. Then I will. And that acceptance and sense of need to remain in her life from him is a needed step. 

#theodred #eowyn #tolkien #chats #erran vs tolkien #lotr #Anonymous #asks

[cavalierious-whim]

Whelp (FE3H)

Sylvix | Pre-Game | Canon-Compliant AU | Teen

It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate. But Sylvain's not just a wolf, he's also a boy, and all he wants to do is enjoy his youth.

----

A/N: So let's consider this: Crests aren't a boon, they're a curse. What's it like to live with that? This is the first in a collection of stories called 'Of Crests and Curses'. The storyline is that of the game, which is why I've tagged it Canon-Compliant AU. Read here on AO3 for better quality! And follow mere here on Twitter.

----

It’s long been said that a Gautier who graces the battlefield is Death incarnate.

A boon, gifted to the bloodline by the Goddess. Nearly feral with rage and born to ravage the battlefield as beasts, the Gautier family see themselves as harbingers of death: if you meet one in battle, then you’ve met your end.

Time wears on and views change. The Gautier blessing is now a blessing only to their own. The rest of the world whispers of a curse instead, carefully concealed behind titles and lordship. Those who carry the burden are nothing but beasts, bred to bring death and destruction upon their foes, relishing it.

The Margrave Philippe Alexandre Gautier has a reputation to uphold. He’d done his duty for King Lambert, loping across enemy lines and battlefronts, and then later, he’d held the North against Sreng. He still holds the North against Sreng.

But, Philippe’s reign of terror is regrettably over; his bones ache a little bit more with every shift, and his nose isn’t good for much nowadays.

Miklan is a disaster. He’s got the bloodlust required of a Gautier but no crest to match it. Phillipe frowns at the mere thought. It’s a pity. Gautier men need that bloodlust, they thrive on it, but the beast is also required to temper it. When left alone, it’s more like gunpowder, prone to exploding when you least expect it. A careful balance is required.

There’s a scream from the other room and his head snaps up, fighting the instinctual urge to go be with his mate. Not quite a man and not quite a wolf, but that deep-seated connection thrums through his heart. The midwife won’t let him in and he does his best to maintain hope.

And so, Phillipe waits, pacing the long corridor of the Gautier fortress. Even in the summer months, Gautier can be frigid, the bitter cold seeping deep into the stones of his home.

Eventually, the screaming stops. The midwife opens the door and Philippe slips in quietly. There isn’t any crying, but his wife doesn’t look distressed. She holds a bundle close to her, her face tired and red and sweating.

When Philippe peeks into the folds of the blanket, he sees fur, wet and sticky, a deep auburn red.

“A crest,” says Philippe to his wife. “Our--” He pauses and waits, looking back to her, his tongue-tied.

“Son,” says his wife, her voice raspy from hours of crying out. “Our son has a crest.”

Pride swells within Philippe as he takes the bundle from her breast. Their son is a small thing, his eyes still closed. His maw is wide open, pink, and toothless gums on display. He’s the most beautiful thing that Philippe has ever seen.

But more importantly, he’s the most useful.

“There are big plans for you,” Philippe says, petting the downy fur at the crown of his son’s head. “Big plans indeed, my precious Sylvain.” Philippe pulls the boy closer so his son can learn his scent.

Yes, incredibly useful indeed.

#

If there’s one thing that Sylvain Jose Gautier can’t resist, it’s a good tail wag.

Well, that’s a lie. He also loves a really good smell, the kind that sticks in your nose all day. Or a really good cut of steak, tender and juicy and more on the raw side than not. Okay, so, there’s a lot of things that Sylvain loves and it’s too hard to pick just one, so he’ll try to enjoy them all, he thinks.

Fraldarius Manor isn’t as large as his home, but it’s busier. Servants bustle to and fro, guards stand here and there, and there’s a massive assortment of sights and smells and noises and--

Sylvain knows that he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but his foot twitches, ready to explore. Small as the manor is when compared to the Gautier Fortress, there’s not a doubt in his mind that it holds more secrets than he could ever sniff out. He’s excited to try.

There’s just one problem.

Before Sylvain can even turn to him, his father reaches out and grabs the back of his neck firmly. He doesn’t have a scruff in his human form, so Sylvain winces. Not painful but it doesn’t feel great, and Sylvain resists the urge to wiggle out of his father’s grasp like a slippery little snake.

“Sylvain,” says his father in a hiss. “Quit your fidgeting.”

Sylvian whines in response, but it only causes his father to grip a little bit harder. He’s not angry, Sylvain thinks. It’s just a warning, Sylvain tells himself. Sylvain doesn’t get very many warnings.

“Duke Fraldarius is meeting us here at the entrance and he’s bringing his sons. Be on your best behavior.”

“I don’t want to meet his sons,” says Sylvain, lips pulling into a terse frown. He wants to sniff out things, to explore, to get stuck in tight little places. He’s got a sense of adventure that itches to be scratched, nearly as bad as that one time he’d gotten fleas as a toddler.

“You will,” says his father, his grip pinching. Sylvain doesn’t whine this time, his mouth snaps shut in a grimace. It’s better to not show pain, to just put on a brave face and bear it. Finally, his father lets go with a sigh. “There’s plenty of time to satisfy your curiosity later on. Until then, behave. We are Gautiers. Act like one.”

Act like one. Sylvain huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Familiar words that he’s tired of hearing. Sometimes, Sylvain feels as though it’s the only thing that his father knows how to say. Gautier, this, Gautier that. Gautier boys are expected to hold the north and strike down their enemies.

Gautier boys are expected to do a lot of things that Sylvain has no interest in.

He doesn’t want to strike down any enemies, he wants to find that delicious grilled meat whose smell is stuck in his nose. Besides, there aren’t any enemies here at Fraldarius Manor. His father has spoken at length about the Duke and his kin. The Fraldarius family has long since been framed as something to both admire and admonish; their loyalty to the crown is unmatched, but also their downfall.

“Watch them carefully and learn,” said his father one night. “Learn from their drive and then their folly, and combine that with our strength. You will be unstoppable, pup.”

Servants of the Fraldarius household watch him and his father warily, skirting around them with a wide breadth. Their guards aren’t nearly so feared, but then again, they aren’t wolves. Sylvain had once asked his father about it.

“They know what we are, and so, they fear us,” said his Father. “As they should.”

Sylvain doesn’t want to be feared but he’s got little control over it, so he makes do. He’s ten and has other things to worry about, like the way that mud squishes between his paws.

Duke Fraldarius takes his time to greet them, but eventually, the double front doors open wide. The duke is a rat-like looking man, with thick and wavy hair, but a thinning goatee. A tall, slightly gangly teenager treks behind him, and their group is rounded out by a boy who looks younger than Sylvain.

They all have wild, wavy dark hair, but the boys have theirs tied back and out of their faces. The older boy looks tired but stands alert, and the youngest hides behind him, grabbing onto his thighs as he sneaks a peek.

“Philippe,” says the Duke with familiarity. He steps forward and they clasp hands, and for the first time in years, Sylvain sees his father smile the slightest bit. They must be actual friends. Amusing. Sylvain has always thought his father had none.

“Rodrigue,” says Sylvain’s father. “Thank you for having us.”

“Nonsense,” says the Duke. “There’s more than enough room and coming here is easier than traveling to the palace.”

Sylvain’s father nods. “When does his Royal Highness arrive?”

The Duke lets out an annoyed huff. “I have no idea. The King does as he wants, which includes showing up late.”

“So he’s late, then?” The Margrave laughs. “And Count Galatea?”

“Nearly here,” says the Duke. “The Count will be bringing Ingrid of course, to spend time with Glenn.”

Sylvain can’t help the face that he makes when he hears that. He’s never met Glenn or Ingrid, but his father has spoken of their betrothal before. Sylvain risks a glance at the older boy that stands before them. This must be Glenn. Sylvain’s not sure what he expected, but the somber-faced and weary teenager that stands there isn’t it.

He looks boring.

“How is the arrangement going?” asks the Margrave.

“Well, I would think.” There’s a pause as the Duke casts a glance in Sylvain’s direction. “I wish you luck in your efforts, of course.”

At his words, it’s as if his father finally remembers that Sylvain is there. He reaches out and presses his hand against Sylvain’s head, ruffling his hair. “I have no doubt,” says his father. “After all, Sylvain possesses a crest and good breeding.”

The Duke’s little smile twitches slightly at that, but then he nods in agreement. “Let’s lead you inside then and get you settled. We’ll talk about such things later. I’m sure you’d prefer some rest.”

“I’d prefer to explore,” says Sylvain before he can stop himself. His father’s smile slips and Sylvain can nearly smell the annoyance that radiates off of him.

The Duke, however, looks genuinely amused by this and before the Margrave can reprimand Sylvain, he says, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

#

Glenn, as it turns out, isn’t boring at all.

The Duke had asked his sons to give Sylvain a proper tour of the place, but the moment that Rodrigue had turned his back, Glenn cocked his head to the side, gave Sylvain a wide smirk. “I bet that’s not what you want to do at all, is it?”

Sylvain likes to explore and Glenn likes to pull pranks and cause mischief. The two of them together are a hellish pair and they’ve barely begun their antics.

“So, what about your little brother?” asks Sylvain. They’re skirting around the eastern edge of the manner, Sylvain walking atop a parapet with Glenn following alongside below him.

“Felix?” asks Glenn. “What about him?”

“He’s not here?”

Glenn lets out a long and deep laugh straight from his belly. “Felix would never,” says Glenn. “Not unless Father made him. He’s too much of a crybaby.”

“A crybaby?” Sylvain then remembers how Felix had hidden behind Glenn’s legs. “How boring.”

“I pray to the Goddess every day that he’ll grow out of it,” says Glenn. “What’s the point of having a little brother if you can’t wreak havoc together?”

Sylvain can’t imagine. Glenn cares for Felix, something that Sylvain’s never seen in Miklan. Miklan only has curses and balled fists for Sylvain, and he’s learned the hard way that it’s easier to run and hide than try to play.

But then, Sylvain’s reminded of his father’s wish to befriend the boys. He opts to smile wide at Glenn and not think of Miklan. “I’m not your little brother, but I am younger than you.”

Glenn shoots him a smile back, but it’s a little more lopsided and a lot more conniving. “Want to go cause some mischief?”

“Not really,” says Sylvain, “I smelled some grilled meat earlier that I have to find.” He pauses, giving Glenn a knowing look. “But you know, if you want to cause some problems on the way there, I won’t say anything.”

Glenn reaches out to nudge his cheek affectionately. “I knew that I liked you the moment I saw you. Come on then; I’ll show you where Meryl’s stall is.”

“Meryl?” asks Sylvain.

“Meryl,” confirms Glenn. “Only the best cook in this entire complex. No doubt it’s her food that you caught a whiff of.”

Glenn leads him along the western side of the grounds. It’s not like the Gautier Fortress which is all cold stone and even colder weather. Fraldarius Manor is warmer and brighter, part stone and part wood, and bustling with activity. It’s like two different worlds, but Sylvain already loves it here because there’s too much to see in just one day.

And Miklan isn’t there, which is a bonus.

“You said that you’d smelled it,” says Glenn. They’re watching the stall from afar, leaning against a column. Trying to look inconspicuous. Glenn succeeds rather well, but Sylvain fails to capture his ease, looking awkward instead. The servants find it cute, giggling softly as they walk by.

“Smelled what?”

“The meat.” Glenn waves to the stand. “We’re not exactly near the entrance gate.”

Sylvain’s mouth parts slightly. “Oh, that.” He shrugs. “It’s part of being a wolf, I guess. I have a really good sense of smell.”

“Wait, the wolf thing is literal?”

“Haven’t you read the histories?” Sylvain frowns. His father’s made him practically memorize entire books; centuries of stories about Gautier men and women leveling the battlefield as Death incarnate.

You know, typical bedtime stories.

Glenn watches him for a moment, hand on his chin, thinking. Then he says, “I’ve always assumed that it was more of a metaphorical thing.”

“What’s metaphorical ?” asks Sylvain. Glenn laughs.

“Don’t worry about it, pup,” says Glenn in jest.

Sylvain makes a face. “Ew, no, don’t call me that. That’s what my father calls me.”

“All right, all right.” Then, Glenn gives him a mischievous grin. “Hey, I know how good your nose is, but how good are your stalking skills? You know, getting down low and sneaking up on prey?”

“As good as any wolf’s,” Sylvain says, sticking out his chest haughtily. It’s a lie. Sylvain hasn’t gotten a lot of practice in, but he wants to impress Glenn.

“I’ll distract Meryl while you sneak up and grab a couple of meat sticks grilling over the coals.”

“Wouldn’t she just give them to you, if you asked?” Glenn is the Duke’s son. There’s no way that the vendor wouldn’t just comply with his request.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Sylvain shoots Glenn a conspiratorial glance in return. He decides right then and there that he likes Glenn, and wishes he were his big brother instead. Maybe Felix will want to be his brother too.

#

Sylvain hasn’t met a lot of girls in his short life, but he’s fairly certain that most aren’t like Ingrid.

He’s read books, both fiction and non-fiction. Girls and women have their place within packs. Sylvain thinks of his mother, lovely and demure, always dressed nice and smelling like flowers. Quiet unless she’s spoken to, with kind eyes and an even kinder smile. The only person that his father genuinely loves, most like.

And then there’s Ingrid, a wild child covered in dirt and dust, smells like sweat, and whose eyes gleam with a challenge. She wears trousers like a boy, she wields a wooden lance, and she curses like a sailor when Glenn knocks it from her grip.

Sylvain’s mouth falls open in surprise. Ingrid’s only a year younger than him and at nine, she shouldn’t say such things. But Glenn doesn’t mind, shooting her a menacing little wink, and Sylvain is certain that he’s figured out who she learned such words from.

It’s not that women in the Gautier family don’t fight, only the wolves do. And there hasn’t been a female crest bearer in the Gautier line for decades. Ingrid isn’t a wolf, therefore seeing her in the training grounds with the rest of them is a bit of an adjustment.

Sylvain learns that he likes things that are a little different, though. His father drones on and on about propriety and the way that things are supposed to be, but Sylvain only finds expectations to be confining. He longs for the freedom to be himself and do what he wants.

He knows he won’t have long to enjoy it.

“What’s he staring at?” asks Ingrid rudely, and Sylvain realizes that she’s talking about him.

“You,” says Glenn, unapologetically. “And all those sticks in your hair.”

Ingrid gasps, running her hands through her blonde locks, but when there are no sticks, she lets out an annoyed shriek, throwing a rock at Glenn. Glenn throws his hands up and runs the length of the training yard, Ingrid chasing after him.

Not for the first time over the last few days, Sylvain wonders what it’d be like to have a brother like Glenn in his life.

And then, Sylvain thinks of Felix. Glenn had told him that Felix was a crybaby and scared of everything. Sylvian’s barely seen the boy-- once or twice, and the moment they lock eyes, Felix hides away again. Behind Glenn’s legs, behind their father, around a corner or even running from the room entirely.

Sylvain frowns. Crybaby indeed.

“Ridiculous, chasing each other around like that.” Sylvain turns to his father who stands beside him. The Duke is on his other side.

“Philippe, it’s harmless,” says the Duke. “They’re children.”

“It’s never too soon to learn manners.” Sylvain’s father gives him a pointed look. “Take Sylvain for instance. Always properly behaved. Always an example.”

Sylvain hides a smile behind a cleverly placed cough. The Duke smiles at him, just a little quirk of his mouth. So, maybe he hadn’t hidden his smile well enough. Rodrigue then gives Sylvain’s father a disappointed tut. “I’ll say it again: they’re children. Let them enjoy themselves. Eventually, they’ll answer the call of duty and they’ll never have time for fun again.”

Sylvain’s father huffs at that. “There’s no room for fun when you’re a lord.”

“There’s a little bit of room for it,” says the Duke, measuring a small gap between his fingers.

“You sound like his Royal Highness.” The Margrave sighs wearily. “That’s not surprising though.”

“His Royal Highness knows how to balance work and family.”

“Speaking of family, where is Felix?” asks the Margrave.

“Ah, Felix,” says the Duke. “Off hiding, no doubt.”

“Hiding--”

“It’s nothing, really,” says Rodrigue. “He’s young yet and he’s shy. It’s as simple as that.”

“Sylvain used to be shy.”

“Used to be?”

“We fixed it.”

Sylvain’s not smiling anymore. Instead, Sylvain’s thinking of kneeling on his knees for hours on end during his father’s meetings, listening to political talk. He’s thinking of reciting lines and missed meals when he’d cowered before another adult. Not really in fear, but overwhelmed by smells and sights and sounds.

He’s not overwhelmed anymore. Sylvain’s learned to tune things like that out.

Sylvain thinks about what his father likes to say.

“It’s not a matter of whether you want to, it’s that you will. Until then, it’s on your knees.”

Sylvain tells himself that his father isn’t cruel, that this is just the way of the wolf, but the older gets the less he believes. Just like Miklan. Sylvain knows that it’s not normal to throw fisticuffs at a boy half your size and age.

But if he tells himself that it is, it’s easier to pretend.

The Duke’s gaze slides from his father to him, and his lips tug downward slightly. Sylvain thinks that Rodrigue is good at reading people, and maybe he sees more of Sylvain than Sylvain wants him to.

“I’ve been thinking,” says the Duke, “What if Sylvain came to stay with us during the summer? He would be exposed to a different part of the court and different advisors. He could spar with Glenn, and perhaps even Dimitri. Spread his legs, as it were. And, it would give you and Amelie a break; I daresay you haven’t had one since your boy was born.”

The Margrave considers this for a moment so long, that the Duke continues.

“It might be good for Felix. He has no one else his age aside from the prince. And I know that you’re all about opportunities.”

“Perhaps Felix can come to the Fortress and spend winter with us, then. We’ll make it an exchange.”

The Duke considers and then nods. “I’m amenable to that.” They shake on it, a strange gesture that Sylvain’s come to learn as a show of good faith.

Except, anything that concerns his father is rarely in good faith.

“Sylvain,” says the Duke, snapping him back to attention. “Why don’t you go off with Glenn and Ingrid? I’m sure that you can learn something.”

Sylvain wrinkles his nose at the mention of Ingrid, mostly because girls are gross and Ingrid is the grossest of them all, but anywhere is better than being here. So, he scampers off.

#

Sometimes, Sylvain forgets how natural it feels to be a wolf. He spends so much time as a boy walking awkwardly on two feet, that he forgets the relief of sinking his paws into the soft earth.

And you know, claws are pretty neat too.

“Sylvain?” hisses Glenn when Sylvian pads around the corner. Glenn had told him to sneak out from his room half-past ten for some late-night fun. He hadn’t been expecting Sylvain to show up like this.

Sylvain runs a circle around Glenn’s legs. He’s the size of a large pup, not fully grown into his paws. Long and lanky legs, massive pads, and a head that’s just a little bit too large for the rest of his frame. He’s got growing left to do. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as he beams at Glenn.

“Are you smiling? I think you’re smiling. Oh, that’s a little weird.” Then Glenn pauses, pointing down the corridor. “I’ve already got Ingrid waiting around the corner.”

Ingrid doesn’t like dogs, Sylvain learns, but she’s not afraid of them. It’s just that she prefers horses. Ingrid relaxes a little when Glenn explains that he’s Sylvain, and then her eyes narrow as though she realizes how odd it is that he’s a shape-shifting werewolf.

She keeps a solid three feet between the two of them at all times.

Glenn doesn’t have much of a plan aside from wandering the manor grounds. “Even though it’s been nearly a week, there’s still a lot that I want to show you,” says Glenn as they round a corner.

“Glenn?” The three of them freeze at the sound of Felix’s voice, and Glenn shoots Sylvain a panicked look.

“Change!” hisses Glenn, shaking his hand at Sylvain. “Change back!”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Felix must be afraid of dogs. Or animals. Or anything, really. And, while his wolf form feels as natural as the moon high above them, he hasn’t quite mastered shifting back.

Sylvain had once asked his father if they were human or if they were a wolf, and his father had only laughed, citing that it was a ridiculous question. They were human, of course, gifted the boon of Death. Sylvain had told him that being a wolf had felt better, and his father had given him a weird look before a feral smile covered his face entirely.

Then, Sylvain’s father had quoted some archaic Gautier family motto and promised him the Lance of Ruin upon adulthood.

Sylvain snaps to attention, trying to pull his human side forward. He imagines standing on two feet, unbalanced and awkward. He thinks of blunted teeth and a shorter tongue, and a dull sense of smell. He blinks, pulling forth those feelings, urging his body to shift back into place. His bones creak and he pants.

It’s not a fun transition and it’s slow going.

“Sylvain,” warns Glenn, which spurs him into action.

Sylvain’s a boy again the moment that Felix rounds the corner. He’s wearing a loose shirt, half-tucked into a pair of trousers. His hair is tousled but his eyes are awake and alert.

“You’re playing without me,” accuses Felix, cheeks pink and eyes narrowed right at Glenn.

“Felix, it’s late,” says Glenn, rubbing at his neck sheepishly. He shoots Sylvain a look that’s half relief and half worry.

“Ingrid’s here. We’re the same age.” Felix pouts and Sylvain finds it adorable. Not that’d he’d ever tell him that; Felix might be a scaredy-cat, but being perceived as one is his biggest fear. He tries to bluff, playing it cool. Especially around Glenn.

“Ingrid is--” But Glenn doesn’t finish, because Ingrid kicks him in the shin.

“If you say that I’m special, I’ll kick you again.”

“But you are--”

Ingrid kicks Glenn again and Glenn lets out a groan of pain. Sylvain winces because he knows that she packs a punch, even with her tiny size. Not that Sylvain’s much bigger. Felix rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

“A brute, isn’t she?” asks Sylvain in jest, leaning toward Felix.

Felix moves toward Glenn in response, half hiding behind his leg. Sylvain sighs. Felix knows Ingrid, he’s used to her because of her betrothal to Glenn. Sylvain’s still new to him and Felix is a boy that likes the well-familiar. He doesn’t like change.

Glenn sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I wasn’t planning on babysitting tonight--”

“You said you wanted to play,” says Sylvain.

“And I do, but three against one? That’s a little unfair.”

“Then we’ll just explore,” says Sylvain. “That’s what I wanted to do anyway.”

Glenn thumbs his chin and then cracks a smile. He ruffles Felix’s hair, and then Sylvain’s, and then he presses a dainty little kiss against Ingrid’s knuckles. She makes a face and mimics vomiting in response.

“Exploring it is then,” says Glenn. Then he leans over slightly, his tone pitching soft. “It’s too late to be out of bed though, so we’ll need to keep quiet, alright?”

Ingrid’s eyes flash at that. “Beyond the gate then?”

Glenn shoots her an impish smile. “Beyond the gate,” he confirms. “Just a bit. Should be fine if we all stick together.”

Felix is the one that looks troubled. “Glenn, we’re not supposed too--”

“That’s the point, little brother.” Glenn gives Felix a steady look, brows raised. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to go back to bed.”

“No!” The three of them shoot Felix a look after his outburst, and Felix fidgets behind Glenn’s leg. “I’ll be fine,” he then says bravely, face held high and pert little nose in the air.

Glenn shuffles them to the front gate, a finger held to his lips. He’s on good terms with the gatekeeper, chatting a few friendly words and then slipping a few gold coins into his palm. Then the gatekeeper winks at the kids before turning a blind eye.

Ingrid and Sylvain bounce on their heels, but Felix walks rigidly beside Glenn.

“There’s nothing out here to be concerned about. We’re close to the manor,” says Glenn, ruffling Felix’s hair once more.

“It’s--”

“Spooky,” cuts in Ingrid, a delightful little grin spreading across her face.

“I was going to say that I wasn’t scared.”

“It’s alright, you know,” says Ingrid, matter-of-factly. “Glenn will protect us.”

Glenn does, not that it’s hard. The three of them are eager to enjoy their outing, so they play by the rules and keep close to his side. They don’t go far, barely dipping into the trees. They chase each other around, digging underneath rocks and even climb low-hanging limbs.

Even with his dulled senses, Sylvain follows the smells of the wild, his heart beating wildly. He’s entirely unused to the freedom of exploring. While his father actively encourages his wolf, he also keeps him on a tight leash. Ingrid inches closer to him, seemingly having forgotten that he’s more wolf than man, asking him what it is that’s caught his attention.

Felix still shies away when Sylvain tries to engage, albeit with a brave and determined face. He even meets Sylvain’s gaze head-on.

“Glenn’s read me the stories, you know,” Felix says. “I know all about your family.”

“Our fathers think we should be friends.” Sylvain nearly laughs at the way that Felix’s nose crinkles in response. “They are friends themselves.”

“Ugh. Who’d want to be friends with my father?”

Sylvain does laugh this time. “Who indeed?” Rodrigue seems nice at a glance, so different than his own. Sylvain can’t imagine the Margrave with a friend; he barely sees him with his mother. Felix doesn’t come closer or say anything else, but he doesn’t go to hide behind Glenn either.

When they slip back through the front gate, the Duke and the Margrave are waiting for them. Rodrigue stands with his hands clasped behind his back, but there’s a soft hint of a smile on his face, amused.

The Margrave isn’t amused. He stands there tall, arms crossed over his chest and his face hardened into a frown. Sylvain winces at the sight; his father had already been in a sour mood and this will only worsen it.

Glenn stands tall and says, “Father--”

Rodrigue holds up a hand. “Out late I see, and with the others in tow. I hope that your little adventure was fun?”

Glenn’s mouth snaps shut and he nods. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ve played my share of games when I was younger,” Rodrigue says, “but never the night before Royalty is due to visit. I usually waited until Lambert was here.” A pause. “Are you trying to get out of your duty tomorrow?”

“Of course not,” says Glenn.

Rodrigue watches him for a long moment and then sighs. “Phillippe,” says the Duke, turning towards Sylvain’s father. “What are we to do? Extra training? Perhaps a proper spar with Dimitri?”

Glenn turns a little pale at the suggestion and Sylvain doesn’t understand the hesitation. Training with the crown prince doesn’t seem like a too-terrible punishment. Sylvain thinks of worse ones, looking to his father.

He’d rather a bout with the prince.

“You can handle your sons,” the Margrave says, leveling Sylvain with a stern gaze. “I’ll handle mine.”

“They were only having fun. Nothing too egregious, surely.”

“Propriety is still expected,” says Sylvain’s father. “There’s much to be expected from the heir of the Gautier line.”

“Phillippe,” says the Duke quietly, “perhaps--”

“I will handle it,” repeats the Margrave.

Rodrigue drops the subject and nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to impose.” There’s a pause before he continues with, “My boys will extra rounds in the field tomorrow with Dimitri. You should send Sylvain.”

“Rodrigue,” warns Sylvain’s father.

The Duke turns to Glenn. “Boys, off to bed. Ingrid, you too. I’ll speak to your father in the morning.” He turns to take his leave but then stops to give one last look at Sylvain. Hesitating. But, in the end, all he does is big them a good night.

The moment they’re alone, Sylvain’s father lashes out and grabs the back of his neck roughly, like he would his scruff. Then he tugs Sylvain along, back to the rooms where they’re staying.

His father loves him, Sylvain tells himself. He tries to think of those good moments; being taught how to shift. How to sift through scents and recognize a pack. How to track your prey.

The worse memories always weed their way in, though. Punishments that bend the will, but don’t entirely break it. Just enough to crack the slightest bit under pressure. Like Sylvain kneeling against raw grains of rice.

Or throwing him into the ring with Miklan and coming out with bruises instead. Miklan likes to hit and Sylvain isn’t quite fast enough to always avoid him.

Eventually, his father deems the lesson learned and Sylvain rises on tired limbs. He brushes the rice from his knees as his father calls a servant to come to sweep them up. Sylvain goes to bed, legs aching, but not nearly as busted as he feels.

Your father loves you, he thinks. Your father cares. This is how he teaches.

The older he gets though, the emptier the words feel.

#

Dimitri is a short little thing with blonde hair styled into the world’s worst square-cut bob. He stands there in the training grounds, feet shuffling awkwardly as he holds a wooden training lance in his hands. Glenn reaches out to ruffle his hair.

Sylvain shoots the crown prince a smile and a wave, and Dimitri returns the gesture, a small smile on his lips. He’s the same age as Felix and a few years younger than Sylvain, but unlike the youngest Fraldarius boy, Dimitri isn’t terrified of everything.

He’s just reticent about sparring.

“Glenn,” says the Prince, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“I agree,” says Glenn bluntly. “The last time we sparred with each other, you broke my rib. I’d prefer the dummies just as much as you.”

Sylvain gapes at the idea that Dimitri could have landed such a hit on Glenn. Dimiri is smaller and slim when compared to the wiry muscle of Glenn. And it’s not that the elder Fraldarius boy is that much older or larger, but he’s more honed in his ability.

Not to mention it’s Glenn’s job to protect Dimitri, not the other way around.

Felix watches the lot of them, standing closer than usual. He and the prince seem to get along well. Ingrid, on the other hand, watches Dimitri through narrowly slitted eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

“You’re holding it wrong,” says Ingrid, pointing to the lance.

“Oh,” breathes Dimitri, changing his grip on the practice weapon, fingers tightening just the slightest bit. There’s a sudden crack as the wood splits between his palms, and Dimitri’s left holding to splintered pieces of teakwood in each hand.

Sylvain’s mouth drops open in surprise, but everyone else seems to have expected it.

Glenn sighs. “Well, better the lance than me this time around, right?”

“This is why I prefer the dummies,” says Dimitri, resigned. He motions for a new lance.

“Glenn, put him in the ground,” says Ingrid none-too-lightly. She’s always rooting for Glenn and Sylvain suspects that she doesn’t find their betrothal as gross as she likes to pretend.

“He’s the prince,” hisses Felix, leveling her with a disgusted look.

Ingrid sniffs. “Put him in the ground, please,” she amends. Then she rolls her eyes. “It’s your job to follow him loyally. I’ll talk about him however I like.”

“Ingrid,” says Glenn, hiding a smirk behind his hand.

“Your highness--” starts Sylvain.

“Dimitri, please,” says the prince. Then he looks at Glenn. “Glenn, do we have to?”

Glenn winces, looking off to the side where his father sits in the shadows. Sylvain’s father is there too, sharing a pot of tea, his dark gaze penetrating as he watches on. Waiting. Expecting. Sylvain swallows thickly.

“It’s a punishment,” sighs Glenn. He rubs at the back of his neck. “We snuck out last night.”

Dimitri looks a little put-out. “You couldn’t wait until I arrived?”

“Well, the plan was to sneak out again, but I think that’s been speared in the foot.” Glenn pauses, eyeing the new lance in Dimitri’s hands warily. “Just keep it below the neck and above the belt, okay?”

Sylvain snorts out a laugh, Felix turns bright red in the face, and Ingrid looks between them utterly confused. Girls, Sylvain thinks.

Sylvain and Felix stand off to the side, watching Glenn and Dimitri stand opposite each other in the center of the field. Glenn isn’t afraid, but he’s hesitant, and once the match is started Sylvain sees why.

Dimitri hits hard without meaning to, seemingly unable to hold back his strength. Sylvain’s watched Glenn spar with others over the last few days, but never quite like this. Glenn usually charges into the fight, blade raised and mind focused, calculating several moves ahead.

With the prince, however, he’s on the defensive, dodging to the side and trying to avoid a glancing blow. You broke my rib, Glenn had said earlier. There’s power behind Dimitri’s sloppy swings and now Sylvain can see just how he’d managed it the last time he and Glenn sparred.

Ingrid looks annoyed that Glenn is only blocking hits instead of giving them, her mouth tugged into a disapproving frown. Felix watches, enraptured. Sylvain knows that he wants to be a knight just like his father and brother. And, just like Felix who’s read about the Gautier family, Sylvain’s read about his in turn.

The Fraldarius’ are born and bred to protect the crown. Felix is no exception.

Finally, Glenn sees an opening and lashes out. Dimitri skids to the side, barely avoiding a glancing blow. He retaliates, sweeping his lance to the side in an arc-- and entirely misjudges his move.

Dimitri trips over his own feet, stumbling slightly. His lance swings wide, flinging towards Sylvain and Felix. He doesn’t see the two of them, preoccupied with finding his footing and narrowly avoiding Glenn.

Sylvain doesn’t think as he feels his bones shift and change, as instinctive as the rough howl he lets loose. One moment he’s a boy and the next he’s a wolf, his coarse fur ruddy under the midmorning sun. He darts forward and grabs Felix by the hem of his shirt and yanks him back with his teeth.

Felix tumbles overtop Sylvain. Everyone in the training yard freezes: Glenn’s eyes are glued to Sylvain. Dimitri stumbles in the opposite direction upon the sight of Sylvain as a wolf. Ingrid stands before Glenn, high-alert like she’s the one who’s going to protect him instead.

And then there’s Rodrigue and Sylvain’s father, the Duke pulled to the edge of his seat, mouth parted as his gaze flashes to Felix, worried. Because he knows that above all, Felix is a crybaby and scared of everything. A ticking bomb, really.

Sylvain’s father doesn’t seem angry, he seems proud, smug even, like the speed of Sylvain’s shift had pleased him. It’d been second nature, Sylvain acting entirely out of instinct.

He sits back on his haunches, heaving heavy breaths. Waiting for Felix’s inevitable yowling. But it never comes. Felix sits up and regards Sylvain with bright eyes and pinking cheeks. He looks at him with a strange mixture of awe and wonder.

Glenn is the first to seem confused.

Then, Felix stands and ambles over to Sylvain. Sylvain barks, tongue lolling out of his mouth, pleased that he’s at least prevented a terrible head wound. Or a fatal one, considering Dimitri’s apparent strength.

Felix rushes forward and wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck. “Puppy,” he breathes, incredulously. “You’re a puppy.”

Sylvain wants to take offense to that, but he doesn’t. It’s the closest that Felix has gotten to him over the week and all it’d taken was for him to just be himself. Felix’s hands tighten in his fur, scritching over his skin and Sylvain just can’t help the way that his leg kicks at the touch.

Rodrigue looks utterly baffled. Sylvain’s father looks like he’s eaten a lemon and Sylvain can already hear the monotonous speech about how wolves are proud creatures, not pets. But, at that moment, Sylvain rather likes being like a pet, his lineage be damned. His father talks a lot about his future and legacy, but this is the first time that he’s felt like he means something.

“I’ve never been able to have a dog,” says Felix into his fur. “But I guess a wolf as a friend is even better.”

Sylvain licks the side of his face and instead of cringing, Felix laughs, a soft sound like a calm breeze on a warm summer morning.

That’s when Sylvain falls in love, even if he doesn’t yet realize it.

#felix x sylvain #sylvain/felix #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem fanfiction #fe3h

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 68 - The Traitor and the Nightmare

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read it on AO3

--

Loghain sat alone in the solar that used to be his wife’s refuge, where she had penned her letters and seen to the affairs of the teyrnir, where they had shared carafes of wine on the long summer evenings when he returned from the capital, and which now let in only grubby light through unwashed windows banked with half-rotten leaves. Around him, dust muted the colours of the furnishings, made duller still by the cold touch of the air that fogged his breath and congealed his barely-eaten breakfast of fried potatoes and bacon. The dreary atmosphere didn’t seem to trouble the witless elven servant the magister had sent to spy on him, but then he too had lost the energy to complain about petty discomforts. His mind drifted in and out of focus, memories and desires slipping away like mist whenever he tried to grasp them.

In a shaking hand, he held Anora’s letter tighter. The paper was creased and stained, ragged from being read so many times. If not for the intimately familiar handwriting, he would have thought the pleas to flee into exile – to confess, abdicate, and run – were just another ploy meant to make him doubt himself. As it was, the words confused him. She mentioned a Nightmare, and a change in his personality leading Ferelden to ruin, and while the accusations rang true, for the longest time he had thought it the effect of the war, a necessary withdrawal for the greater good of the people. Now, with his army broken and nothing more rigorous to occupy his thoughts, his mind drifted to the betrayals, the harsh punishments, and the desperate words of the Falcon in the moments before he ran her through. She had called him a traitor, accused him of being in thrall to a demon. Anora’s letter was dated after the battle at Highever, and Erimond’s spies had reported the Falcon’s survival, so perhaps the new favourite had stolen the queen’s ear, twisted her mind. Perhaps the story of the demon had been nothing more than a last attempt to preserve her own life.

And yet, with the shadows of his dreams chasing him into the waking world, and Erimond’s plans kept from him, could he afford to ignore the warning? If there really was a demon, and if it had already worked such evil through him, then what more might it accomplish if he flinched from his duty and allowed it to rampage as it willed across Ferelden?

The door to the hallway squeaked open. Startled, he shoved the letter into the folds of his winter sleeves as another one of the magister’s servants, more present than his elven guard, stepped crisply into the room.

“Master Erimond wishes to see you, Your Lordship.”

As if compelled, Loghain set aside his fork and rose from the table. In the moment before he moved, he blinked down at his legs, wondering how long it had been since he had questioned one of the magister’s whims. The stray thought was not enough to stop him following down the corridor like a mongrel on a leash, but it occupied him enough to keep his gaze from drifting to his reflection in the mirrors his wife had once added to brighten the hall. He no longer cared to look at himself; his bloodshot eyes and thinning, greyed hair took away what little was left of his appetite. His clothes still remained presentable, not that it could be counted for much.

He traipsed after the servant through familiar corridors until they came to the great hall. The windows had been shuttered but a gap in the roof at the far end let in the light and illuminated Erimond at the centre of a conglomerate of tables, like a gaunt spider at the centre of a huge web. No other room in the castle provided him with a hearth big enough for his experiments, or enough table space to run them simultaneously while keeping notes. Books and broken ends of chalk littered the work surfaces around him, bracketed by arcane equipment and vials of dark liquid thick as blood. The magister himself looked up when he heard footsteps, and in the shadows cast by the fire, the bruises under his eyes made his skin look like wax.

Loghain had little sympathy. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Your opinion,” Erimond replied in smooth tones, “which as always, I value highly. Over there.”

He pointed to the end of the table nearest the window, where a pile of maps was laid across the wood. Wary, Loghain sidled past the magical artefacts to examine the top one, his lip curling at the vague, undetailed cartography he would never have allowed from his scouts. It showed, in broad strokes, the land south and east of the Brecilian Forest, with roads and features sketched out of proportion. Many of the place names had been roughly scratched out using a different ink, rendering it entirely worthless to anyone else who might want to use it.

“Thanks to our enemies, our original plans have met unfavourable ends, and we must turn to less expedient avenues if we are to succeed,” Erimond scoffed, scratching a note into his book, uncaring of the contempt directed at him, if he noticed it at all.

“Yours,” Loghain said.

“What?”

“They are your plans.” He licked his lips. “Mine were to keep Ferelden from the hands of its enemies.”

The magister paused in his work. His expression remained placid as he set down his pen, and his steps carried him across the floor unhurried, but when he spoke again there was a threat in his words potent as a raised whip.

“I require a location,” he explained. “A place of much bloodshed, where the Veil is worn thin by magic. This squalid backwater is not enough.”

Nothing good would come of it. When the Nightmare impressed itself upon Cailan, and then upon the Falcon, he had glimpsed its mind, its intent, and now he shook worse than he had as a boy hearing the thunder of Orlesian cavalry along the road to his farmstead.

“I will not help you.”

“You do not have a choice,” Erimond sneered. “Use your knowledge of this miserable land to give me a location.”

“No.”

Incredulity flashed in the magister’s eyes, before his face closed in a snarl and his hand twitched as if reaching for the staff still on the other side of the room. Loghain grasped for the locket around his neck. Whatever instinct drove him to it came unbidden, but he saw his chance in the instant of hesitation as Erimond stalked towards him, and felt his lips raise in a feral smile. He would not be yoked like a beast of burden.

Light exploded behind his eyes – a searing pain that brought him to his knees. A different, distant pain seized his hand as the metal rim of the pendant burned his skin, giving off an almost sweet, metallic odour that made his stomach roil. When the horror of it finally faded, his throat raw from screaming, his vision focused on the narrow points of Erimond’s shoes. A low chuckle fell from above, cold like the drip of melting ice.

“You are my creature,” Erimond told him. “You will be used as I see fit, and you will remember that for as long as I have use of you. Now get up.”

Loghain’s legs moved, fitful starts as he struggled to refuse the command, but his will had been too worn down for too long, and with a steadying hand on the edge of the table, his body pushed him to stand. The map was still in front of him. Its poor artistry drew his eye against his will, away from Gwaren, along the uneven line of the Imperial Highway, over the desolate expanse of the Korcari Wilds and a place so remote he knew it only through legend and hearsay. He watched a smile grow in a slow curve around the magister’s mouth.

“Perfect.”

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #alistair x cousland #cousland #f!cousland #loghain mac tir #teyrn loghain

[mearta]

A Chevalier's Promise

A Chevalier x Bluhen Royal AU fic

Summary: To the outside world of Elrios, the Steel Queen and the newly appointed Grand Duke Ishmael have announced their engagement. Many speculate it was love at first sight; in reality, they have merely forged a political alliance to stabilize their respective reigns. Ciel, aside from his typical obligations as Her Majesty’s knight, must ensure things go smoothly with the alliance. Yet upon meeting a peculiar fellow, he soon realizes the troubles surrounding the Grand Duke are more than they appear.

Chapter 1: Encounter Amidst the Flowers

 The party’s glitter and laughter was a dream in the distance. Ciel could never stomach the suffocating atmosphere. He stood outside with the warm embrace of moonlight near his shadow. The facades and faux kindness was no different than Lanox’s crime-tainted alleyways. Lu always noticed he was uncomfortable despite his best attempts to hide it. As a result, she allowed him to escape to the serenity of the palace’s garden whenever she hosted a ball. Ciel insisted he could tolerate parties, especially if it meant ensuring her safety. But the Queen was stubborn and reminded him she could defend herself. Ciel strolled past the fountain and into the hedge maze. He memorized the way out long ago. As Ciel turned the corner, a sea of flowers greeted him. In the center stood the largest flower, taller than even he; its purple petals reaching to touch the night.

 In the Demon Realm, the palace’s garden had another name: the Garden of Haures. A maze teeming with flowers from the Demon Realm and Elrios was also home to the famous Haures flowers. Many visitors praised their beauty, but little did they know Ciel was responsible for clearing the pest problem that occurred when the Haures flowers bloom.

 Ciel sighed, recalling the group of monsters that appeared the other day because of the Haures flowers’ scent. He shouldn’t be upset at that damn Annular for planting them; after all, Miss Iblis kept the poor man busy. In the rare chances he had a break, Annular would be here, tending to the garden.

 Ciel approached a patch of iridescent, azure flowers. Under the moon, they looked straight out of an oil painting. Lu liked these flowers in particular because they matched Ciel’s hair color. He cared for this patch personally, and often she would ask for him to prepare bouquets of them to display around the palace.

 “Oh my, shouldn’t a knight be accompanying his master?”

 “Her Majesty is currently with the Grand Duke. Unless you are implying His Lordship cannot protect her,” Ciel said. He turned around and narrowed his eyes.

 The owner of that sing-song voice wore a smirk. Ciel presumed the man in front of him was a noble. With a fur-lined, extravagant coat, he at the very least held some sort of title. However, Ciel did not recall green and black being fashionable colors in Elrios.

 “I was merely trying to begin a conversation. Shall we start over by introducing ourselves?”

 “I am Ciel, servant of Queen Luciela R. Sourcream.”

 “Yes, I know. Nice to meet you, Sir Ciel.” The man‘s smile somehow became more irritating.

 “And what is your name?”

 “Sir Bluhen works just fine.”

 “Well, Sir Bluhen, I do not believe we’ve met before.”

 “Everyone knows of the demonic wench who picked up a half-demon stray.” Seeing Ciel’s hand move toward one of his shotguns, Bluhen giggled. “My apologies.”

 “Your tongue certainly likes to flap.” Ciel relaxed ever so slightly.

 “As long as Richter doesn’t mind-“

 “Disrespecting Her Majesty’s fiancé is no different than disrespecting her.”

 Bluhen waved his hand. “He and I are... what‘a the word... oh, friends. Please be at ease.”

 “Is that so?” Ciel frowned.

 The spies mentioned nothing of friends. The Grand Duchy of Elrianode’s sovereign was either found alone or with the clergy. In addition, Grand Duke Ishmael disliked humans. How could this one be any different? Regardless, no reports contained a description that matched Bluhen. While Ciel mulled over the possibilities, Bluhen moved closer. He squatted down and pointed at the patch of flowers.

 “What are they called?”

 “Lacrimosa Blossoms. Some of the older Demons refer to them as the Flowers of Requiem.”

 “They’re quite nice. Reminds me of forget-me-nots.”

 “Do you like forget-me-nots?”

 After eyeing one of the flowers, Bluhen stood up. “You can say that. Richter is quite fond of them as well. It’s a shame we can’t grow flowers back home.”

 “...Are you really friends with His Lordship?”

 “All right, the truth is I’m his lover.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “Is there a problem?” Bluhen leaned closer to Ciel and whispered, “He can be quite aggressive, but I’m sure Her Majesty can make him submit to her whim.”

 Ciel felt the warm breath against his neck. Bluhen took a step back. He chuckled at Ciel’s expression. “I’m kidding of course.”

 “You...”

 “It was fun talking to you, Sir Ciel. But I’m afraid I have to go. Send Her Majesty my regards.” Bluhen winked before walking away.

 Lu and the Grand Duke were still together when Ciel entered the ballroom. The event had ended and the servants started to clean up. Leftover food was to be given away, decorations to be stored until next time, and any messes were to be eliminated. Ciel watched the maids and footmen to ensure they didn’t slack off. It would be a few weeks before the marble tiles saw another evening of dancing. Then his attention turned to the couple. To match Grand Duke Ishmael’s white clothes, she wore a white, backless dress. Embroidered patterns of gold lines the sleeves.

 The couple looked good together albeit funny. Lu was the shorter one between her and the Grand Duke. Wearing high-heeled shoes helped to an extent. Ciel couldn’t imagine the Grand Duke acknowledging the obvious height difference. Neither could anyone else, yet the Grand Duke always leaned down to be within reach. Perhaps their alliance was too important to lose.

 Lu touched the Grand Duke’s face.

 “It’s okay to admit you’re tired.” Her voice was soft. She caressed his cheek until he caught her wrist.

 “What about you, Luciela?”

 “I’m used to faking smiles all the time.”

 “You do not have to do so in front of me.”

 Ciel was unaffected by their exchange of sweet words. He glanced at the servants. They continued to do their duties, but once the couple was away, they would start to gossip.

 Ciel cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, please return to your room. Your Grace, I have also prepared a room for you to stay in.”

 “Nonsense, Ciel. We’ll be sharing a room,” Lu said.

 “Understood. Allow me to escort you back  then.”

 The two followed Ciel. He had a feeling the couple were holding hands while their footsteps echoed through the empty halls.  The Palace of Abaddon was a wonder of architecture. Guests would often stop to marvel at the paintings, but Grand Duke Ishmael didn’t bat an eye. Ciel opened the door to Lu’s bedchambers. He was the last one to enter and closed the door behind him.

 “You may stop pretending now,” Ciel stated.

 Lu sighed in relief. She sat on the edge of bed. “Hey Ciel, what do you think?”

 “Of what?”

 She gestured to the Grand Duke who stood on the other side of the room. “I feel he needs to be more expressive.”

 “I believe our performance is adequate enough for the public.” Any semblance of gentleness had been replaced with the cold, monotone, real authority belonging to the Grand Duke.

 Ciel scratched his head. “The narrative we agreed to wasn’t violated as far as I could tell.”

 The Steel Queen and the Grand Duke had a chance encounter, and multiple rendezvous were enough to break through the defenses around their hearts. Some nobles liked the idea of a love which transcended race, so the story spread throughout the Demon Realm. Of course, the people outside the Demon Realm were another story. A follower of Goddess Ishmael falling in love with not just a Demon, but the Steel Queen herself was unbelievable. That was another issue they needed to address. At the very least, there was time to change public opinion.

 Ciel scrutinized the Grand Duke. The Grand Duchy of Elrianode was without a sovereign for centuries; according to various reports, the Lady of El and her El Masters were the government in the past. Then, the region and more was known merely as Elrianode. Yet one of the El Masters betrayed the Lady of El and his fellow Masters, leading to the explosion of the Giant El. The destruction ruined Elrianode and the land. Now the grand name of Elrianode was a shadow of its former splendor. Lu and Ciel speculated many times why the priestesses, the remains of Elrianode’s past, agreed to elect someone to take the mantle of Grand Duke. They thought of many reasons, but none of them held definitive weight.

 “What is it, Mr. Half-Demon?” Grand Duke Ishmael glared at him.

 The Grand Duke’s dislike of anything related to Demons was just as palpable as his distaste for humans. Ciel withheld his exasperation. “Do you know of Sir Bluhen?”

 “Is he your knight?” Lu asked.

 “Sir... Bluhen is often tasked with handling domestic affairs. Because he had spare time, he insisted on following me here.”

 Lu nodded. “Does he know?”

 “He is aware. Regardless, I would like to act upon the conditions we set before.”

 “...I suspected as much.” Lu sighed. “Well then, Grand Duke Ishmael. What can I do to ease your burdens?”

 “Give Sir Ciel to me.”

#elsword #cielain #elsword ain #elsword ciel #richter #chevalier #elsword luciel

[sydneysageivashkov]

Everything We’ve Done (Is There On Our Faces) 5/?

It started, once upon a time, with Ned Stark finding a litter of orphaned dire wolf cubs, with Robert Baratheon riding for Winterfell, with Ned becoming Hand of the King in the viper’s pit that was King’s Landing.

It restarts like this:

Arya and Sansa wake up as children again, a message ringing in their ears. The Old Gods need Westeros to be strong and united to defend the Wall, and the Old Gods don’t forget oaths easily.

(Time travel AU. Eventual Sansa/Theon, Arya/Gendry, Jaime/Brienne.)

“Jon Arryn is never going to make it to Winterfell alive,” said Sansa. She, Arya and Brienne were assembled in the Godswood, standing together under the Heart Tree. Sansa wasn’t sure when or why they had decided to hold their private discussions, the ones they had away from the rest of the family, under the Heart Tree, but somehow they always seemed to end up there when making plans. Making plans before the Old Gods, she thought. Before Bran. “It would be one thing if Joffrey was king, because he would never believe or entertain what Jon Arryn says. But Robert’s still alive, and they might have convinced him for now that Jon Arryn was lying, but if he ever decides he wants to hear his old friend out, then that risks everything for Cersei. I can see Cersei organising a bandit or two to attack the Night’s Watch party on its way north. After all, the Vale can’t declare war over a bandit, can they? And even if she decides it’s too risky…”

“Littlefinger wants that risk,” finished Arya. “He’ll do it so that we suspect the Lannisters, if nothing else.”

Sansa nodded. “I suppose if it’s Littlefinger who has him killed, he might wait until after Jon Arryn’s passed Winterfell, to make sure we’ll suspect the Lannisters because of what Jon Arryn tells us, but he might not – Lysa can do that well enough.”

“I know that Littlefinger was responsible entirely in the last time, but are we certain this was not the Lannisters at fault this time?” asked Brienne.

“Jon Arryn was the first to realise about Cersei’s children, wasn’t he?” said Arya. “Cersei would want him gone and discredited, Littlefinger be damned.”

“Aunt Lysa testified against her husband,” said Sansa. “That’ll be Littlefinger’s doing, I know it. He probably told her it was the only way to keep Sweetrobin from being fostered, if nothing else. And she probably realised it would be the only way she could ever marry Littlefinger.”

“Are you going to tell Mother now?” asked Arya. “It’s going the same way as last time. Surely you don’t still think she won’t believe you.”

Sansa resisted gritting her teeth. She knew, logically, that Catelyn would probably believe her. It was a long time since Catelyn had seen Petyr, and when she had it had been just after Brandon Stark had almost killed him. It wasn’t hard to see how that could spin a man into someone as destructive and vicious as Littlefinger, and talking politics with her over the past few months, Sansa had seen how cynical Catelyn was when it came to politics. And Catelyn had believed everything else Sansa had told her about the future, even if she still hadn’t come around to Jon yet.

And yet.

Sansa wasn’t even sure what it was that kept her lips wired shut whenever it came up. She just couldn’t quite tell her mother. Maybe it was because every time she went to, all she could think was If it hadn’t been for you, he never would have come after me –

It wasn’t fair of Sansa to think that, let alone say it, so she kept her mouth shut.

“If you did not tell your mother about Baelish, then what did you tell them about Jon Arryn’s death?” asked Brienne.

“We told her and Father that we weren’t sure who murdered Jon Arryn,” explained Sansa. “We said there were so many people in King’s Landing who would be interested in seeing Jon Arryn dead, whether to make sure their secrets died with him or so they had a chance at gaining more power, that it was impossible to say who it was. It keeps them distrustful of everyone in King’s Landing – which they should be, because Littlefinger is far from the only threat in that viper’s pit.”

“Except, maybe, Mother’s childhood friend,” said Arya, pointedly.

You don’t understand, Sansa wanted to scream. There had been so many people whose duty it was to protect her and hadn’t. Cersei and Joffrey, Ned for not breaking the betrothal earlier, Dontos and Baelish and Ramsay, Robb. Even Jon, in the end. Who was to say Catelyn wasn’t going to do the exact same?

“We need to be in the courtyard soon,” Brienne reminded them. Sansa nodded, grateful for the distraction.

“Perhaps you’ll be allowed to sit in on the meeting,” Arya said to Brienne, cautious hope in her voice. “We might just be girls -” Arya sneered the word – “but you’re a woman grown. Surely Mormont can’t protest you.”

“We’ll see,” said Brienne. “Your lord father and brother know enough, though.”

“It would still be better to have one of us in there,” said Arya.

“I know of one person who no black brother would protest sitting in on the meeting,” said Sansa casually.

“What, Theon?” demanded Arya.

“He’s heir to the Iron Islands,” said Sansa loftily. “It makes sense for him to observe Lord Stark dealing with the Night’s Watch in preparation for when he takes lordship in Pyke. And he knows as well as you or I about what happened.”

“I think Lady Sansa is right,” said Brienne, earning herself a betrayed glare from Arya. “Theon Greyjoy might not be the most honourable of men, but has no more desire than any of us for the Seven Kingdoms to be overrun.”

“And I trust him,” added Sansa, her voice firm. “I trust that he will tell us what happened in the meeting and I trust him to steer the conversation the way we need it to go.”

Arya stared at the two of them mutinously before huffing out a sigh. “Fine. Fine. At least Robb and Father will both be there, so he can’t get up to anything.”

“He’s not going to get up the anything,” said Sansa, exasperation working its way into her voice. “He came back to fight for us, Arya. He could have gone and hid on the Iron Islands but he came back to Winterfell to fight. That’s not what someone does when they’re still ‘up to something’.”

Arya muttered under her breath, but nodded.

“Now that that’s decided, we really do need to get to the courtyard,” said Brienne, glancing through the trees towards the courtyard.

“I’ll come in a minute,” said Sansa. “Go on without me.”

She waited until Brienne and Arya were clear of the Godswood before she turned to face the gnarled weirwood. She drew her fingers over the face carved into the tree. “Are you still watching us?” she wondered aloud. “Are we doing the right thing, Bran?”

Almost in response, a sparrow landed on the branch before her head, dislodging three leaves. They floated down, landing at her feet. She picked them up and held them in front of her.

“Three blows of the horn, right,” she said. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins.” The words felt sacred on her tongue. “I’m no good with a sword or shield, but I think I can still wake the sleepers.” Sleepers like Catelyn, who still trusted Littlefinger. Like the Lannisters and the Baratheons and the Tyrrells, squabbling over who sat on the Iron Throne.

I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, she thought. That much, she could do.

-

Before Ned began the meeting with Jeor Mormont, he met with Benjen in his solar. His little brother greeted him with a broad smile and a hug, but Ned’s heart only ached. The Night’s Watch wasn’t an easy life, but Benjen had joined to protect the Wall from Wildlings, not White Walkers. Ned hated that he had to burden him with this.

“What’s wrong?” asked Benjen, noticing his mood quickly.

“I need you to sit down, Benjen,” said Ned, his voice grave. Benjen gave him one more worried glance, but sat. Ned turned to stand by the fire, watching the leaping flames in the grate. “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this room,” said Ned. “Not even to Mormont. No one outside of our family can ever know.”

Benjen’s lips parted as he stared up at Ned. “You’re starting to scare me, Ned.”

You should be scared, Ned couldn’t help but think. “Promise me, Ben.”

Benjen stared at him for another moment before nodding. “Aye, alright then. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

“Late last year, Sansa and Arya awoke with memories of the next several years,” said Ned. “They weren’t the only ones – Theon Greyjoy woke up with the same memories, and only a few weeks ago, Brienne of Tarth arrived here in Winterfell, wanting to fulfil the oaths she made to my daughters years in the future.”

Benjen nodded slowly to himself, before asking, “What happened in the future?”

Ned walked back to his desk and sat down across from Benjen. “The Others are coming, Benjen. They attacked Winterfell and killed the girls, Theon and Lady Brienne.”

Benjen swallowed visibly. “You believe in this?”

“I do,” said Ned. “Sansa, Arya and Theon are not the same children that they were before. They’re older, and…” He struggled to find the words. Eventually, he gave up, and continued, “They know things that they shouldn’t – about the world, about the past, about everything.”

“Do they know about -”

Promise me, Ned. “No.”

Benjen leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “The White Walkers are coming. Gods, Ned. We’ve had Rangers not come back, but we thought…”

“The Wildlings are coming south,” said Ned. “But they aren’t coming to raid. They want to have the Wall between them and the Others. A King Beyond the Wall is leading them – Mance Rayder, I believe he’s called.”

“Rayder was a Ranger, but deserted to join the Wildlings years ago,” said Benjen.

“I wish to treat with him,” said Ned placidly.

Benjen jerked his head up. “Treat with the Wildlings?”

“If we leave them north of the Wall, they will simply become members of the Night King’s army,” explained Ned. “If we can settle them south of the Wall, peaceably, then we have a better chance.”

“They won’t settle with the Northmen,” said Benjen, shaking his head. “They’re wild, Ned. They’ll keep raiding. They won’t follow our laws.”

“Maybe not,” said Ned. “Sansa and Arya tell me that the surviving Wildling’s bent the knee to Jon.”

“Jon as in Jon Snow?” asked Benjen.

“He was made King in the North after Robb and Rickon were killed, and while Bran was missing,” Ned explained shortly. “The Wildlings bent the knee to him. Perhaps they can be convinced to bend the knee to Robert.”

Benjen snorted. “Jon may be just a boy now, but even I can tell you he would be a better king for the Wildlings to kneel to than Robert.” As soon as he finished speaking, he realised what he was implying and his eyes snapped up to meet Ned’s nervously. “I didn’t mean -”

“I know,” said Ned, holding up his hands. “Jon is a Northman. Even with all of our differences, he and the Wildlings still have the blood of the First Men flowing through our veins. Robert does, too, but the Baratheons have more in common with their Andal cousins than the First Men.”

Benjen nodded. “The Wildlings don’t kneel to just anyone,” he warned Ned. “Maybe they kneeled to Jon once, but that doesn’t mean they’ll kneel to him again.”

“I’ll have to speak to Sansa,” Ned muttered to himself. When Benjen cocked his head, he explained, “Sansa was Lady of Winterfell when Jon had to treat with a southern queen. She would have ruled the Wildlings in Jon’s name; she’ll be able to tell us more.”

“Little Sansa, ruling over Wildlings,” said Benjen, shaking his head. “Who would have thought it?”

You haven’t seen her yet, Ned thought grimly. Before, he would have shared Benjen’s response, but the hardened Sansa who talked politics and logistics with him each night would be more than capable of staring down an unruly bannerman. But Benjen would learn, in time.

“I need you to help me convince Jeor Mormont,” said Ned. “Both about the Wildlings and the Others. The Wildlings need to come south of the Wall, but the Night’s Watch will never accept that if they don’t believe in the Others.” And with your reaction, even then it will still be a hard fight.

“Without telling him of – of everything?” asked Benjen, sweeping his hands around the room to indicate the everything. “He’s a good man, and he’s a hard man, but he’s also a rational man, and the Others’ existence isn’t exactly rational, brother.”

“We have a deserter here, who claims to have seen the White Walkers,” said Ned. “Gared, his name is. I have stayed his execution until he can make a full report to Lord Commander Mormont.”

“I don’t know if one deserter’s word will be enough,” said Benjen doubtfully.

“Benjen, if we can’t meet this threat properly, then the entirety of Westeros is at risk,” said Ned. “Your brothers on the Wall, your nieces and nephews here in Winterfell… Each and every one of them will die if we don’t act. Sansa and Arya have already seen it. They don’t need to see it again.”

Benjen looked to the ceiling. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. But you’re going to need a plan on how to settle the Wildlings south of the Wall if you’re going to convince Mormont.”

-

“Lord Stark, you know that I have always respected your judgement, and that I rely on Benjen greatly as my First Ranger, but what the two of you are suggesting -”

Across the room, Theon huffed. Jon shot him a glare, even though he shared the sentiments. They had been talking in circles for what felt like hours.

It would be so much easier if they could just bring Arya or Sansa in here to tell the Lord Commander everything they knew, or if Theon stood up and told his story. Jon knew why they weren’t, though – any word of what the girls had been through getting out put them at risk. If Jaime and Cersei Lannister had been willing to push an eight year old boy out of a window to avoid being discovered, the Gods only knew what they would to Sansa and Arya. Anyone outside their immediate family was not to be trusted.

“Commander Mormont, I am aware what this sounds like,” interrupted Ned. “I am perfectly aware that the White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years, and how unlikely it is that they have returned. But the fact remains that we have eye witnesses of the Others movements, and it needs to be investigated immediately.”

“The Others were vanquished for good in the Battle for the Dawn,” argued Commander Mormont.

“If it was for good, then why build a great big wall?” asked Robb. “You don’t need a Wall seven hundred feet tall just to keep other people out, Lord Commander. All the keeps of the Seven Kingdoms prove that well enough.”

“Perhaps at the time, they feared a second invasion by the Others, Lord Robb, but it never came,” said Mormont.

“There was the Night’s Queen,” said Jon. Ned, Robb and Mormont all turned to look at Jon. It was the first time he had spoken. “That’s what she was meant to have been, wasn’t she? Her skin was white and cold, and she had eyes as blue as the coldest stars, and she took the Night’s King soul. That’s what Old Nan always said. That sounds like the Others to me.”

“He’s right,” said Benjen. “That or a wight. The stories could have been twisted over the years, I suppose, but it is evidence that the Others never left for good.”

“But why come back now?” asked Mormont. “It’s been thousands of years. What could have made them come back now?”

“Maester Luwin has told me it is going to be the longest winter in hundreds, if not thousands, of years,” said Ned.

“Or it could be as simple as an Other being born that was a bit more ambitious than the rest,” said Robb. When Ned, Benjen and Mormont looked at him, he shrugged and said, “Surely they can’t be the same White Walkers that attacked in the Long Night. Like you said, Commander, it’s been thousands of years.”

“It doesn’t matter what their motivations are,” said Ned. “What matters is that we see the Wall properly fortified before they strike. We need to have more men on the Wall, and good men, at that – trained knights and soldiers if possible – and to have the Night’s Watch properly supplied for winter.”

Mormont sighed. “I suppose I can’t protest having more men and food brought to the Wall. There are many castles we simply haven’t had the men to man.”

“Exactly,” said Benjen, sharing a look with Ned. “Even if Ned and I turn out to be wrong, it will be no skin off the Watch’s nose to accept more help from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Except… Jon turned to watch Mormont as Ned said, “We also need to discuss the matter of the Wildlings.”

“They have been getting bolder as of late,” said Mormont. “Any help you may provide to repel them will be most welcome.”

“This isn’t a discussion about routing the Wildlings,” said Ned calmly. “It is about bringing them south of the Wall.”

Mormont blanched and looked at Benjen. “You agree with this?”

“Under any other circumstance, I would not,” said Benjen. His tone was very careful, and Jon knew he had to have been planning his answer for a long time. “We have been at war with the Wildlings for thousands of years. Under normal circumstances, I would find it inconceivable to settle them here in the North – but these are not normal circumstances, Commander. The Others are on the march, and marching with them are the dead. If we leave the Wildlings north of the Wall, vulnerable to the Others, then we will only be letting the Others’ army grow stronger.”

Mormont looked between Ned and Benjen. “The lords of the North will not agree with this.”

“If you support this, we will have a chance of convincing them,” said Ned. “Obviously, we will not be able to tell the North the full conditions of allowing the Wildlings south of the Wall – that will only come once we treat with them – but I have been discussing this matter with Benjen, and we have drawn up a plan that we think will be acceptable, or at least tolerable, for both Northmen and the Wildlings.”

Mormont looked wary, but said, “Let’s hear it, then.”

-

“Sansa?”

Sansa looked up at the sound of Theon’s voice. Edging forward, she peered out from her hiding place to see him walking around the battlements, looking around worriedly.

“I’m here,” she said softly.

He came to kneel down in front of her. “Your family is looking for you,” he said. “They’re worried sick.”

Sansa hugged her knees and asked, “Where were you?”

Theon looked down and admitted, “The Godswood.”

Sansa nodded. “I wanted to go there. I feel closer to Bran, somehow, and everyone who we left behind, but I just… couldn’t.”

“So you came here instead,” said Theon, and offered her his hand. After a moment of hesitation, she took it. He led her to the edge of the battlements so that they could look over the Wolfswood, and beyond that, north and north again. The trees were still green at the feet of Winterfell’s walls.

“We couldn’t jump now,” she whispered to Theon. She squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment to stop the tears that were threatening spill out. She turned to him and hurriedly said, “We could still go. Father and Mother could come up with a reason. We don’t have to be here.”

Theon pulled her into a hug and she sunk into it, pressing her head into his shoulder. “Yes, we do,” said Theon. “I know you’re not going to leave your family – and I can’t leave Robb. Not when none of them know how bad it can get.”

“Gods, Theon, you’re not meant to be the reasonable one,” complained Sansa, hitting him lightly on the shoulder.

Theon smiled faintly at her, amused but not enough to crack through the weight bearing down on him. “I left Yara to Euron,” he said. “He had her for months because I couldn’t face it. I swore to Robb once that I would be his brother for now and for always. I can’t fail family again, not like that.”

“Theon…” said Sansa. “You don’t have to prove yourself. This isn’t going to be like with Euron. You can still get out of here.”

“If you can’t, I can’t,” said Theon. “We’ll face him together, Sansa.” His voice cracked as he said it, fear plaintive in his voice.

She threw her arms around him again. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” she promised. “Not either of us. It’ll end this week, and we’ll never have to fear him again.”

Theon buried his face in her hair, and they stood together, wrapped up in each other’s arms, remembering a leap of faith that they had taken together in a snow that hadn’t fallen. Eventually, Theon’s arms loosened around her waist, and he offered her his hand once more. She took it and let him lead her back to the castle.

The lords of the North were meant to be arriving over the next few days, ready to hear from Ned and Jeor Mormont. They only barely had time to host the bannermen before they had to start preparing for Robert Baratheon’s ride on Winterfell, but Sansa and Catelyn had forced the timing and logistics to work. And since the bannermen were converging on Winterfell, Ned had taken the opportunity to deal with one other potential problem.

“We’ll keep him as far away from the both of you as possibly,” Ned was saying. “We’ve allocated the Boltons the rooms furthest from the both of yours, and you can pretend to have fallen ill, if you wish, to avoid him entirely.”

Sansa nodded, not able to meet her father’s gaze. Catelyn stood up and came to sit next to Sansa, taking her hand and squeezing it gently.

“It’ll be done quickly,” added Ned. “A few days, at most. I promise you that. You’ll be safe again.”

It’s never safe, Sansa thought but did not say. Dealing with Ramsay didn’t mean that Joffrey wasn’t out there, or Petyr, or even the bloody White Walkers. They could minimise risks, deal with threats at they came – but safety was an empty promise. It always had been. It was as much a fairytale as Florian and Jonquil.

“I remember Roose Bolton saying, when I was first married to – just after the wedding, he mentioned that he had hoped to marry me to Domeric Bolton, and that he was glad that I had finally been able to join the Bolton family at last,” said Sansa. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but she was still exaggerating the story. “He might want to negotiate a betrothal.”

“I will find a way to say no,” reassured Ned instantly.

“I have a way to say no,” said Sansa, not looking at Theon. “I need to be betrothed before they arrive.”

Ned went still, and Catelyn turned her head sharply to look at Sansa.

“We’ve already discussed it,” said Sansa. “It makes sense from an outside perspective. You would continue your influence over Theon after her takes up lordship of the Iron Islands. Becoming the lady of one of the kingdoms is a worthy marriage for me, even if it isn’t as prestigious as marrying the prince. It’s a good match.”

“You want to marry Theon?” exclaimed Catelyn.

“I trust him more than any other man you could offer me,” said Sansa, lifting her chin up and crossing her arms.

Ned cast a look at Theon. “I’m not sure about this, Sansa.”

“If you refuse, I can always force the issue,” said Sansa, her voice deceptively calm.

“Sansa!” chastised Catelyn.

“I’ll do it, Mother. I won’t be available for Ramsay or Joffrey,” said Sansa. Bran sent me back to reforge the future. I can build my own destiny, too. I won’t be sold to anyone again.

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, alright. I will announce your betrothal at the welcoming feast.”

“Ned!” hissed Catelyn. He shot her a quelling look that made Sansa tilt her head to the side. He had a reason for allowing their betrothal, then; one that he probably thought Catelyn would agree with. She wasn’t certain what that reason was, just yet. Still, she’d take her victories where she could.

“Thank you, Father,” she said politely. Arya, Robb and Jon were going to be livid, as Catelyn was now. She could handle them, though, and a few days spent arguing with her siblings was more than worth not having to worry about being betrothed to Ramsay or Joffrey.

The feast was another two days later. Sansa and Theon waited together outside the door. They stood facing each other, holding each other’s hands loosely.

“Don’t look for him,” she said. “When we get in there, just look at me or straight ahead. We’ll do only as many dances as we have to in order to be polite, and otherwise we can stay at the High Table, out of his reach.”

Theon swallowed hard. “I won’t look,” he promised.

Sansa squeezed his hand comfortingly. “It won’t be long now.” The doors started to open. Sansa took a deep breath, trying to calm her thudding heart, and took Theon’s arm. His fingers tangled with hers and he clung so tightly it was almost painful. “You and me, Theon, just you and me,” she whispered as the doors opened fully.

Sansa stared ahead as she entered the Great Hall, letting her eyes skate over the assembled lords, not taking in any faces. She counted each breath, forcing herself into a rhythm: one, two, one, two, one, two. Theon’s breathing was rough beside her. Sansa couldn’t help but clutch his hand a little tighter.

The crowd’s cheering sounded only like a distant roar. Robb ushered them up to the table, his eyes too bright and his demeanour too cheerful. He was only pretending to be pleased with the betrothal, Sansa knew that, but something about it made Sansa want to scream.

She didn’t know how either she or Theon made it through the meal. They barely looked up from the food in front of them. Sansa responded to Arya’s conversation mechanically, but if she was ever asked what it was about, for the life of her she wouldn’t be able to answer.

Sansa jumped as the music started. Too loud, too loud, she thought, hysteria eating at her spine. Why is it so loud?

Theon laid his hand over hers. “One dance,” he reminded her. His face was pale and clammy. Unable to swallow past lump in her throat, Sansa nodded and stood. Beside her, Robb was offering Arya his hand, and Arya took it, laughing – Robb must have made some kind of jape, Sansa thought distantly.

They arranged themselves on the dance floor. Sansa rested one hand in Theon’s and the other on his shoulder. “Look at me,” Theon reminded her.

“Only at you,” she promised, and with that, the music felt a little less claustrophobic. Her feet began to move with the sound, and she counted the beats out under her breath for Theon. He didn’t need them, not really – he’d been through all the same dancing lessons she had – but he started counting with her all the same.

“It’s Florian and Jonquil,” she realised after another moment.

“I can’t believe it took you so long to work out,” said Theon, his lips turning up ever so slightly.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this song,” she told him. For so long, there simply hadn’t been time for singing. He turned her in a spin in time with the music, and something in her eased. “Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool,” she sang quietly.

“I thought you would have had each and every song about Florian and Jonquil memorised until the end of days,” teased Theon.

She swayed in his arms, smiled and said, “Well, I’ve been past the end of days, and I still remember the words.”

The song wound down and the band promptly started a second, Brave Danny Flint. She hummed the first few bars, but the quick, fleeting joy she had just experienced had evaporated with the last strains of Six Maids in a Pool, replaced with a terrible foreboding.

“May I cut in?” asked a voice. Theon’s fingers went tight around her waist, and Sansa pressed closer to his side, trying to melt away from the intruder. She turned her head, already knowing who was there.

Ramsay Snow.

#sansa stark #arya stark #theonsa #theon greyjoy #got #fic

[quagmireisadora]

A/N: part 2 of  Patron of the (Lonely)

this is for @lokiat221b. I love my JongKey with time games. The fic was originally 4 parts set in different times. The first was modern au and this is Silla so... More to come!

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희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

The man had stayed by his side for many moons, an unerring protector against all threats. His fingers were quick to nock arrows, his aim was sure to meet its target.

When Lord Kibum was given the boon of a guard to accompany him on the journey west, he did not know what to expect. Or, in truth, he had some expectation: a broad man with a broad face, large arms and legs like trees. He had thought the queen would send her emissary forth to the silk route with much pomp and preparation. Yet, he had departed before the first rays of morning found their tracks on the hoof-beaten paths of Wiryeseong.

“Jonghyun,” he turned now to his companion: a short, quiet, mysterious young hwarang who moved like a bat in darkness. “Come, have a drink. Share a tale or two with me.” Lord Kibum patted the blanket next to him.

Together, they had traveled by horse, by carriage, by ship, and now by foot, to arrive in this desert. The mornings scorched their backs and the evenings froze their lips. Their feet were callused, their arms tired, their bodies bruised. The last of the yaks had disappeared some nights before, leaving the men to carry the weight of their belongings on their own shoulders. Food was scarce and shelter forgotten; the comfort of Silla was far behind them. No more would they see wagtails flutter over swaying zelkovas on a spring afternoon, no more would the sun gleam against the palace tiles as it set against the horizon of hills. Now sand crunched between their teeth, grated under their eyelids. Now the only sight of green was in their memories.

The rest of the platoon looked as bedraggled as Kibum felt, and he felt terrible. Yet there was Jonghyun, gait as smooth as it always was and eyes as calm as the Han river on winter mornings. He obeyed the offer and seated himself close to his charge.

“This journey tries you, my lord,” there was no malice in the hwarang’s words. They steamed concern out into the cold air.

“The queen has set us on this… quest,” Kibum replied with some pity for his circumstances. “And if we should lose our lives in pursuit of what the queen wants, then… so it shall be,” he nodded.

“A sentencing,” Jonghyun spoke the words as if questioning his own pronunciation of the words. “And…” his eyebrows knit together with worry. “Does my lord accept this sentence? Does he hold guilt?”

Kibum stared at the man with a rueful smile. He had been raised a lord by the graces of luck. Deemed pure of bloodline, he had been accepted by the academy. He had studied--studied the words of other men, studied paintings from other lands, studied with inks and brushes. He had spent a lifetime hidden between parchment and tablet so that the throne may feel less threatened by his existence. But it had certainly not been enough.

“Go west.” When he had heard the words, he had flinched at them. He remembered a moment of gratefulness swimming in his belly, for the words may easily have been, “Go to the gallows.” He reminisced as he sat close to a fire, fingers spread and fur wrapped securely around his shivering frame.

But he related nothing of it to Jonghyun.

“I have committed many wrongs that could mean punishment for me, and for my sons who would come after me,” Kibum said. “Perhaps… one of those sins is my birth.”

The hwarang showed sympathy, but remained silent. It was uncertain what he perceived of court politics, but his condolences were a welcome smear of warmth in the cold night. Kibum hoped the warmth would remain unchanged for the rest of the expedition, for it is often the road that breeds mistrust and discontent in the hearts of men: with its challenging length and its vengeful terrain. Regardless of his noble nature, and his kind ways, Jonghyun would surely become roughened, much like the sand they traversed. After all, he had been sentenced, too. Someone wanted him away from the barracks in Gyeongju. Someone had wished him out of their way, out of their schemes, and this would soon infect the man with doubt. It would spread through his loyalty, fell his kindness, murder his bravery. Lord Kibum knew this as he knew his own self--knew that he may only afford his companion as long as there is silver still hanging from his belt. When he loses the weight in his pouch, he will truly lose everything.

“Deoryeonim,” Jonghyun called attention to his voice, ringing like bells against the wind. “You are a good man.” Kibum touched his own cheek, wondering if his thoughts had appeared on his face as writing.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was common among the hwarangs. Despite living the life of nobility, Kibum had heard the poems. He knew of talk among the public that some of these men had sworn deep affection for one another, an affection that burned so bright it incinerated all custom and tradition. Indeed, Kibum had caught wind of words that serenaded to hands roughed by the hilt of a sword, to eyes that remained vigilant in their sleep, to bodies that toiled for the safety of the throne and its subjects. And despite it being considered unnatural by some, he held no disapproval for such a love. A love held by no bounds, in his eyes, was true love. A love colored crimson and coursing through one's blood with every intake of breath--to Kibum the bearer of such a love was to be envied. And Jonghyun's golden eyes held the promise of that love. His hands offered it freely, like a well offering limitless water.

To love a man, or to be loved by one: it was well-accepted among the hwarangs, but Lord Kibum was not to have the pleasure of accepting such a love. He was expected to take a wife, from a suitable family with means and displaying a modest nature. He was to father children that may someday be little lordlings that would be sent to academy, like their father before them. The stature that came with lordship required that all desires be disposed of, and life be lived by the heels of the queen's favor.

A hwarang may not tempt a lord, and a Kibum may not love a Jonghyun. But in the middle of this desert of silence, of solitude, the love surrounded them where they huddled by a dying fire. And like the glowing orange embers before him, Kibum restrained his voice from leaping between them to caress the other's face with tenderness.

He may never be in Kibum's arms, his lips may never kiss Kibum's name, his chest may never ring with Kibum's heartbeat, but in the light of lingering love, Jonghyun was beautiful.

When the sun rose the next morning, they were met by strangers riding odd creatures of humped backs. The strangers studied them as they offered food and water. Where some of the soldiers accepted wearily, the hwarang was as courteous as he would have been were they still in the queen’s court. He bowed, strolled back to Kibum’s side and shared his portion. “It is not poisoned, my lord,” he assured.

The other considered his empty belly before he refused with a smile. His protector needed it more than he did. “Feast,” he approved.

“They say there is a town some ri away to the west,” Jonghyun munched.

“Do you speak their tongue?” Kibum asked incredulously.

“There are ways for travelers to speak without words, my lord,” Jonghyun laughed. “They simply pointed me to their home, and they did not appear to have been traveling long.”

It was something to ponder on. Did Jonghyun’s ears discern every silent utterance around him? Did he deduce confessions on people’s foreheads before they were expelled by their lips? Did he answer questions in advance of their arrival, fully formed and coherent? As Kibum watched the other chew through bread and meat, humming his appreciation, he wondered if any of his own thoughts had spilled out in the open. He fretted over the idea that perhaps… perhaps Jonghyun had already walked through the gateway of his miserable field of rumination, scowling at the desert inside Kibum like he scowled at the one outside. He shuddered at the notion.

As they approached the town, there was a synchronous thud as every man undid his burdens and ran forward to bathe in the air of the marketplace. Fires burned in homes, children ran in circles, men yelled orders to other men, and women laughed in balconies of brick and stone. Clothes fluttered in the wind, wheels rolled across paving stones, animals complained about the heat, and somewhere--somewhere in the distance was the sound of flowing water.

“Home,” Lord Kibum muttered.

“Could it become a home away from home?” Jonghyun smiled. His shoulders were relaxed, and his hand no longer gripped the hilt of his sword. The shadow of vigilance had cleared from his eyes. They shone like honey in the sunlight. Only now, after all the distances they had crossed, did it seem like they were finally free of their titles. No more were they lord and servant, no longer did one stand beneath another. Only now, after all these moons, did they become equals.

“A worthy consideration,” Kibum smiled in return.

Above the starving peasants and greedy merchants, above the palace that demanded obeisance and the temple that forbade dissidence, above the fiefdoms and injustices and inequalities of blood; above the rivers and valleys and deserts, above all the parched fields of paddy and every sward of wild flowers--there is a hill. At the end of his life, Kibum wished he would meet Jonghyun again on that knoll, untouched by everything around it. Then they would truly be free.

희망이 있는 곳엔 반드시 시련이 있네

#sept challenge #jongkey #drabble #shinee

[myrkvidrs]

I continue to read in Elf Problem fandom, just not terribly fast--which pretty much describes the pace of Tolkien fandom in general. (EXCEPT LATELY, HOLY CRAP, THE FALL OF GONDOLIN IS GETTING A BOOK, THAT WAS JUST ANNOUNCED TODAY!!) But I still have a lot of feelings and there's still some absolutely gorgeous, utterly rewarding fic being written, so here HAVE SOME ELF PROBLEM FEELINGS.

TOLKIEN FIC RECS: ✦ Bridges by Bodkin, thranduil & legolas & ocs, valinor, 27.7k       Legolas and his wife's father just cannot get on. But elven life is long - and understanding will grow in time. If only they can learn to listen to each other... ✦ Boromir's Return by Osheen Nevoy, boromir & entire lotr cast & some ocs, 522k       Boromir awakens from his death and finds himself in an unexpected situation. ✦ The Dragon of Rohan by French Pony, faramir/eowyn & appearances of aragorn & gimli, 11.2k       Following the first real fight of their marriage, Faramir learns a little bit about Éowyn's past, which prompts a change in their relationship. ✦ Quenta Narquelion by bunn, feanor & maedhros & maglor & elrond & elros & feanorians & cast, 119.5k       Fëanor, dead, watches the First Age unfold and from time to time, joins in. Canon-compliant character death and a detailed account of the Eastern Front of the War of Wrath. ✦ In Courts of Living Stone by ncfan, maeglin/finduilas & eol/aredhel & melian & cast, 31.2k       Maeglin and Aredhel never flee Nan Elmoth for Gondolin. Twenty years later, Maeglin finds himself in Menegroth on a mission for his mother, seeking another road to freedom. But he is unprepared for what awaits him there. AU. ✦ Three by Geale, aragorn/legolas/arwen, nsfw, 7.3k       One is unbearable, Two is desirable, Three is completion. Legolas left Minas Tirith soon after the War to spare himself the pain but when duty calls him back, everything has changed. ✦ Tales from Vairë's Loom - Estel en-Aderiad by Fiondil, celeborn & galadriel & elrond & glorfindel & elladan & elrohir & legolas, 3.4k       A group of Elves journey to Mordor at the end of the Ring War to find closure and something else. ✦ Tales from Vairë's Loom - The Blue Wizards’ Dilemma by Fiondil, the blue wizards & ocs, 3.7k       They were sent to bring help to the tribes of Men who had rebelled from Melkor-worship in Middle-earth. They were doing well in their mission until a fateful invasion put an end to their plans. Now they had to come up with a new one. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "in sickness, in health" by Mira_Jade, beren/luthien, 1.6k (for this chapter)       It came upon her slowly, like a whisper of the wind before the rains came. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "who touches the pupil of my eye" by Mira_Jade, aule/yavanna & saruman & namo/vaire & thingol/melian & luthien & nerdanel, 1.5k (for this chapter)       Prompts: See, Hear, Touch, Sense, Smell ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "so there will be no forgetting" by Mira_Jade, bilbo & glorfindel & thorin, 3.2k       Magic, Gandalf had said when they entered the valley, but Bilbo Baggins was quite certain that the Grey Wizard was mistaken. For this had to be more than even that. ✦ Return to Aman by bunn, elrond & maglor & cast, 151.6k       A loosely associated series of stories about Elrond's return to Aman at the end of the Third Age. All these assume that Maglor son of Fëanor was one of the other unnamed Elves who accompanied Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf, Frodo and Bilbo on the ship when they left Middle-earth. ✦ Oropher, Thranduil, Legolas by KayleeArafinwiel, thranduil & legolas & cast, 1.1k       Snippets and bits about the journey of three scions of the House of Elmo, the burdens of lordship and kingship, and the joys of fatherhood and childhood. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "made for whispers" by Mira_Jade, celeborn/galadriel, 4.6k       There were times when the knowledge of just how far away from home she was caught her by surprise. full details + recs under the cut!

✦

Bridges by Bodkin

, thranduil & legolas & ocs, valinor, 27.7k

     Legolas and his wife's father just cannot get on. But elven life is long - and understanding will grow in time. If only they can learn to listen to each other...

      I never used to think too much about reading fic with a lot of OCs, but Tolkien fandom (at least the Thranduil & Legolas parts of it) almost kind of demand it, if you want to build something for them, and I'm at the point where I hardly even notice it anymore and instead just jump right in with those authors who are really good at building up the world around them, while not losing sight of the characters that I'm really here for. So, Thranduil and Legolas and their family in the Fourth Age in Aman? Where Legolas is hurt and trapped in a cave-in with his father-in-law who doesn't really like him and they have to find common ground and a better understanding of each other, while the rest of their family searches for them? Sign me up for that! And it was like sinking into this nice, warm bath to read, it was so easy and comfortable and warm and spot on for what I wanted, that there was some satisfying Legolas whump, there was Elves being Elves, there was just really good, lovely writing and fantastic characterization (they all felt 

spot on 

to me!) and it was incredibly engaging. It was the right length for the story being told, it did a great job of balancing all that it was trying to put in there, and was just a really, really good read that got me back into wanting to read about these characters again! ✦ Boromir's Return by Osheen Nevoy, boromir & entire lotr cast & some ocs, 522k       Boromir awakens from his death and finds himself in an unexpected situation.       I do not know where to begin with this rec, because I'm not sure how to encompass everything that this fic is! When I first picked it up, it sounded like it could either be great or it could be terrible--such an unassuming title and summary, using a first person narrative, the importance of an OC in the beginning, a truly impressive length at well over 500k. All of these seem like red flags being thrown up, if you've read much fic over the years. But I thought, well, I can just read the beginning, see how it goes, it's long enough that I can read quickly and not have to worry about savoring it. So, I started to read and was nearly instantly sucked in--and maybe it wasn't until a chapter or two later that I realize it, but this fic is masterful. Every choice the author makes in this fic is one that I support--the OCs are absolutely necessary, but even more than that are wonderful, I came to care about Boromir's new friend just as much as any canon character, he was beautifully written and the friendship between them tugged at my heart something fierce. The first person narrative is actually a great choice because it allows for getting into Boromir's head in a way that a third person fic would not, it allows the fic to show so much more of his character than could have otherwise been achieved. And, holy shit, the length was pitch perfect. This fic never flagged, it never felt overly drawn out, every scene was a joy to read, everything contributed to the greater whole, the pacing was fantastic so that I kept wanting to read what was coming next, no climax felt like an ending or the aftermath a let-down. Instead, I can scarcely look back to the beginning and see how far these characters and this story came without it feeling like I started the fic another lifetime ago, in the absolute intended way that I should feel looking back on this fic.        It covers so much of the events of LOTR, but from the point of view of Boromir in Gondor, unable to return to help the rest of the Fellowship, to give new events that found the perfect balance of what happened in canon versus how things would change in this AU. The events themselves were true to the spirit of the story and the narrative, I 100% believed this fic every step of the way--and the author showed their work, making every step clear how things happened and unfolded and made it so interesting along the way. The blend of action versus the moments between the fighting, the rebuilding of Gondor and Boromir's life, all of it was incredible.        But, oh. The best thing about this fic. The characterization was magnificent, every single step was brilliant for every single character. Boromir himself is breathlessly perfect, but also the characters around him shine with such fascinating presence, from the Hobbits to the other Men to the rest of the Fellowship, everyone is seen through Boromir's eyes, how he feels about them, but also you understand that he comes with his own biases. It was incredible to read every single scene with Aragorn, how human he is in this story without making him anything less than the incredible figure of the books. It was fucking awe-inspiring how well Denethor was written, how complicated and difficult and charismatic he could be, how Boromir saw all his faults, how he was not an easy man to be around, but you also saw his strength and his motivations and what drew people to him. I never doubted why Boromir or Pippin or the rest of Gondor loved him so much.        I've been reading this fic over the past two months and it's been my comfort place, the fic I pick up when I just want to read something that totally engrosses me, the fic that just made me happy to read, even when things were difficult for the characters. I could have easily read another 500k or more of this fic, I feel a little bereft now that it's gone from my life, and it still stuns me how well used everything is, how everything is so incredibly true to the canon, and everyone is so layered and individual and fascinating. It might seem daunting or not that interesting, but it's truly one of the best fics I've read in any fandom, not just this one, and the length doesn't matter because time seemed to lose all meaning while I was reading, it just slipped by me as I was engrossed in the world this author created. Everything is done to perfection and I honestly am sad that I have no more of this author's work to read. ✦ The Dragon of Rohan by French Pony, faramir/eowyn & appearances of aragorn & gimli, 11.2k       Following the first real fight of their marriage, Faramir learns a little bit about Éowyn's past, which prompts a change in their relationship.       I enjoyed this story so very much, both for the building of Faramir and Eowyn's relationship as well as the glimpses into her past, why she feels so strongly about a certain element in her home. I love how their relationship is portrayed here, it's not perfect, but it's so good , they're still somewhat getting to know each other, but they manage to work things out and make everything even better between them, and I'm just delighted by the sense of a beginning here, how they're building their home and their marriage and their life together. The addition of Aragorn and Gimli in their respective scenes was further a delight and it made the whole thing just an absolute joy to read. ✦ Quenta Narquelion by bunn, feanor & maedhros & maglor & elrond & elros & feanorians & cast, 119.5k       Fëanor, dead, watches the First Age unfold and from time to time, joins in. Canon-compliant character death and a detailed account of the Eastern Front of the War of Wrath.       Rec #1: When I first picked up this fic, I wasn't really sure what I was going to get or where it would be going, with Feanor's spirit refusing the call to Mandos and how that would affect things and what it would all mean. What I got was a bit of an exploration of what it meant to be a bodiless spirit in Middle-Earth, but then more and more an exploration and expansion of the storyline of The Silmarillion from that point on. It's gorgeously written and pulled me in hard, it gives such detail and depth to the storyline and the events that happen, especially once the attack on the Havens happens. It's also an exploration of what the Oath does to the sons of Feanor, how they do/don't react to it, how it drives and directs them--in a way that's woven around all the other plot stuff that's happening. This is fascinating all the more because Feanor himself is watching as a spirit, one who cannot really speak with the living without danger (as the living and the dead should not speak to each other) and this gives him the breathing room to step back from his anger and really see how his actions have created this tidal wave of effects. It's beautifully done for how it doesn't excuse Feanor or his sons or their followers, it doesn't try to make villains out of the people they attacked, but still makes you understand why they do what they do and have such deep sympathy for them. You understand why Elrond and Elros love them so much. You understand why the Dwarves are such longtime friends of them. You understand why many Men are longtime friends of their as well.       This is also in a fic where there's such thought put into the magic and arts of the world, the music and spirits that linger and the words of power and how they're tied to the fate of the World and what it means to be Elves. It's a fic that has so many moments from The Silmarilion given life , like what it's like to be in that part of the world when the Valar themselves finally come to fight Morgoth and the devastation it leaves in their wake, what it's like to spend that many years fighting and fighting and constantly having to struggle to get up when you have no hope left, all of it wrapped up in really beautiful, thoughtful characterization. I wasn't sure I'd like another fic (at least not for a long while) after Return to Aman hit so many of the buttons I wanted, but this one just knocked me over and wouldn't let me get up until I'd read my way through all of what was available (and I'm recommending this now because it's regularly updated, so even as a wip, the rec will stand!) and it's one of those that makes this fandom satisfying to be in!       Rec #2: I wasn't sure what to expect when I first picked this fic up--Feanor as a spirit watching over the events to come? And what I got was one of the most satisfying pieces I've read in awhile, that it starts as a Feanor piece, but it's also just as much (and sometimes moreso) a story about giving detail and breathing life into the story of the First Age, the story of the Feanorians. It's got gorgeous worldbuilding (the use of songs and various abilities, the power in words and voice, the touching of minds, the ability to call on things, all of it is blended together with the story in a way that utterly made sense to me, it felt like Elves, especially ones from the First Age) and it's gorgeous characterization and it's gorgeous canon gap filler. It's a story that takes the frame of canon, then builds and builds on it, so that it's this really coherent narrative, both in terms of the worldbuilding and in the characters--you get why the Feanorians do what they do, your heart breaks for them as they slide more and more into evil, because they aren't evil, but they have done so many evil things that they are inseparable from it. It doesn't dismiss the terrible things they've done, it doesn't deny that they truly did evil, but also it shows why they're so beloved, why Elrond and Elros love them, why their story is worth telling. On a narrative level, it's kind to both sides and that gives the story such depth and brilliance that a flatter reading of it (one side or the other being entirely ~bad~) would never have reached.       I enjoyed the story for the structure of it, the building up of various abilities (the Elves' magical powers just fit so well into the world that I could easily take it all for canon) or the Dwarves or various other Elves (besides the Feanorians or the Peredhil), all of that is gorgeously done. But the moment I will always remember most came in the second to last or last chapter, with Feanor watching over Maedhros and Maglor at the end of all of this, that got me. It got me so hard that I sat there in public, with tears welling up in my eyes, because I was affected by these characters and their journey, the way they were written. It's a beautiful piece for the Feanorians, you can feel the affection for them as characters without losing what makes their story tragic, that they have become evil through the sheer scope of the things they've done, and yet I want so, so badly to save them, because I fell in love with them over the course of the story all over again. And it's not just me being a fan of the characters, it's truly that the writing is gorgeous, that everything the fic sets out to do, it achieves, and I wish I could articulate it better, how much I loved reading this, how good it was, how well it did everything, because it really helped me through some tough times when I needed it, just by being so good. ✦ In Courts of Living Stone by ncfan, maeglin/finduilas & eol/aredhel & melian & cast, 31.2k       Maeglin and Aredhel never flee Nan Elmoth for Gondolin. Twenty years later, Maeglin finds himself in Menegroth on a mission for his mother, seeking another road to freedom. But he is unprepared for what awaits him there. AU.       I did not know how much I needed this AU fic until I read it and had such trouble putting it down! Maeglin accompanies his father to Menegroth, a letter from his mother hidden on him to ask for help, and there he meets Finduilas and tries to find the best way to speak to Galadriel and pass her the letter without his father noticing. There's such thought and care given to the worldbuilding of Menegroth and the Elves here, what that place must have been like, what it's like for the Elves living there, what it was like for Maeglin and his limited experience. It's such a great piece for his character, it really does such a fantastic job with this poor kid who has been hidden away and is so inexperienced and so ground down, but still desperately wants to do something , even amongst his fear. It's a really lovely look at how things could have gone better for him if he'd met someone more suited to him, the dynamic with Finduilas just sparkles here, it was a relationship that I absolutely fell in love with and it had such a natural grace.       But also Menegroth as a whole! The little details of how it affected Maeglin, the stars on the ceiling, the pulsing feeling of everything, the way Melian was so otherworldly, like she was there and yet not, the way she felt alien and such a heavy pressure to her. She's like Menegroth here--there's something genuinely terrifying about her, yet also beautiful and wonderful. The way such life was breathed into Finduilas as a character, she had such a vibrancy about her that you could believe everything here was plucked straight out of canon! It's a fic that achieves everything it set out to do and, sure, I'd loved another 30k for a sequel fic, but also I was satisfied with what was here--it was fascinating and a beautiful piece to read. ✦ Three by Geale, aragorn/legolas/arwen, nsfw, 7.3k       One is unbearable, Two is desirable, Three is completion. Legolas left Minas Tirith soon after the War to spare himself the pain but when duty calls him back, everything has changed.       Every time I read Aragorn/Legolas/Arwen fic it just further cements that I really do love this trio more than any single pairing and this fic just fed further into that. It's wonderfully balanced, especially the way it starts as more Aragorn/Arwen + Aragorn/Legolas, but eventually does become a trio, because, you know, Elves. It's a blend of angst and happiness, it's aching to read at first, but such love comes through that I felt entirely warm after reading it. There's a brief bit of sex that's lovely and hot, too, but it's mostly that I believed this scenario for them that really got me. ♥ ✦ Tales from Vairë's Loom - Estel en-Aderiad by Fiondil, celeborn & galadriel & elrond & glorfindel & elladan & elrohir & legolas, 3.4k       A group of Elves journey to Mordor at the end of the Ring War to find closure and something else.       This wound up being one of my favorites in this fic collection, where a group of Elves journey to Mordor to see for themselves the land of their fallen foe. Once again, the balance between all that's been lost, the heart of things, and the hope found amongst the rocks and hard ground, is wonderfully done. The moments each character gets to think on what (and who) they've lost, the aches they still carry with them, but that eventually they pull through to a lightness of heart again, it's very Elven and had me eating this fic up like candy. It's nicely done as a group piece (which is not always easy!) and as an aftermath piece. ✦ Tales from Vairë's Loom - The Blue Wizards’ Dilemma by Fiondil, the blue wizards & ocs, 3.7k       They were sent to bring help to the tribes of Men who had rebelled from Melkor-worship in Middle-earth. They were doing well in their mission until a fateful invasion put an end to their plans. Now they had to come up with a new one.       Given how little we know of the Blue Wizards, it could be difficult to come up with an interesting story to tell about them, but given how much I've enjoyed the other fics in this collection, I was perfectly willing to give this one a shot as well. And it is interesting to see what the author did with the scraps of information we have, how much was built up in such a short time, how the focus on these singular moments in the middle of greater plot machinations tell so much and how humanized these characters (both the actual humans and the wizards both) were. Even going in knowing very little, I felt like all of this absolutely made sense to me and that's a great achievement. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "in sickness, in health" by Mira_Jade, beren/luthien, 1.6k (for this chapter)       It came upon her slowly, like a whisper of the wind before the rains came.       This was a really lovely and sweet moment with Beren and Luthien, how she gets sick for the first time after becoming mortal and how it's kind of quietly terrifying, but she embraces it in the way she always does, as well as Beren is just so kind and charming here, you can absolutely see why Luthien loves him so very much, why this life with him is so very worth living. It's a sparkling, warm-hearted piece that really captured one of those quiet moments that shows just how much deep and true love there is here. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "who touches the pupil of my eye" by Mira_Jade, aule/yavanna & saruman & namo/vaire & thingol/melian & luthien & nerdanel, 1.5k (for this chapter)       Prompts: See, Hear, Touch, Sense, Smell       This is a series of shorter ficlets connected through a themed prompt set as well as a sense of loss and difficulty, how each of these characters deal with such things. Aule's loss of Mairon, a favored pupil, Namo trying to understand the process of death in the early days, Nerdanel mourning her losses, and so on. It's a lovely set and adds these little touches of something you can really empathize with when it comes to all these characters. ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "so there will be no forgetting" by Mira_Jade, bilbo & glorfindel & thorin, 3.2k       Magic, Gandalf had said when they entered the valley, but Bilbo Baggins was quite certain that the Grey Wizard was mistaken. For this had to be more than even that.       One of the most frustrating parts of Peter Jackson's movies is what they've done to the Elves, especially the Hobbit movies, even having set them from the Dwarves' point of view. This is a lovely look at Bilbo learning a bit more about the swords they carry from one who is very familiar with them and then another lovely look at Bilbo telling Elven tales, showing the depth of them to some who would like to deny it. It was a nicely cathartic read for me, as a fan of these characters and this history, but it's also a really great look at giving depth to the time Thorin's company spent in Rivendell, fitting between the scenes of the movie very nicely! ✦ Return to Aman by bunn, elrond & maglor & cast, 151.6k       A loosely associated series of stories about Elrond's return to Aman at the end of the Third Age. All these assume that Maglor son of Fëanor was one of the other unnamed Elves who accompanied Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf, Frodo and Bilbo on the ship when they left Middle-earth.       I don't even know where I'm going to begin with this! I read this entire series over the course of about a week, the only thing that kept me from devouring it all at once is that I didn't want to run out of it too quickly--and, yet, here I am all caught up and desperately wishing I had another 80k+ to read through right now. It's a collection of stories about Elrond and Maglor journeying to Aman in the Fourth Age, about healing and humor and what comes next for the Elves, now that their time in Middle-Earth has ended and they have to actually deal with seeing a son of Feanor again, that Maglor has to deal with the Oath and what he's done and his sorrow over it. I'm interested in these things just for themselves, of course, but this fic series has been absolutely incredible at giving such sharp personality to everyone, that Finrod has such an incredible sense of humor and rolls with a joke, that Nerdanel has such common sense, that Elrond may be younger than most of the Elves here but he's Seen Some Shit as well as he has an incredible way with building bridges between people, that Bilbo and Frodo are such Hobbits and genuinely feel different from the Elves, that Nimloth has to be experienced rather than described, that Celebrian seems so delicate and yet has such strength to her, all of it is incredibly sharp and brilliant. I came to this fic for the concept and the lore, but wound up staying even more for the sheer gorgeous characterization and deftness at which this really feels like these characters' thoughts, feelings, and actions.       Which isn't to say that the lore isn't incredibly well done, too! The story feels just a little bit formal in the way the Elves speak to each other, there's just a touch of poetry in their words and actions, but in a way that's incredibly smooth and engaging to read! And the bits of worldbuilding, the way they see into each others' minds or the way their power works, that Maglor knows he could use his harp and voice as a weapon possibly even more deadly than his sword, that the Oath is a burning thing in the minds of Feanor's sons, that the time in the Halls of Mandos is not so easily described. All of this add such richness to the story being told, all of this is why I'm fascinated by the Elves! And I wish I could write a better rec for this series, I wish I could write a rec for each of the (at current) eleven stories, because they deserve it, because they utterly enraptured me and satisfied me on an emotional level. It's a story about forgivenes and where that line is, that Maglor has regretted so many things, that they weren't just monsters, they were thinking and feeling creatures as well. That he has to live with the fury that's aflame around so many Elves that he hurt, but also that he struggles with pride and his own wounds, the loss of family.       It's a story that makes the Feanorians sympathetic again, that doesn't excuse what they've done, but that holding onto grudges never heals anything. I'm incredibly on the side of the people that they hurt, but this fic got me feeling things for the Feanorians all over again, especially because it's so very clear that Maglor loves dearly and hates what happened, that it destroyed him in a way he'll likely never recover from, especially not with the strength of Elven memory. But it's still a road worth walking, coming back to life and healing. And, oh, even the one conversation between Nerdanel and Feanor here had me practically rolling over in my bed to clutch my reader to my chest for the sheer amount of feeling it gave me. It's a fic that's so beautifully written all the way through, that has such care put into it and different perspectives considered and finely written dialogue that it really, really earns the slow burn redemption that it's going for. It's an incredible story that I'm so glad I'm getting to read. ✦ Oropher, Thranduil, Legolas by KayleeArafinwiel, thranduil & legolas & cast, 1.1k       Snippets and bits about the journey of three scions of the House of Elmo, the burdens of lordship and kingship, and the joys of fatherhood and childhood.             These were very short snippets of fic that were lovely to read and I picked them up because I, too, headcanon that Oropher was from Elmo's line, though, I don't think you really have to be that familiar with The Silmarillion to enjoy this! They're shorter fics and really cute scenes, very much about the care and feeling between the Elves, just little details to fill in the world and connections between them all. It was a lovely read today! ✦ This Taste of Shadow - "made for whispers" by Mira_Jade, celeborn/galadriel, 4.6k        There were times when the knowledge of just how far away from home she was caught her by surprise.        I have definitely been on a Celeborn/Galadriel kick lately, especially takes on their early courtship days and how the reveal of the Kin-Slaying events and the tension between the Noldor and the Sindar would have affected this relationship. It's a look at such a strong character like Galadriel, who has her pride and her sorrow both, that she feels stained and cursed, that in a way she truly is, and doesn't want to spread that to this Elf she is coming to love, but also will not settle for crumbling under the weight of what she bears. The way she moves from Artanis and Nerwen to Galadriel, the way she is proud and unbreakable, the way she grieves for what they've all been through, all of it is so Galadriel. And the way these two interact with each other, the sharp connection between them, the pull that neither of them could possibly deny, the strength and elegance and grace of both of them, the sheer might of both their presences in a room, all of it is very, very nicely done and suits them so well. I can easily see this as how things might have gone!

#thranduil #legolas #galadriel #feanor #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros #celeborn #boromir #fic recs