#(i know its supposed to be him carrying her but nothing brings me greater joy than her carrying him)

[wienerbarnes]

Feel Good

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,817

Warnings: lots o drinking (its new years!), mentions to being nervous/self-doubt, drunk sam wilson, perhaps some smooching idk guess u gotta read it man

A/N: ngl I have like 4 cheek to cheek one shots that I wrote yesterday instead of working on school work or art commissions so lets enjoy this before that motivation spark dies okay enjoy my two fav ppl ever

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Agent 51, stay behind, please.”

You meet Sam’s eye, confused for two reasons - this was supposed to be a quick debriefing after a mission, and he’s never called you out specifically before. You give him a nod and obligatory Yes, Captain before making eyes with Sharon, who gives you a quick smile before exiting the room with the other agents. That doesn’t give you anything. Is there already another mission? But if there was another mission, wouldn’t Sharon have stayed? Wouldn’t Bucky be here? Does it involve Bucky? Does-

“I want you to start training with the other recruits when they begin next week.” Sam informs you once the door closes behind the last person.

Oh.

This Friday is New Year’s Eve, meaning Monday begins the seven-week training led by Sergeant Barnes for wannabe Avengers Agents, before whoever remains continues on to undercover and psychological training with Sharon and other legendary retired agents of the field.

“Are you... sure?” You didn’t think there was a problem with the training you were currently doing with Sam, in fact, you thought you were doing pretty good for someone who hasn't followed a strict workout regimen in ten years. This would be the first time being around so many people with a greater chance of interacting. All of the meetings you go to have made you a little more comfortable with larger crowds, but you haven’t actually spoken to anyone.

“You know your file well?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, I’m sure.”

“I want you to continue your training with me on the weekends, though.” Sam adds.

Working out seven days a week? I might’ve considered prison if I knew this was a part of the deal.

“Won’t all of that all the time be hard?” You offer, suddenly scared for your biceps and hamstrings.

“Are you asking me if training to become a team member of the Avengers is hard?” Sam gives you a pointed look.

“...Right.” You stand, assuming that was all he had to tell you about.

“Also, there’s a little party Friday night. Nothing crazy, just me, Sharon, Bucky, Sharon and I are bringing some dates, maybe a few agents, but they usually go out and party. They don’t want to hang out with us more than they already have to around here.” He mentions as you reach the door.

Your hand pauses on the knob. A party. What if they pull some Carrie shit on you?

“A party?” You ask, eyebrows failing to conceal your silent fears as they tilt upward at him.

“I promise, it won’t be anything insane. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I didn’t think it was something you could handle.” He reassures.

Friday comes sooner than you’d hoped, and your anxiety still lingers, as much as you’d hoped it’d go away by now. You glance at the time, 8:00 in the evening. This was the time Sam told you everything would more or less be starting, but that you could go whenever you wanted, if you wanted.

You’ve actually been ready for about an hour, just too scared to go to the common area where everything was taking place.

You feel like you’re a teenager again; being invited to an event where you feel as though you won’t belong. An event where you know that everyone is so drastically different than you. You wonder how you would feel if you were different; if you weren’t so fucked up with trauma. Would you be a party person? Drinking and dancing through your twenties? Hooking up with men and women, maybe even having relationships?

You’re dressed in a short lilac romper, layers of silky ruffles around the tops of your thighs, and thin straps across your shoulders that cross against your back. The neckline is a tad low, a complimenting V that you’ve filled with layers of necklaces. Nude platforms put you about two inches taller without the fear of a heel, and you’re nervously picking at your recently painted green fingernails in anticipation for what the night will bring.

It’s not too late to not go. You can just tell Sam you ended up not feeling well, tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. not to let anyone bother you. Just take all these clothes off and put on your pajamas, and we can pretend you haven’t been thinking about this night for the last three days and spent all day thinking about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to act, reviewing your file just in case anyone asks you anything - we can just pretend you were going to be staying in the whole time.

You stand to begin slipping the straps from your shoulders, mind made up, when a knock sounds at the door.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., who is that?” You whisper out.

“It’s Sergeant Barnes, Agent.” The A.I. relays in an equally hushed voice.

You sigh and walk over to the door before opening it a few inches.

“Hey! You look so cute! Party’s getting started, let's go!” He steps back out to the hallway, an excited smile on his face which drops when he focuses more on the frown that decorates your own face.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, immediately stepping back towards you.

“... I’m nervous.” You all but whimper out. Why do you have to be such a baby?

“Why are you nervous?” Bucky asks, his voice calm as he genuinely wants to know what’s troubling you, not an accusatory tone found in his voice.

“Because there’s going to be a lot of people, and I don’t know anyone, and I’ve never been to these kinds of parties, or at least I haven’t in, like, a decade.” You ramble, exasperated with yourself.

“Would it make you feel better if I stayed with you the whole night? Either here or down at the party?” He offers, ready to give up one of his favorite nights for you.

“Bucky, I’m not going to make you -”

“You’re not making me, I’m offering. Besides, Sam’s all over the girl he brought and Sharon’s halfway drunk with her little boyfriend; they’re not going to be much fun for me tonight.” Bucky justifies, sounding like the eldest of three having to deal with their younger siblings.

“C’mon, you’re really gonna waste a dress like that? And your hair looks all nice! And - wait a minute, are those new earrings?” Bucky butters you, showering you with compliments in a sweet tone, metal hand reaching out to touch at the earrings hanging from your ears, the small tink sounding right in your ear.

A girlish giggle escapes you at his teasing. “Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me. But you promise you don’t mind staying with me all night?”

“I promise, there’s no one else I’d rather spend the night with.”

The common area isn’t how you expected it to be; there’s definitely more people than Sam promised there’d be, but it’s not the thousands of strangers you’d imagined in your head.

“Let’s get a drink,” Bucky’s deep voice speaks in your ear, and you’re not sure if it's his voice that makes you shiver or his warm hand in yours, but the two of you make your way to the bar.

“What do you drink?” He asks you, after ordering the name of some drink for himself.

“Uhm - I don’t, I don’t know.” You mutter to him. He scans your face for a second before rattling off the name of some other drink to the person behind the bar.

You never really drank; sure, you had the shitty beer as a teenager or perhaps a celebratory shot during your time in the Navy, but nothing you remember explicitly. You weren’t even old enough to drink in the Navy, you had turned twenty-one when you were already with HYDRA.

“Are you excited?” Bucky interrupts your thoughts of lost childhood.

“Excited?”

“For the New Year!” Bucky exclaims, and you give him a smile even if you don't understand the hoop-lah.

“Sure?” You offer.

“C’mon! There’s so much opportunity and promise that comes with a new year! A million chances to grow, to experience things, to learn, to have fun. A new chapter for everyone.” He explains.

You smile at his positivity. A new year should be good for you based on his logic. A new chapter. You’d be starting your training. Getting ahead as an agent. Using your powers to help for good. Maybe making friends. Maybe getting closer to Bucky.

The drinks arrive and you appreciate that Bucky knows you so well; the drink in front of you is bright pink, different fruits crowded around the rim with a curly straw sticking out. His is a deeper brown, in a short, crystal glass, figures. Matches his whole dark and emo aesthetic. He stands before you in black jeans and a black buttoned shirt, black leather jacket to sit on top.

You take a sip of your drink and immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from spitting it out. Am I that much of a lightweight or is there actual gasoline in this?

“Sorry, maybe I should’ve warned you, babe,” Bucky chuckles, amused at your reaction to a mixed drink. “I think there’s, like, four different things in that.” He wants to cringe for you, but all he can do is look at you with a cheeky smile while you struggle to swallow the sip down.

“Christ, Bucky, I’ll blackout by ten at this rate, are all of the drinks like this?”

“Honestly? Probably. Everyone loves getting drunk on New Year’s.”

…

The night is not nearly as bad as you were thinking it was going to be. The room is lit up in different colored lights and screens; all of the TV’s display the annual countdown in Times Square but are muted so that music can be played the whole night. People are dancing, drinking, laughing, having the most fun you’ve seen people have in a long time. It’s 11:51 now, and everyone’s gathering closer and closer in anticipation for the countdown into the new year.

You and Bucky are gathered together with Sam and Sharon, and their respective dates. You don’t think you’ll let Sam live down how drunk he is; you never thought you’d feel so much joy seeing your Captain slurring his words while making jokes and telling stories.

Sharon leans over to you and whispers, a gentle hand on your arm, “Can you come to the bathroom with me?” A small giggle escaping her because she, too, is equally drunk. You give her a nod and hand your drink to Bucky to watch over while you’re gone.

The bathroom makes your ears buzz with the silence you encounter and Sharon walks over to the mirror to retouch her makeup.

“I just needed a little breather, have you tried the drinks at the bar?” She asks, and you laugh knowing that that’s the reason she, and everyone else at the party, is wasted.

“Yeah, Bucky proceeded to warn me after I had started drinking.” Laughs are shared as she reapplies her lipstick, a bright red shade.

“Do you know who you’re gonna kiss tonight?” She asks, smirk playing on her lips.

Shit, I forgot about that. How awkward would it be if you’re the only one not having a partner to kiss at midnight? Don’t worry, plenty of lame, single, psychotic basket cases that hear voices don’t kiss people on New Year’s Eve!

“Oh, uhm, I probably won’t be kissing anybody.” You inform her with a nervous laugh.

“I think you should kiss Bucky.” She states matter-of-factly.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, why not? He’s not here with a date and he surely won’t kiss a stranger. I think last year Sam ended up planting one on him at midnight.” She laughs, a few hiccups interrupting her as she remembers that night.

As much as you want to join her in laughing at the thought of Sam drunkenly grabbing Bucky cheeks at midnight and smooching him, a pit opens up in your stomach at the thought of kissing Bucky.

“C’mon, T-minus five minutes.” Sharon tells you, interlocking her fingers with yours as she drags you back out to the common room.

The two of you rejoin the group and Bucky hands you your drink back, though you don’t feel much like drinking anymore, stomach suddenly knotted up with nerves. You’re torn because you don’t necessarily have a problem not kissing anybody, but now all you can think about is the urge to press your lips against Bucky’s, new year or not.

A husky voice whispers in your ear, “You okay? You look a little pale, you wanna head up to your room?” Bucky looks at you with concerned eyes, willing to go up to your room two minutes before midnight to ensure your comfort and wellbeing.

“I’m… I’m fine.” You reassure him, giving him the most unconvincing smile ever, even you wouldn’t believe you. He silently pulls you away from the group and pulls you into a hallway.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

His pet names are, for once, not helping right now.

You take a large gulp of your drink, stinging a bit, but hopefully it’ll give you some courage and relax you a bit. Bucky chuckles and gently takes the glass from your hand, “Hey,”

“I’m fine, just have some jitters, is all.” You try and convince.

You take the drink back and grab his hand with your open one and take him back out to the open area, a sixty second countdown already starting.

You quickly down the rest of your drink and discard it on a nearby table as the entire room begins chanting. Sam is the loudest, one arm wrapped around the waist of his date and the other wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky’s smiling at his enthusiasm, yelling the numbers just as loud as he wraps an arm around your shoulders to bring you in closer to the group. Sharon is on the other side of you, but her focus is on her date as they look into each other’s eyes, just waiting for the clock to strike twelve so they can share a kiss.

The ball drops on the TV and the room erupts in cheers and “Happy New Year!”’s. Sam unhooks himself from Bucky and turns to grab his date's face as they share a laugh-filled kiss. You glance at Sharon and you suspect her and her date began sharing kisses a few seconds early. Bucky’s arm is still wrapped around your shoulders and he tugs you closer so you’re face to face.

His grin is wide, “Happy New Year -”

His excitement is interrupted as your courage finally kicks in, and with a hand on either side of his face, you pull him in and press your lips to his.

It takes him less than two seconds to reciprocate, dropping his hands to your waist and pulling you closer as your hands slide from his cheeks to his neck, wrapping themselves around.

There’s no more anxiety. No more nerves. No more doubts or second-thoughts. No more voices, no more people in the room, no more music; it’s just you and Bucky in that moment.

His lips are soft and sweet, a strong taste of the drinks he’s had tonight with a mix of sweetness that’s all him. He smells like man and like Bucky and your senses are overwhelmed in the best way possible. Tingles travel down your spine at the feeling of being so close to him.

You’re so, so, so good. Sure, Bucky’s imagined kissing you, but he never thought it’d feel like this. You’re sweet like cherries and you’re soft all over and your perfume is flooding his nose and it’s all he wants to breathe for the rest of time. Your skin sends sparks of fire through his fingertips as they rest on your bare back and slide down to your silk-covered waist.

You pull away and Bucky sneaks a few extra pecks before pulling away completely, not removing his eyes from yours.

“Happy New Year.” He wishes you with a love-sick smile.

“Happy New -”

“Happy New Year, Tinman!” Sam yelps in both of your ears, arms wrapping around Bucky and disconnecting him from you, but you can’t help but laugh at Sam trying to plant a kiss on Bucky’s cheek while he attempts to wrestle him off.

You feel electricity all over watching him, butterflies not only in your stomach, but all over your body, in every organ, in your bloodstream, in your head, everywhere. But as much as you feel as though you’ve been struck by lightning, you feel good; you feel really good.

A few months ago, you wouldn't have imagined that this is how you were going to be starting the new year. But here you are, and you feel good.

#bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes one shot #Bucky Barnes fan fiction #marvel #marvel fan fiction #he he kissy kissy #you know those tik toks of people kissing their best friends with electric love playing in the background #that was reader and bucky #so ~magical~

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Field of Poppies Part 24

Summary: After being apart for six years, childhood friends Tommy and Amelia reunite under odd circumstances. Tommy is an outspoken young man and Amelia is pregnant and out on the streets. The bond of family can be unbreakable but it is tested often. Especially when Europe descends into war.

Part 24: Tommy and the others try to settle in, but there’s unrest. 

            Seeing Tommy sitting at the table during breakfast the next morning made Amelia’s heart skip a beat. Especially since he was sitting between Max and Annie. Both were chattering on about things they could do together now that he was home.

            “You can come down to see me ride. Uncle Charlie says that I’m as good as a horse rider as you were when you were my age!” Max said proudly.

            “That right?” Tommy chuckled.

            “Mummy says I’m too little to ride.” Annie pouted.

            “Oh, nonsense. No Shelby is too little to ride.” He shook his head.

            “I heard that.” Amelia glanced over her shoulder as she finished cleaning up the kitchen after making them breakfast.

            The three at the table shared a smile. “Well, we’ll go down to the Yard this weekend,” Tommy promised.

            “Okay!” Max looked thrilled.

            “But for now, you two are going to go over to see your Auntie Martha and Uncle John after breakfast,” Amelia said. “Daddy and I are going to go to church.”

            “Church is boring,” Max mumbled, not about to ask to go with them. But he seemed uneasy to know that Tommy would be away from him even if just down the street.

            “Then will daddy come back?” Annie asked.

            “Of course,” Tommy answered. “We’re going to come back to make lunch then we’ll go to the park.”

            “So, go wash up,” Amelia said once Annie cleared her plate. “Get teddy if you want to bring him to your aunt’s.”

            “Okay!” Annie popped up from the table and rushed upstairs. Max picked at the rest of his food.

            “What’s wrong, love?” Amelia stroked his hair back.

            “Just thinking ‘bout something.”

            “What are you thinking about?” Tommy wondered.

            “We went to London when you were gone,” Max said. “Annie was little. Really little.”

            “Oh yeah? That must’ve been fun. Where did you go?”

            “To the park.”

            “That’s right.” Amelia nodded. She was surprised that he remembered that day. But she supposed it was a big change from being in Small Heath all the time.

            “There was a lady there that mummy was mad at.”

            Tommy looked up to his wife who frowned. “Oh…” He figured it was something she didn’t want to talk about in front of their son. “Well, are you done?” He pointed to the plate in front of Max.

            “Yeah.” He nodded.

            “Okay, go get ready to go over to your aunt’s.” Amelia cleared the table.

            After Max was heading upstairs, Tommy glanced over to her at the sink. “What happened?”

            “When we went to Hyde Park, we ran into my mother.” She admitted quietly. “It wasn’t pretty.”

            After all they’d gone through, Tommy hadn’t given much thought to Amelia’s family or past in London. They had done enough harm to her that he was willing to write them off. He didn’t want them to hurt her anymore and that meant keeping even their names out of their lives.

            “Did you talk to her?”

            “Of course, I-I didn’t know what else to do.” She sighed. “She tried to claim Annie and Max as her grandchildren and she threatened to tell…” Even after all those years she couldn’t speak his name. The man who had assaulted her. The man her parents chose to believe over her.

            Tommy’s eyes froze over. He looked calm on the outside, but Amelia knew him well enough to see a storm was brewing in him. It began to spill over when he finally spoke. “If that man ever comes near Max-”

            “I know.” She walked over to him and sat beside him in Max’s empty chair. She gently took his face in her hands, still in disbelief that she could hold him again. “I’m just glad you’re home. I feel much safer.”

            “It puts me at ease too.” He agreed, his anger simmering down beneath her touch. “Felt helpless over there knowing something could happen to you and I couldn’t be there to stop it.”

            “Let’s just enjoy our time together again.” She suggested gently. They could get hung up on the past years but what mattered was they were back together.

~~~~~~~~~`           

            After attending church service with Amelia and Polly, Tommy returned to the betting shop. He promised Amelia that he wouldn’t work, he would just step in for a bit while she made lunch. Arthur was already back in one of the offices while John was back at the blackboard jotting down odds. It was almost as if they hadn’t left at all.

            “How’d Polly leave it then?” Tommy asked as he stepped into the office.

            “How’d you think? She’s smarter than any of us. You can look over the books but don’t think any one of the girls made a mistake. The money kept coming in too, steady income.” Arthur replied.

            “I didn’t have any doubts.”

            Arthur studied his brother. “So, how are you feeling back home?”

            “What else would I be but happy?” Tommy replied without any joy in his voice. “Out of the trenches and back home with me wife and kids.”

            “Yeah, but Tom…” Arthur was cut off. Someone came running into the shop, the door slamming into the door on their way in.

            Tommy was still very much in soldier mode and went into action, reaching for his gun and running toward the chaos. But all he found in the shop was Rosie Owens. She was sobbing and clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

            “Tommy, please, you have to come quick. It’s Danny.”

            He frowned. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He walked over to her, releasing his hold on his gun.

            “He’s gone mad. He’s wrecked the home, won’t stop shouting.” She hiccupped in between words. “I can’t calm him down, s’like I’m not even there. He just keeps shouting about nonsense.”

            “Alright, Arthur and I will take care of it. Stay here, Mel’s in the kitchen with the kids.” Tommy looked back to gesture to his brother to follow him.

 ~~~~~~~~~

            It took a bit to calm Rosie down. The experience with Danny had left her shaken.

            “There was nothing in his eyes, Mel. He was a completely different person. That wasn’t the man I fell in love with.” She cried.

            “I know.” Amelia held her friend’s hand as they sat at the kitchen table. “It’s the war, it’s not him. It’s not his fault.”

            “I was so stupid to think things would be okay once he came back.” She sobbed. “I just don’t know how to help him.”

            “We’ll figure it out. Maybe things will settle once everyone’s feeling back at home. They just need to put some distance between them and the war.” Amelia tried to reason even though she felt like she was just making things up as she went. “There’s still news about the war everywhere, I’m sure it’s not easy. People are still talking about it and what not.”

            Rosie nodded and wiped her eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

            The door to the flat opened and Tommy came in looking a bit disheveled. Arthur came in behind him, leading Danny into the home.

            “Rose…” Danny looked devastated.

            “Oh, Danny.” She stood up and didn’t hesitate to embrace him. “I was so worried.”

            “I’m sorry, love.” He held her close. “I didn’t know what happened…honest I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

            Amelia looked to her husband who shared a worried glance her way. They thought they were leaving the war behind when they left France. But it seemed the war wasn’t ready to release its grip on them.

~~~~~~~~~ 

            “Arthur said Polly and the rest of you kept the books perfectly,” Tommy remarked. They were at the park eating a later lunch than they planned. Max and Annie had gobbled down their food quickly so they could run around and play nearby.

            “Well, you know Pol. Once she sets her mind to something there’s nothing standing in her way.” Amelia smiled. “So, did you think about how things are going to progress?” She wondered.

            He nodded. “We’re going back to the same plan I had before the war. A plan to legitimacy.” He took her hand in his. “But I don’t want you to worry about that stuff anymore.”

            She raised an eyebrow at him. “Tom, the shop was my life for a few years. What do you think I’m supposed to do now?”

            He shrugged. “You can do whatever you want. Once we get the money coming in, you’ll have anything you want.” There was still that ambition he had all those years ago when they reunited. The drive to have what the wealthy had. The horses, the cars, the property. The stability and safety. The notoriety and perks. Tommy had played the part of a warhorse. A disposable foot soldier. An underground fighter that the brass didn’t care about. He wasn’t going to play that part again. He would be the one giving orders.

            Amelia lay back on the blanket, resting her head in Tommy’s lap. “What I want most is for you to be happy and for our family to be safe.”

            He didn’t want to admit there were things he could never give her. His wife deserved the world in his opinion, so he would strive to give her everything her heart desired. But there were things that were almost unattainable.

            “Tom?” She nudged him out of his thoughts.

            “Hm? Yeah, well…anything you want.” He reiterated. “It’s yours.”

 ~~~~~~~~~

            To a Shelby man, there was no greater joy than seeing their children on a horse. Carrying on the tradition of being natural born riders, independent enough to hold the reins, and strong enough to lead their horse with purpose.

            Max was thrilled to show Tommy that he could walk and trot on the little pony. It was a tiny thirteen hand thing that Charlie had gotten from one of the Strongs so that Max and the other children could learn to ride.  

            Amelia wouldn’t quite warm up to the idea of plopping Annie onto a horse even with Tommy leading the pot-bellied pony. So, he tacked up one of the larger horses and let Annie sit in front of him in the saddle. Despite what had happened a few days ago with Danny, Tommy felt at peace. He was finally back on a horse and what was better he could share the love for the animals with his children.

            Annie was chuffed that she was sat up on the chestnut mare. She placed her hands over Tommy’s as he held the reins, feeling as if she were really the one running the show.

            Amelia watched nervously from the sidelines although she was happy to see her daughter so excited. And it was such a relief that Tommy was there. He wouldn’t miss another milestone. There was no guilt or sadness behind the event. She wasn’t feeling like something was missing. Everything was whole.

  Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe @evelynshelby

Tag list: @shelbyblinded @hanster1998 @xxbeckybeexx-blog @fairypitou

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelbyxoc #tommy shelbyxofc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #ofc #ocs #ofcs #danny owens #arthur shelby #john shelby #polly gray #charlie strong #pre canon #pre season 1 #ww1 #cillianmurphy #cillian murphy #cillian murphy character #cillian murphy fanfiction

[yellow-faerie]

This is a fic I did from a prompt from @actuallymiriel. I hope this is something like what you wanted!

“Ho! Traveller!” Finrod spins around, reaching for his sword before remembering that he no longer carries it with him. The unmarred world is safe, after all. He forces himself to relax. “Good day,” He says in return, examining the stranger before him, dressed in fine hunting clothes and holding himself cheerily. He is clearly an elf but there is something…some feeling that makes Finrod wary.

Finrod is grieving the loss of his husband in the new world when he meets a stranger in the woods. They have an enlightening conversation.

——————————————

Finrod has taken to wandering the forest recently.

It is close to his lonely cottage and far preferable to staying within its empty, silent rooms.

Galadriel had asked him, last time she visited, why he insisted on staying out here in the wilderness when there was plenty of city where he would be decidedly less lonesome.

It’s not that he hates the city: quite the contrary, he loves to watch the hustle and bustle of people toing and froing and to hear the unique music of every market place and street.

He does not hate the city but the forest is dearer to his heart and he will sacrifice company to walk beneath its boughs.

The forest is where he met the love of his life and his death. Every step he takes that crunches beneath him, every bird that sings in the canopy above, every gentle swaying branch reminds him of Bëor.

He takes a faded joy from the memory of his love’s unadulterated ecstasy at the world around him.

That is why he took his leave to the middle of nowhere.

“Ho! Traveller!”

Finrod spins around, reaching for his sword before remembering that he no longer carries it with him. The unmarred world is safe, after all.

He forces himself to relax.

“Good day,” He says in return, examining the stranger before him, dressed in fine hunting clothes and holding himself cheerily. He is clearly an elf but there is something…some feeling that makes Finrod wary.

The stranger gives him a hearty smile. “I thought I would be the only one this far from civilisation.”

“Are you lost?” Finrod inquires – it feels impossible as the elf seems so at ease but it was polite to ask.

“Ah, no. But I do not think I shall make it to my destination tonight. Alas, I must sleep in the woods.”

“I live close by. You may stay the night instead of sleeping out here, if that would be to your liking.”

“I most generous offer that I will most certainly be taking you up on.” The stranger smiles. “May I know the name of my host?”

“Nóm.” The name falls from his lips as easily as the offer of a nights rest. His tongue seems to have a life of its own in this elf’s presence. “And your name, stranger?”

“You may call me Únan-Pen.” He gives Finrod another smile and any unease Finrod may have felt at the name melts away.

+++++

“A very nice supper that was indeed.” Finrod’s guest puts his knife and fork together on his plate. “Now, I’m curious – what brought you to live here, so far from your kin?”

Finrod grimaces. “I have rather a lot of kin. It is quite nice to have a place to be away from the chaos.”

“Ah.” The elf buries around in his pocket, revealing a pipe. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“Of course not, be my guest.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, in which Finrod reminisces of times he had done this with his many mortal friends and of course, his dearest love.

“You seem awfully melancholy,” The other elf comments suddenly, breaking through Finrod’s thoughts. “I thought this new world was a happy place.”

“Happiness is subjective. ”

“Is it now?”

“It is. Happiness can only be gained through your experiences. Thus, your experiences shape the way that you are happy. It’s not something you can just create.” Finrod hates the bitter note that creeps into his voice.

His guest puffs thoughtfully on his pipe. “You appear to have missed something that your peers have not. They do not seem so pained in the new world.”

“They forget the old.”

“Do not think that I forget her! I do not pretend that she never existed. I want to be happy, Finrod!”

Finrod blinks away the sour memory. “Would you like some tea?” He asks his guest, trying for a smile.

“Certainly, if it is being offered.”

Finrod lifts the kettle onto the stove.

“Are you alone here?”

“Yes.” Finrod tugs on one of his braids as he returns to his seat. “I have no-one to share it with.”

“Is that why you are so mournful? You are alone?”

“It is not just because I am alone. It is because I once had someone I thought I would be able to share my life with and now I do not.”

“They were mortal?”

Finrod lets out a short laugh, before agreeing resentfully. “He was mortal. Eru will not let me be joined with him again.”

The kettle whistles, high and piercing, and Finrod stands again to fill the waiting mugs. Bëor never liked the unsweetened taste of this tea, Finrod thinks as he brings the mugs back to the table.

“You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of the One,” Finrod’s guest comments as he accepts the tea.

“Why should I? He has done nothing for me.”

“Nothing?” The elf looks incredulous. “He created you. Surely you cannot find fault with that.”

“It was done with little creation, it appears, or else he is not so omnibenevolent as I am so often told.” Finrod’s knuckles are white where they grip the  mug.

“Do you truly believe you can understand His reasoning? His mind is far beyond that of any spirit on this earth, incarnate or not.” Finrod’s hands are beginning to scald, holding his mug so tightly. “He is timeless and transcends all comprehension. Would it not be folly, then, to argue with His actions?”

“If He did not want those He created to argue with His actions, He should not have caused His creation – His children, whom He claims to love – pain from which they cannot recover.”

“You believe he has inflicted something upon you that has caused a wound that will not heal?”

“Yes.” Finrod squares his jaw as he takes his hand from the mug. “He gave His children separate fates and put them in a place where they would form bonds of brotherhood and love but then he tore them apart through death, never to be joined again. And now I must watch my family be happy and content in this new life, free from burdens and with those they love and know I will never quite manage to achieve that same peace separated from him.”

“Fifi, for the sake of all that is good, why must you continue to wallow in your pain?”

His guest takes his pipe from his mouth, setting it on the table with a firm tap.

“I am interested,” He starts slowly. “In a point from earlier. Happiness, you said, was subjective. Thus to achieve happiness, would you not need pain to compare to your joyous moments too?”

“Yes. But if you cannot recover from your injuries, does that not taint those moments.”

“Only, I believe, if you let it. If you do not, if you accept the change and let it become a part of you – not to forget but to accept – you may very well find those moments of joy are happier. The greater the pain of an experience, surely, would provide a greater love for those things around you.”

“It is not a matter of letting. You cannot…you cannot just take that weight from your soul.”

“No. But you can get stronger so that the weight does not feel so heavy.” The elf picks up his pipe again, tipping it into the flickering fireplace. “Surely you are not the only one who suffers so? Not the only one who must deal with the grief of a lost lover.”

“Fine! If you must be like that, leave! See if I care!”

Finrod doesn’t answer, his brother’s biting words echoing in his head. Their parting conversation – well, argument seems a more fitting term – was not a sweet one.

“Well, it’s getting late.” Finrod looks up from his hands at his guest who gives him a smile that seems to hold all the peace in the world. “I should be off to bed.”

Finrod gives his guest a weak smile and directs him through a door to their left with a quiet goodnight.

His brother’s harsh words whisper into his ears, sweet memories of his lover flit across his eyes as he sits at his kitchen table, the hearth dying down to embers and the sun rising in the west.

++++

Finrod is woken slowly from his thoughts by the sun falling on his face and his open eyes.

He yawns, exhausted from his long night. He supposed that he should make breakfast. He stumbles to his feet and over to the guest bedroom.

He knocks gently. “Hey…” He trails off as he realises, with some embarrassment, that he can’t remember his guest’s name. “…sir. Would you like some breakfast?”

There is no answer but for the whistling of wind through an open window. Finrod pushes the door open.

There is no-one occupying the bed or any part of the room: indeed, everything looks untouched, as if no-one slept there at all last night.

Finrod stands in the doorway, the gentle morning breeze blowing the curtains and into his hair.

There is a sharp knock on the front door.

He blinks, surprised. “I’m coming!” He yells, pausing for a moment, wondering at his mysterious guest.

The knock comes again.

“impatient,” He mutters, fumbling with the bolt and key.

There’s a third knock. “I’m opening it! Calm down.”

“Good it’s bloody freezing out here.”

It’s good thing that Finrod has already unlocked the door because he can feel his hand begin to shake.

“Aiko?” He asks, pulling the door open.

Sure enough, there is Angrod: spiky hair, lopsided grin and all.

“Hey Fifi. I think we need to talk.”

“Talk?” Finrod asks.

“Yes. But properly this time. With no arguing.”

That doesn’t sound too bad.

#Finrod #Finrod/Beor #Tolkien #Silmarillion #Fanfiction #writing prompt

[sodaparker]

just us |ch.2| g. weasley

2nd May 1998 5:45am

Voldemort and his army marched across the Hogwarts bridge. Rory could see that horrid woman, Bellatrix Lestrange, dancing her way around Hagrid. As they got closer she realized that Hagrid was carrying someone. It was easy to assume who it was, but she could not bring herself to think of it.

The survivors were all making their way out of the Great Hall and into the courtyard to meet the Dark Lord. Rory held onto George's arm in an attempt to feel some sort of comfort and security.

The Death Eaters excited voices easily overpowered the silence and gloomy footsteps of the last defenders of Hogwarts.

"Stop." Voldemort halted his followers. It became clear to everyone who Hagrid was carrying.

"NO!" McGonagall cried, followed by many varying cries of mourning and despair from those closest to Harry and those who only knew him as a beacon of hope and light in these dark times. Rory choked back her sobs as she buried her face into George's back, unable to look at the scene before her.

"SILENCE!" Voldemort's voice boomed over the cries. "It is over. You see? Harry Potter is dead! Do you see now deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him."

Rory couldn't help but look back into the Great Hall where, just mere hours ago, two people, who she loved more than anything, laid dead. "Could it truly have been for nothing?" she thought to herself.

She could hardly hear Neville confronting the Dark Lord, proving his own bravery, while she wallowed in the pits of her own despair. George tightly gripped the hand she still had on his arm, bringing her attention to what was happening before them.

Voldemort was torturing Neville, but not for long. Within seconds Voldemort's victory fell apart. All at once, Harry disappeared, Neville managed to break free, pull the sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat and kill Voldemort's snake and destroy the final Horcrux. A sense of joy and relief rushed over Rory, one that she hadn't thought she would ever feel again, but she knew it wasn't over; not yet.

George turned to her with this certain spark in his eyes. She knew that look, but wasn't one that had ever been directed at her. It was a look that was almost exclusively given to Fred when they had some mischievous epiphany or something that they would've deemed "wicked" had happened. He had instinctually turned to look for Fred to share his amazement in the events unfolding before him, but instead he was faced with Fred's almost-widow.

The spark in his eyes disappeared in an instant, but he still gave her a hopeful smile. No words needed to be spoken in that moment. Nor could they as the Death Eaters had begun their second attack; matters of the heart could be resolved later.

The ensuing battle was a blur. Rory assured she did not stray far from George, keeping an even closer eye on him than she had on Fred, she couldn't relive the same incident and be truly alone this time. It was chaos in the Great Hall. House elves, trolls, hippogriffs, young and old wizards alike all fighting for the greater good of their world.

Rory, George and Lee Jordan had just managed to take down Yaxley when Bellatrix Lestrange's voice rang out over all the ruckus.

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you? When mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?" she said with a devious smirk.

Rory watched as Mrs. Weasley and Bellatrix dueled, nearly struck frozen by the mere mention of Fred's death. She wanted nothing more than to help the woman who had been like a second mother to her; she felt helpless, but Mrs. Weasley was refusing any assistance.

"You - will - never - touch - my - children - again!" Mrs. Weasley shouted as she sent a curse towards Bellatrix, hitting her in her chest and defeating her once and for all. The crowd around them cheered and Rory was pulled into a crippling hug by Lee as he screamed and jumped. George shook them and pointed towards the center of the Great Hall.

Harry had suddenly reappeared and was challenging Voldemort to a duel; just them, no one else. Once again, they could do nothing but watch as their future hung in the balance. Even the Death Eaters ceased their attacks to watch this duel of fates.

The entire hall was on edge as Harry and Voldemort argued. The air was thick with tension and everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Rory almost didn't notice George inching closer to her until he lightly took hold of her hand. They looked at each other for a moment. Rory silently wondered how selfish it would be to disapparate out of there with him before things turned sour again. Of course, she knew this was impossible, it was cowardly and more selfish than she would ever admit, but she was scared.

A loud bang pulled her out of her inner monologue. Voldemort's wand was in the air and the Dark Lord was falling backwards towards the ground, dead; his killing curse had rebounded. It was over.

There was a breath of silence, then the Great Hall roared with cheers, cries and screams of joy. George picked up Rory and spun her around before pulling her to join the crowd of people hugging Harry.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

9:13am

Rory laid her head on her mother's shoulder, silently taking in her surroundings and drowning out her parents and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's current conversation. A mixture of joy and loss filled the Great Hall.

Rory fought with herself with the strange mixture of thoughts and feelings clouding her mind. On one hand, she was relieved, happy even. Voldemort was gone, defeated and dead (completely this time). Her friends and family would no longer have to live in fear and peace would be restored to the wizarding world.

And yet, in the process, there had been so much loss. The feeling of dread and despair dared to take over what was supposed to be a happy moment. Then she felt the guilt that had been hiding in the shadows of her mind and heart.

Fred and Eddie were gone forever; lost not even 24 hours before. She felt so selfish. How could she bask in any form of happiness without them there. It should have been them sitting here and she would've given anything to trade places with them.

She felt a pull to look over at George in that moment. How was he handling the mix of emotions everyone was feeling? This was the farthest and longest they had been separated since he had found her wandering the halls. He was gathered around the rest of the Weasley clan, joking with Percy. A sight, Rory knew, would take some getting used to.

George seemed to be handling everything much better than she had, at least in the present moment. She wished she could be as strong as him. She wished even more that she could go over there and joke with them, but she knew she would only put a damper on their moods. Rory was sure they were feeling many of the same things she had over losing Fred and Eddie, only they had the love and support of their other siblings to distract them from their sorrow. On the other hand, Rory for the first time in 19 years, since she was 7 minutes old, she was an only child.

She watched them longingly only for a few minutes more before George met eyes with her. They shared another sad smile between them and went back to their own conversations.

The gathering stayed like that for another hour or so more. Some people had gone home, others had nothing to return to. Rory didn't know how or when, but suddenly there were people walking around with large dinner plates filled with food. McGonagall had maneuvered a couple house tables for everyone to sit at and suddenly the gathering turned into some kind of impromptu feast.

The Orlandis and the Weasleys sat together, as per usual. Rory noticed her had sat near Fleur, they had bonded at her and Bill's wedding over their shared alma mater and were currently speaking very quickly in French. Her mother and Mrs. Weasley were considering the extent of damage Hogwarts had obtained during the battle and the extensive cleaning and repairs that needed to be done to return the school to its former glory ("Veronica, I say after we're all finished eating we should offer Minerva our services." "I was thinking the same thing!"). Mr. Weasley sitting opposite to them, speaking to Hermione about some muggle foods he had heard of while she, Ron and Harry had been gone searching for horcruxes ("Mr. Weasley, I can assure you hot dogs are not made with actual dog meet. I don't actually know why they are called that, it's just a sausage in a bun."). Ron was sitting next to Hermione, shyly holding her hand under the table ("Finally." Rory thought to herself) while he spoke to Charlie about his dragons back in Romania. Next to them were Harry and Ginny across from Percy and Bill, they all seemed immersed in some story Rory couldn't quite hear over all the noise in the hall. She did notice Percy's face becoming so red it nearly matched the colour of his hair (perhaps this was because Ginny had pointed out that Percy's ex Penelope was sitting just behind them at the next table). Then George cleared his throat.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, somewhat nervously.

"Even if it was, I'd still let you take it." Rory said with a smile. George matched it as he sat down and began to fill his plate.

"You looked like you could use some company and as always I am obliged to help a lady in need."

Rory couldn't help but chuckle as she rolled her eyes. "Well, thank you good sir from saving me from my lonesome prison." she said sarcastically, though truth be told she was glad he was there.

"You can always count on me." he said with a wink.

"By any chance, do you know where all this food came from? Surely the house elves didn't have time to make all of this."

" I didn't see who first started bringing food out," George said with a mouth full of chicken. "I did see some of the villagers from Hogsmeade bring up some food from the village and I saw Madam Rosmerta bringing up some shepherd's pies with Hagrid. Hagrid was the one who carried all the barrels of butterbeer up, it seems like he got one all to himself." Rory looked over towards where George had pointed and sure enough Hagrid was sitting at the end of the table laughing along with the rest of the Hogwarts staff and his own personal barrel of butterbeer.

"It just seems like so much food for them to have had just lying around ready for a feast." she said in slight disbelief.

George shrugged. " I don't know. Maybe it was a Hogwarts dinner that the house elves had preprepared and warmed up plus whatever the villagers brought."

"Perhaps." Rory said digging into her own slice of shepherd's pie.

"Whoever it was, I'm grateful for it." George said, once again with his mouth full of food. "I was starving." They both giggled before settling into a comfortable silence.

George was nearly finished with his second helping of pudding when he finally broke the silence.

"Are you planning on going back to the flat tonight?"

The question took Rory by surprise. Despite all of the things that had rushed through her mind since the explosion, the flat her, Eddie, Fred and George had shared these past two years was not one of them. She had completely overlooked where she might be sleeping tonight (if she slept at all).

"I- I don't know. Why?"

"Well- I think I want to go stay at the burrow, with mum and everyone. At least until" he paused for a moment, looking away from her and down at his plate "at least until the funeral. Maybe longer, depending on the state I'm in. When all this starts to feel real." Rory could tell this was becoming difficult for him to talk about, despite how hard he was attempting to hold it all together. "I just wanted to make sure it was okay with you." he said quickly, glancing at her before looking back at his plate.

"George," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, squeezing and struggling to keep her own tears from falling down her face. "you do whatever you need to do to be okay, you don't have to worry about me."

The look on George's looked as if her suggestion had insulted him and his entire bloodline.

"How could I not worry about you, Rory?" he said, looking at her with watery eyes and sounding slightly exasperated. "You're my best mate, if anyone understands exactly how I feel, it's you, Rory. I can't leave you alone right now."

"George-"

"Would you?"

"Sorry?"

"If I told you not to worry about me, would you do it?"

Rory knew he knew the answer to that question, but she had a feeling he wanted her to say it out loud so she couldn't try to deny it in hopes he'd stop worrying. He knew her too well.

"You know I wouldn't, Georgie."

"Alright, that's settled then." he said turning back to his pudding.

"What exactly is settled?" Rory said, more confused than before.

"You'll come stay with at the burrow with me, with everyone." he said very matter-of-factly.

"George- my parents, shouldn't I stay with them?"

He laughed. "Rory, you really don't listen to our mother's conversations, do you?"

"...No?"

He sighed. "Your parents are staying at the burrow too, YOUR mum is helping MY mum with planning the funeral and in their spare time coming to back here to try and give Professor McGonagall another hand with fixing Hogwarts. Bill and Fleur decided to come stay too, and Charlie, and-"

Rory couldn't help but interrupt him. "There's no way we are all going to fit in that house."

He gave her a look as if she hadn't been listening hard enough. "Dad said he still had one of those tents we used at the Quidditch World Cup couple years ago. I reckon that's where your parents, and Bill, Fleur and Charlie are staying. Percy has his old room, I have mine and Fred's, Ron and Ginny have their own and the rest of you lot will spread out through the rooms." he said with a small smile.

Rory was a bit taken aback. They had this all planned out, she wanted to argue that it was too much, but after all these years, she knew better than argue with a Weasley. Especially, when the whole lot of them have decided to take care of you.

------------

you can find all the chapters of this story on my ao3 and wattpad, links in my bio <3

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #george weasley fanfic #fred weasley

[gnarf]

Hi, I was hoping you’d be able to help me find a few 8th year drarry fics bc I love them so much tysm

Dear nonnie, you came to the right place.

I don't know how old you are, so please mind the rating of those works and read the tags. Eighth year can cover hard topics.

8th year:

A Dented Old Street Sign

orphanghost

Mature

27.425

Draco knows they aren't the only students who will be completing their NEWTs this year, but they are the only ones whose home fireplaces were disconnected from the floo network by the ministry.

At least, Draco assumes as much until he sees the light falling out from the front door of one of the other rickety old houses in front of them and the three figures cast in its warm glow. For a moment they look like some sort of strange, many legged creature. An acromantula, or a particularly massive Blast-Ended Skrewt. Then Draco hears Pansy make a disgusted sound beside him and the light falls in a less blinding way, and Draco can see that it is actually Potter and the Weasel carrying a large couch between them, and Granger fluttering around them with her wand out, seeming concerned.

My Little Berserker

Aelys_Althea

Explicit

105.540

Eighth year was supposed to be calm. Moderated. Peaceful, even. Draco returned to escape the chaos wrought upon his shambles of a life and Harry to flee the responsibility of a world that sees him as something greater than was truly possible. Hogwarts was a safe haven, right?

At least it was until Hagrid comes up with the wonderful idea to introduce some additional members to the student body of the fluffier variety. Hagrid doesn't do moderated - where's the fun in that?

Lumos

birdsofshore

Explicit

41.476

Harry never expected to spend eighth year listening to Draco Malfoy wanking.

The Standard You Walk Past

bafflinghaze

Mature

46.202

On returning to Hogwarts for their Eighth Year, Headmistress McGonagall decided to room Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter together. She may have hoped for a leading example of house unity; the other students fully expected insults and fights. But nothing happened.

That was, until Harry sleepwalked into Draco’s bed.

At the End of the Day

sara_holmes

Teen And Up Audiences

7.368

No brooms, a distinct lack of balls, no comprehension of the offside rule and a Malfoy who apparently has magic feet. Harry never knew this stupid game could be so much fun.

Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain

Faith Wood (faithwood)

Explicit

21.139

It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that's ever so cross.

The Perks of Being Demisexual

UnusuallyZealousBurgette

Not Rated

772

"Its just... I'm going to fall in love with you, you know. It's that whole demisexual thing..." he mutters a quick excuse, curling into himself and Draco's warmth before he's sure the blond will pull away. Instead, though, the blond places a hand underneath his chin, turning his head around to meet him eye to eye.

"What if I don't mind?"

A shiver runs down Harry's spine chilling every part of his body but the patch of skin on the underside of his chin grasped in Draco's calloused fingers.

"Then you're a nutter."

Let Me Be Your Voice

Queenie_Mab

Explicit

47.459

As the hero of the revolution, Harry leads the wizarding world in its efforts to rebuild; but first old wounds must be tended, rifts caused by hate mended, and his history with Draco Malfoy seems like the perfect place to start.

How Draco Malfoy ended up sleeping in the same bed as his former arch enemy

becausebecca

Teen And Up Audiences

2.435

Nightmares were nothing new, neither for Harry nor for Draco. What was new was the comfort they could find in each other.

Sunrise

parkkate

Teen And Up Audiences

2.156

Draco doesn't really know why he returned to Hogwarts. He doesn't belong here. Not anymore. Nothing brings him joy anymore. Not even sitting at the Great Lake and watching the sunset like he used to. A lot has changed. And it's about to change even more.

Once Upon an Eighth Year

ladyroxanne21

Explicit

35.416

When Harry goes back to Hogwarts for a so-called Eighth Year, he's told by McGonagall that he has to share a room with Draco and that they had better both behave or else they'd *both* be expelled. Rather than grumble, both try to make the best of the situation with Draco providing (non-sexual) comfort each night when Harry has nightmares. Slowly, Harry grows ever more confused about the gorgeous Slytherin.

Bonding

donnarafiki

Teen And Up Audiences

2.185

Hey Potter.” Malfoy called out dryly from the other end of the common room.

Harry grumbled at him and didn’t look up from his attempt at drawing hair on his balls. “What is it, Malfoy?”

“Could you please stop drawing pubic hair on those balls.” Harry’s head snapped up faster than lightning, because surely he couldn’t be Malfoy’s… But apparently he could be, because right there on Draco’s pale skin, was the very same dick he’d been drawing on his own arm. “I mean, it wasn’t very pretty to begin with, but now you’re even ruining the little bit of aesthetic it did have.”

Harry couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t function, because fucking hell Draco Malfoy was his soul mate. Draco Malfoy! Draco sodding fucking bloody Malfoy! How the hell had that happened?

Study Practice

JET_Playin

Teen And Up Audiences

2.754

Draco likes to study while the Gryffindors have their Quidditch practice.

Potions Partners

GingerFerret

Teen And Up Audiences

8.056

Harry and Draco are forced to pair up in Potions. Needless to say, neither are happy with this arrangement. But what happens, when their innate need for competing against each other, makes for a whole new way of interacting? Clue: a lot of blushing and awkwardness.

Unsightly staring

deathbyfanfictioning

Not Rated

2.423

The one where Draco gets cursed and temporarily loses his eyesight.

8th year. Roommates.

When Nightmares Lead to Day Dreams

Drarryismymuse (Hatchersn)

Explicit

9.203

Harry Potter didn't want to return to Hogwarts for 8th year, concerned that the castle held too many terrible memories. Lacking any other plan, though, he agreed. He soon discovered how right AND how wrong he was.

Some Lessons Can't Be Taught

Anonymous (part of erised 2019)

General Audiences

23.243

Harry, Ron and Hermione return to Hogwarts for their eighth year. They hadn't thought about Malfoy and his gang returning as well, or what would happen if there was no room in their old houses for them.

#asked and answered #anonymous #hogwarts eighth year #Fic recs #I picked a few from my bookmarks #And realised that i forgot to bookmark a lot of things last year #Shame on me #Hope you like them nonnie #Nonnie 1 of 3 #drarry reclist

[mipadremadara]

if you don't mind me asking a lot about the fic thing, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8 and 9 (LMAO. all the list😂😂😂) for "Summer Nights"?? I REALLY NEED TO CAUGHT UP!!!! (You obviously can answer telling things about chapters I haven't read, btw, it's okay, haha). And if it's too much, you can answer just a few, hahaha. I'm just really curious because I reallyyyyy love the fic. ILY💖💖

Ahh thank you so much for this ask!!! Every time I get an ask from you my face immediately lights up ahaha. I'm so glad you like the fic??? Ahhhh! Ily too!! I hope you're having a nice day/night! I’ll only do Chapter 1 and 2 for now as to not spoil much! (I’m not sure which chapter you finished on haha.)

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

I really really really like stories that just flow. That literally drift. I have no idea how to describe it, but I also love poetry and I thought by kind of incorporating that and a sort of movie vibe to it it'd capture people's hearts the way it haunts mine at night hahaha. 

 2: What scene did you first put down?

It must be the scene where Naruto is sitting outside the porch and looking at the night sky. The title is Summer Nights, after all! It's supposed to hint at the fact that Naruto and Sasuke share the most tender moments at night.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

There's so many that I like tbh!! But here are some of my favorite ones without spoiling too much!!

Chapter 1:

The man knew Sasuke would get rid of every photographic memory of his past and there would be no remaining snapshots of his lifetime left. Behind the everyday smiles and poking around the playgrounds, fairgrounds, Sasuke never dwelled on the topics that resurfaced even the slightest of human, perhaps weak emotions. And so was the shameless irony, pouring out, like vomit. 

I wanted to capture the sense of lingering trauma that still haunts Sasuke everyday. No matter how life seemed to come to a halt, or how things seemed to finally settle down, the pain will always prevail. And in a way, Naruto is the same, even if he masks it well. I feel like this was never truly explained so I wanted to show that they are still hurting; the wounds that were meant to heal only left bitter scars in the end.  

Writing from Sasuke’s POV is always very emotion-centered. I’d imagine Sasuke, as shown in the fic, is a little more open, especially around Naruto. He let his walls down, although not by choice. He had to prove to Konoha he changed, but around Naruto, he can truly be himself.

The Uchiha was all tall, strong arms and long fingers. He fondled them for a passing minute, pressing the raven’s palms against his own. After the War, they grew quite intimate, and really, everyone talked about it. He always looked forward to touching Sasuke, even if it was small, feathery nudges - like holding hands or giving each other small hugs. It reminded him how truly privileged he was to be around him. He savoured those bosom jiffies, and that night was no different.

I really like the fact that their relationship isn’t driven by lust, but more so an understanding. There’s a mutual connection here; two boys going through absolute Hell and finally close to settling down after a rough battle against the odds. No one knows Sasuke the way Naruto does and vice versa, I think it’s quite beautiful actually! Sasuke allowing himself to become intimate again by taking these baby steps, such as touching hands and small hugs, it’s very healing for the both of them! 

They stood still in that bleached moment. The love, the joy; it was burning passionately, bringing nothing but bloom to the cheek; showing no reruns. The smile, he considered a gift.

I just really love this bit. Reading it always makes me so soft haha. I think it sums up their whole relationship perfectly. 

Chapter 2:

Sakura made him feel like an utter imbecile. Like a love-struck damsel in distress.

Here, what Sakura really sees isn’t Naruto, but herself. She knows what it’s like to chase after Sasuke, and as much as she loves the two of them, she doesn’t want Naruto to get hurt. I just think this line was really cool haha. 

People often told Sasuke how he blended into the background while Naruto stood out from the crowd when they were together. Maybe that was why everyone deemed him worthy of being the next in line. They were polar opposites; like warm and cold. Fire and water. They just didn't fit. Supposed everyone told them similar scenarios, but they did not care much about the public and its predetermined ideas of what was right and what wasn't. It was arguably, the most bizarre finger-pointing he had the displeasure of witnessing. But he guessed Naruto loved the attention.

I really like this line, and not just because of the imagery used here, but because it shows how others see Naruto and Sasuke’s relationship. And also, that short dismissive ending paragraph I found to be super effective. 

The other girl, Hinata, made an attempt to lean forward to catch Naruto’s gaze. It was what made everyone lean towards her, too, no less in a charming way that she perhaps knowingly radiated. It caused Ino to take a step back, and Sasuke must’ve stood there for a few moments, listening to the soft mumbling of her lips. They began to ask Naruto questions in low, hushed, thrilling voices as if not to let Sasuke know any of it. He knew the girl had lost her brother during the War (at which he had expressed his deepest sympathy), but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that maybe Naruto was being deceived by her shy persona.

I loved describing Hinata, but not for the reasons you might think. No one aside from Naruto has been described in such detail, but Hinata. It’s to show that Sasuke, since it’s from his POV, considers her to be a competition. He knows she knows that she can easily woo people to do her bidding, and considering her status, Naruto would certainly be charmed. 

Hinata’s own voice held a timid passion behind it; a pleasant, mellow tenor that was very subtle, especially in the way her every uttered word suggested something greater than her face might have unveiled. Her face - on the other hand - was lovely. Caring eyes and a caring mouth conveying nothing but a feeling of fresh honey and lavender. Her hands looked smooth to the touch when she grazed them against Naruto’s rather tacky ones; as if she had never worked a day in her life. He could tell Naruto enjoyed looking at her.

Again, Sasuke knows this persona that Hinata created was quite deceiving and had Naruto wrapped around her finger. That is what he thinks, and as usual, assumes things because Naruto and Hinata are close. I also really like her description here, it radiates such soft vibes haha. 

He marveled in the way his laugh carried throughout the day, forcing even the biggest assholes in the universe to crack a smile.

I really like this line because Sasuke is talking about himself here; that Naruto is always successful at making him smile. 

The attachment to the outside world and the growth of his dubious mind was what made Sasuke overthink certain situations. The way it tangled, twisted, and knotted. He wanted to fondle Naruto's hands, listen to his heartbeat as his eyes grew heavy.

Agape; the sign of unconditional love. For his one and only.

I mean? These lines absolutely slap I think haha. 

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

I didn’t want to add too many so I just included a couple!

Chapter 1:

“You know, if you continue to frown like that, you’ll have lots of wrinkles in the future.”

I just love Sasuke’s attempt at comforting Naruto haha. 

Chapter 2:

“Don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining, Sasuke.”

I just,, love this line so much. It always cracks me up hahaha. And of course, it’s Kakashi’s line. 

5: What part was hardest to write? 

Honestly? Probably the scene where they spar in the third chapter, as well as Gaara and Naruto's reunion! I loved writing it, but having to balance so much dialogue and narration was challenging.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

What makes it special, well, it's my first fanfic! I tried writing one for so long, about 4 years! And being able to finally write something and share it with others feels amazing and so relieving after so long. 

 7: Where did the title come from?

The title came from this song called Summer Nights by Siames! I think it suits Naruto and Sasuke perfectly! It's such a nice song, it always makes me cry when I listen to it haha.

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

Many, if not all interactions are based on me and my girlfriend's conversations! There are so many and she always points it out to me after reading the newest chapter.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

There was, actually! At first I wanted to write an AU canonverse version of the Akatsuki, where Naruto is exiled from the village and reunites with Sasuke. Because in this house we love evil Naruto and Kurama. But then I wanted to write something soft, something tender yknow? 

Again, thank you so much for asking!!! <3 

#my fanfic #sns fandom #sns fanfiction

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Are we going to get more flood my mornings?

FMM: Of Small Kangaroos

This story takes place in an AU where Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

FMM Master List

Previously: Found

**Backtracking timewise just a bit on this one! The woes of getting acclimated to your own AU timeline again ;)** 

—-

November, 1952

“Can’t you stay home this morning?” she wheedled, wiping maple syrup from Ian’s chin. Christ, how sweet she looked in her Turtle’s-Neck sweater, the cabled one the same color as her skin. Not even six o’clock—bairns make early risers of all, aye?—and still her eyes were bright and sharp. “It’s Sunday and cold as b…all-get-out.”

“I wish I could.” He’d like nothing better than to spend a few stolen hours abed with her while the children napped away the afternoon. “But I canna,” he said,  the last piece of toast in his mouth as he began clearing up the dishes. “Promised Hank I would go in and cover for h—”

“DA, Mummy SAID, it’s—”

“Don’t *interrupt*, Bree,” they chanted with one well-worn voice. 

Brianna sighed with even greater exasperation and piled every remaining piece of bacon onto her plate with a grumble that sounded a great deal like.  “…interruptin’ me….” 

“Brianna Ellen.” Claire’s head tilted, hawk’s eye fixed with deadly precision. “Attitude.” 

“S’too cold out there, Daddy,” the lass piped at once with saccharine primness that dared anyone to question its sincerity.  

“Aye, ‘tis cold,” he agreed, sharing a secret, rueful glance with Claire, “and that means the horses will be, too.” He laid a freshly-scrubbed plate onto the rack and took up the next. “Shall ye come along wi’ me to the barn, then, cub?”  

“Me?” 

“ME!” Ian parroted, slithering down from his seat. 

“Aye, you, and yer Mam, and Ian? Make a wee outing of it?”

“No-thanks,” came the verdict of the bacon-cruncher. “Dinna wanna put my coat on.”

“Ye lazy wee baggage!” He cast over his shoulder for her and spied Claire first, hiding behind her mug. “No!…Et tu, mo nighean donn?” 

“It’s awfully warm and cozy indoors….” Her guilty grin gave way to a yawn, then a stretch. “And I really do need to stay,” she said, bringing her stocking-feet up onto the seat and hugging her knees, “got to make a dent in these applications today.” 

This last rose in crescendo, still barely heard over the din of: 

            “CAN I–” 

             “Me-me-meee!!!” 

               “CAN I BE ‘SCUUUSED!?”

“Verra well,” he sighed at Claire with a wink, Bree seizing upon this as permission and tearing out of the kitchen while Jamie dried his hands. “I suppose I’ll don my coat and set off all alone into the frigid—”

“Meeeeee!!”

At last, he took notice of the smallest Fraser, who had been wrapped around his leg. “Why, hallo, YOU.” 

“Go, too?” he asked excitedly in Gaelic, giving a little bounce for emphasis. “Me, too?”

He took a moment to simply marvel. The boy didn’t always choose to speak, but when he did, it never failed to surprise Jamie how much he truly understood of the action swirling about over his head. And to reply to English with Gaelic, forbye! Perhaps it shouldn’t be shocking, seeing as how Ian had been hearing it spoken since birth, but Lord, his pronunciation was near perfect as he begged, “Go, too, Daddy?” 

“Ye want to come wi’ Da to see the horses, jo?” (in English, for Claire’s sake). 

Ian nodded once and beamed, raising his hands expectantly and switching languages without missing a beat. “Go-’IF!”

Jamie gripped Ian’s wrists and let the lad climb up his front like a mountaineer, grinning as broadly as he. “Go we shall, then!” 

“But, shouldn’t–? Jesus H. Christ, I can’t believe I’m asking this, with the chance at a 50% less chaotic day on offer,” Claire laughed, coming to stand with them and rumple Ian’s hair, “but won’t he be in your way?”

“This wee face?” he said, kissing it. “Nay, never.”

—-

It might well be, in actual fact, Jamie admitted as he set the pair off them off for Fernacre. A child of sixteen months was never a simple matter, even as one as generally agreeable as Ian, but having the lad with him was well worth a bit of disruption here and there.

It wasn’t simply Ian’s acuity that had startled him earlier, but that the lad had asked to go with Da. With him. 

His heart melted afresh as he thought on it, as he felt Ian’s head, warm and heavy against his hip. 

Naturally, the singular bond with Claire had stayed strong, even past the time he was weaned. Many was the occasion that Ian would suddenly turn from Jamie and wail for her, entirely inconsolable until he might cry against her shoulder and be soothed by her hands, her voice. 

There was nothing malicious in the preference, of course. Brianna was a never-ceasing demander of energies and was always happy to fill any vacancy left by her brother. Besides, Jamie could see the wee one’s point, for he likewise had a very strong desire to be held by Claire at all times. 

Even so, being singled out himself by the lad was yet new enough that it sent a warm, silly thrill through his chest each time, almost like being a schoolboy again: happily heartsick over his attentions being returned. 

“And if it’s no’ being in love,” he murmured as he slowed the car, palm atop the boy’s head, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

“We-heer?” Ian exclaimed, coming to life and nearly toppling over as he tried to stand on the seat mid-parking. ‘We-heer?”

Scooping him up with one arm, Jamie stepped out into the chill. “Aye, here!” He bent to set Ian down, remembering the great bag of diapering supplies, food, and toys in the back seat.  “Off ye g—”

“Nooooo!” The boy turned violently legless, twisting impressively to avoid touching the ground. 

“Ian, ye–” 

“Hoam-me!”

“Do ye no’ want to walk on your own feet like a big boy?” He already kent well the answer.

His brown-haired lad gave an uncanny impression of Claire’s ‘don’t talk nonsense’ face. “HOAM-me.”

A Sucker he was, wi’ no hope for it whatsoever. He chuckled and sighed, hoisting the lad up higher.  “Today you win, joey.” 

Strange, thinking back now, that he’d gone the first quarter-century of life knowing nothing of Kangaroos.

He’d first learnt the odd word in the days when his appetite for knowledge of the centuries missed had made trips to the library a near-daily event. Australia— what a wonder that place seemed to him! All that vast expanse, filled with such uncanny creatures. A nightmarish beast, this one had looked from the illustration: like a man-sized hare with a great, thick tail, tapering like a lizard’s; eerily man-like in the arms and chest, capable of leaping thirty feet in one bound before kicking one’s teeth in.  

Still, a softer recollection had come straightaway to mind later, when Claire began to carry Ian about the house in a sling on her front. Jenny, too, had worn her bairns, wrapped in a shawl on her back, yet there was something all the more intimate in seeing mother and child nestled chest-to-chest amid the mundane tasks of the day; seeing Claire wrap her arms around him with utter tenderness, whispering soft love; the babe dozing as she worked and moved about, warm and safe in the comfort of her heartbeat, just as he had been in the womb.

Both the nickname and the love of being cuddled had stuck, and it was only sight of the horses of Barn A that coaxed Jamie’s little marsupial down. True-to-form, he hit the stable floor with a hop.  

Jamie made quick inspection of his four-footed charges. No need for mucking out, God be praised; just feeding, watering, and a bit of love for each. He began making his way down the first aisle of eight, Ian toddling along to watch, full of quiet wonder. 

It had been some time since he’d gotten to be alone–mostly alone– with the horses. Nearly all his working days were spent in the paddocks, training the young or new ones; coaching the riders on how they might better work in harmony with the being beneath them. He loved it, took such pride and joy in witnessing the excitement of human and beast alike as they improved, as they bonded.

Yet it brought his heart a different sort of joy, the quieter sort, to be in the stables on a still morning such as this, gentle mist seeming to soften the hard edges of world and word.

They soon reached the last stall on the eastern side. “How goes it, a nighean?” he crooned to Cornflower, who knocked her snout into his shoulder in companionable greeting. 

“Pat him?” Ian asked in the same language, honey-eyes glowing. 

“Aye, ye can pat *her.*” 

Lifted high, Ian gingerly reached out to touch the mighty neck. 

“Morning, Jamie!” 

“The same to you!” 

He turned them to face Tom, who was coming through the door with two steaming cups.“HEY! Look who came to help his Papa out! Jeez, Jamie, when did he get so darn tall?” 

“Tis our constant question, as well!” He set Ian atop a stack of hay bales by Corny’s door and gratefully reached to take the mug. 

Tom winked at Ian. “How you doing today, little man?”

“Hiii,” was all Ian said before covering his face so nothing save grinning eyes showed between hat and mittens. 

God bless Tom Harper, Jamie prayed sincerely as they sipped and chatted, discussing business, the children, all the usual things. Of all the people in his new life, it was Tom that minded him most of Murtagh: always near, always willing, always irreverant, yet always looking after ye from afar. It wasn’t often he thought of it: but knowing that Tom was only ever a call away should emergency strike or counsel be needed of one with more years of experience in the world was an immense comfort, more than Jamie could ever truly express to the man. 

A jubilant shriek erupted from behind them. 

Ian had descended the hay bales and was now right underneath Cornflower’s stall, head thrown back, both hands reaching up to touch– 

“IAN, STO–” 

“Mmmm-wah!” Ian kissed the fuzzy snout, right in the spot between the heaving nostrils. He bounced on his heels, chirped ‘Bye!!’ to her in Gaelic, then ran toward the next stall. 

Jamie crossed the space in two leaps to yank him backward….but of all the wonders, Hector was already at the front of the stall in response to Ian’s command.

“What’d he say??” Tom whispered.  

“He said, ‘Come here.’”

“Whoa….” 

The horse had lowered his neck, inspecting Ian judiciously. Jamie kept both hands around the boy’s ribs, half-crouched in readiness to rip him away at the slightest sign of danger….but as though by magic, Hector nudged his snout deliberately into Ian’s outstretched hands with a tiny nicker, getting an enchanting giggle and kiss in return. 

“Christ in Heaven…..” 

Tom hooted. “I. will. be. DAMNED!!” 

Jamie discovered both that his mouth had fallen open and that his son was already in front of the next stall, charming his mark. He and Tom stayed close, heart still thudding in terror of the inevitable crushed finger or nip on the face, but no….  one by one, each horse willingly lowered their nose for a kiss. 

It wasn’t just heedless affection young Ian radiated: it was instinct, too. For, when Bard put back his ears and snorted, the lad took a tidy step backward, not offended in the slightest. He only gave the brute a cheery wave and moved on to find his next sweetheart. 

“Well done, a bhalaich!” he laughed, giving the lad a squeeze.

“Fanks!” Ian wriggled out without a backward glance, intent on his mission. 

Tom groaned as he settled onto a bench, beckoning Jamie to do the same.  “So little Ian takes to horses a bit more naturally than Brianna, huh?”

“Aye…” Jamie exhaled heavily, allowing himself to sit and relax. “He’s got a way about him.” 

Tom resumed sipping his coffee (Jamie’s somewhere on the floor), watching Ian and chuckling. “You do crank out some damned cute kiddos, Jamie.”

“I do have a damned cute wife.”

They laughed and Jamie’s mind wandered, even as they continued to chat, even as he kept Ian in the corner of his vision. 

Strange, no? How bairns can be so similar in some ways and yet so different in others. Bree, with her warrior spirit, indomitable, was nearly as frightened of horses now as the first time he’d brought her here. This morning she had blamed the coat and the cold, but Jamie knew it was more to do with the great stomping hooves and enormous teeth. Never would she admit fear, of course. She would fluster and put on that wee glower he loved so well, but beneath it, the lass was petrified.

Contrast this with Ian, for all he might be the more quiet and cautious in life as a whole, who showed no fear whatsoever here in the stable. True, he had seen horses before, even ridden one on Jamie’s lap, so there was no factor of shock as there had been with Bree. Still… Strength and courage manifests to each of us in our own way. A comforting thought, in this ever-changing world, no? Unlike Jenny and Ian, he had not one clue how his children might spend their lives once grown, so many paths being available to them. It weighed heavily on him some days– but if they each find their strength, wheresoever it might lie, then surely they shall find their own prosperous path, as well….

Sounds of human and equine unease sent his head whipping round. Merlin, one of the younger horses of this bunch, was standing in the window with no apparent intent to lower his head. Ian was grunting, jumping up and down to get the laddie’s attention with a persistent, “Hiii? HIIIII???” on repeat.

“He may no’ wish to talk just now, Ian.”

The boy whirled eagerly and pointed back up over his shoulder. “Up, Da?” Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted over, eyes bright with urgency. “Da, Up! Up, ‘kay?”

“I think you’d better pick him up, Jamie, before he blows a gasket,” groaned Tom as he stood, heading toward to door to continue his day. 

“Take it easy, Tom,” he called. 

“You do the same!” 

“Daaaaa, UPPP???“

He heard Tom’s infectious laugh vanish into the distance. 

–

“Easy now,” he murmured to the horse in Gaelic as they approached, reaching out his free hand to carefully rub the long, white neck. Merlin blew out through his nostrils. “Aye, I ken, your wizardship, ‘tis a bit unconventional, but the wee thing just wants to say hello, aye? Can ye find it in your heart?” 

“No scary,” Ian promised. 

With sudden inspiration, Jamie rifled in his coat pocket and held out the contents to the wary brute. “And what say ye now, friend?”

Merlin held back a moment for dignity, then descended upon his treat. 

“W’ ‘is ‘it?” demanded Ian, back to English in his curiosity.  

“Give me your hand—“ Jamie pulled the mitten off with his teeth. “Cup your fingers like a wee bowl, aye?”

Ian peered into his palm.“…..’Is ‘at, Daddy?” 

“'Tis a sugar cube. Shall we see if he’d like some more?”

Ian’s eyes lit up and he swiveled around toward the horse so suddenly he dropped the cube. Once resupplied, he held his arm out at full length, bellowing, “Hiiiii!”  

Ian squealed in delight as the huge lips and teeth explored his hand. “Mooorr-Da!”

Many, many sugar cubes later, Jamie crouched to set Ian on his feet, but the lad  flung his arms about Jamie’s neck with an insistent “Nnnhhhh!”

“Christ, you’re truly naught but a barnacle wi’ legs!” Jamie gave up, kissing the boy’s capped head. “If I ever thought your sister was a cuddly sort, there was no fathoming what was to come, wee jo.”

“Moor-coops?” Ian asked, popping up to search Jamie’s face.

Jamie checked his pocket, coming up with one last sugar cube. Ian didn’t miss a beat. He took it between his fingers, said ‘Heer-Da,’ and pressed it firmly against Jamie’s lips. 

“You’re a sweet one, a chuisle,” Jamie said, crunching the sugar and kissing the hand. “And you’re lucky the horses didna chomp all your wee fingers off—!!” 

Ian squealed as Jamie made play of gobbling them up, his little belly shaking with giggles so deep he began turning red. 

“Allllllright, lad,” Jamie soothed after a time, before the lad exploded, “we’d best be going.” 

“Go home?” 

“Nay, no’ until later. We have three more barns to check, yet. Let’s hope ye have enough kisses left in ye.”

.

He did. 

#Anonymous #Flood my mornings #FMM Chapter 73 #;mod Bonnie

[ardenssolis]

@miinune​​ replied to your photo:

❛I promise that one day we’re going to meet again, and I’ll be the one protecting you instead.❜ reaching forward to hook their pinkies together. grin offered as well even if they’ve reached the end of their time together. the war is over sure, but it doesn’t make things any easier. she’ll miss the loudness of his laughter, and the tiny little exchanges as well between them that for a moment she wants to give up that wish. ❛I’m going to miss you.❜ It's hard to not lose her cool, but she does it.

     THERE WERE TIMES THAT even he was left speechless by Meilin’s actions as well as her words. No matter how proud he was, no matter how much he proclaimed his godhood or that he was the ‘King of Kings’, ultimately, at the end of the day when reality hit…he was a tool. Ozymandias was but the afterimage of a man who had once existed: the real, living and breathing Ramses who had proudly ruled Egypt for countless years. He might as well be but a phantom placed in this world with memories of what once was, of who he had been when the world overflowed with mana and the gods overlooked the masses until their eventual parting. A magus would have perhaps been mindful of themselves, speaking honeyed words and treating him as a he desired just so he could bring their wish into fruition (that was to be expected of the weak). Meilin, though…she was not a magus, nor was so fully human. That mana was powerful, too much so for one who was born in this era even among the greatest of magi.

     Even with that in mind…she had been so dreadfully human -- perhaps even more so than he had ever been. There was something about her that had made him fight earnestly for her sake to grant her that week of peace and normalcy that she craved in all its fleeting joy. Her pinky gently held his own, the touch so foreign to him, but also nostalgic. It was not this that held his attention, however. It was her words that came next. ❝You wish to meet me again?❞ Had any summoner ever said that to him? He wished he could recall if there had been others like Meilin, or if she was her own unique presence in this sea of people. Still…did any of that matter? ❝You ridiculous woman.❞ His gaze softened; warm and devoid of usual haughtiness as he tightened his hold just slightly with his pinky. In these final moments, he would show his true face – not the king who stood before her, nor the Servant capable of great destruction that could level cities.

     Just Ramses.      Nothing more than this.

     ❝I suppose it is fine for a king to be protected sometimes rather than doing the protecting. I will allow it just for you.❞ There was no greater joy for a Servant than to know that they had left a mark upon the living. The pride he felt was beyond what he did towards his own accomplishments in life. Those were superficial in comparison to this journey he had walked in this life with another: one who had proven to be worthy of doing so beside him rather than behind. He had frowned when he saw this era and saw what became of the world that he had wished to rule until the end of time. But, if people like her existed… Leaning forward, he took her face into his free hand, forehead gently resting against hers. ❝Live your life beautifully, Meilin. Do not forget that have earned the blessings of a king. So, carry on with pride. It was well earned…❞ He gave her a  smile, soon fading away into a mist of gold that drifted in the wind.

#[icb I'm being attacked like this right now amg #-DRAGS HANDS DOWN FACE-] #miinune #;v: summoned forth #;;hgw #;master : meilin #answered #;;inbox

[three-houses-text-files]

byleth/ingrid

c-s support + paired endings + night of the ball

c

Ingrid: That’s the third time this month. I: Well, that's that. Father never relents. I: Oh, Professor! Hello! Did you need something?

>Were you just hiding something?

>What were you doing just now?

I: Well, um, that is... I was just tossing out something I have no need of. It's important to keep our spaces clean, after all! I: You'd do well to remember that too, Professor! A clean space makes for a clean mind...or some such. I: Getting rid of things you have no need for is the first step to managing one's belongings in an economical way.

>Could you help tidy my room sometime?

I: Certainly, I'd love to. Just say when, and I'll be there in an instant! (post-skip?)

I: While I'd love to help, I don't want people getting the wrong idea with me being alone in your room. (pre-skip?)

>Are you the thrifty type?

I: Does that surprise you? Perhaps it seems ill befitting someone of noble birth to care about such things. I: Despite my family's nobility, we've never been particularly wealthy. I: So my father raised me to be conservative with my resources, paring down when necessary. I: He also encouraged me to keep my living spaces immaculate, so the two go hand in hand, I suppose.

>He sounds like a good father.

>He sets a fine example I'd be happy to follow.

I: Yes. He's...a good person. I: Even when managing our territory used up most of our family's resources, he still went out of his way to ensure my comfort. I: I think he'd be happy to hear you say that.

>What was it you threw out, anyway?

I: Oh...just a scrap of paper. I: It was already written on, so no good for note-taking. And obviously I can't use it to clean my lance. I: So I tossed it. No need to hang on to inconsequential things, you know! I: Professor, did you come to check on me for any particular reason? I: I hope Sylvain and Felix aren't getting into trouble as they tend to do.

>No particular reason, no.

>I just wanted to talk with you.

I: Ah. Well, if there's nothing important, I'll be on my way, then. I: I still have some cleaning to take care of, after all. Talk to you later, Professor.

——————————————————————————————

b

I: Ugh, will Father never learn?! All of these useless letters are only creating more rubbish in the world! I: It's strange to think I won't be receiving any more letters like this... I: Professor? Ah, I didn't see you standing there. My apologies.

>Was that a letter you were disposing of?

I: Oh, ah... That paper? Well, I...yes. Yes, it was. I: It was a letter...from my father.

>Are you sure you want to throw it away?

>Isn't that important to you?

I: I understand where you're coming from here, but I have no need of such things. I: It isn't like anything of importance was written on it. I: Curious? I suppose there's no harm in allowing you to read it. Go on, then.

My dearest daughter, Ingrid,

Are you well? I trust that you are behaving yourself and refraining from causing trouble for others.

Things on the home front are in order. The marriage proposal for you and the viscount's son should be prepared soon.

Although I am quite certain there are many superior candidates at Garreg Mach Monastery.

As you know, the very survival of our family is dependent upon whom you marry.

You are the only one left in the family who can make things right. We are all counting on you. Do not lose sight of what truly matters.

>This is...

>A letter about marriage prospects?

I: Yes. This was the last letter I received before leaving the academy. (post-skip) I: Yes. Perhaps you found it somewhat entertaining. (pre-skip) I: I've told you that we've never been very well off, financially. I: My noble family—House Galatea—branched off from House Daphnel in the Alliance. I: Shortly after, we were lucky enough to receive the support of the royal family, allowing us to attain nobility...to some extent. I: But the territory we watch over is poor, its harvests meager. And our noble blood, too, has grown thin. Neither my father nor my brothers bear a Crest. I: I, however, do bear a Crest. Because of this, my father sees me as our family's one hope for the future. I: A Crest is highly prized among nobles. Were I to marry into a greater noble family, that financial support could soothe our woes...

>I can't believe he would use you like that...

>What an awful way for him to treat you...

I: Thank you, Professor. Your sentiment alone is a great comfort to me. I: Despite my own feelings, I understand why he said these things. It isn't that he doesn't care for me. (post-skip) I: Despite my own feelings, I understand his approach to all this. It isn't that he doesn't care for me. (pre-skip) I: I understand it very, very well. Which is why I... I: I apologize, Professor. I must be going.

——————————————————————————————

a

I: Apologies for bothering you so late. I just...really wanted to speak with you.

>I'm happy to listen.

>If you must.

I: Thank you. You see, I've been feeling conflicted. About my future. I: It may seem petty to worry about such things in the middle of a war like this...

>I don't think it's petty.

>Let's hear it anyway.

I: This isn't something I open up about with many people. I: Feeling such a sense of inner turmoil while a war rages on and others are fighting with all they have, well... It feels a little selfish. I: The truth is, I've wanted to be a knight ever since I was a small child. I: Not just any knight, like one you might find serving within the castle guard, but a true knight—one serving a master. I: However, my father has always had different plans for me. He wants me to marry, for the benefit of the Galatea family.

>You don't have to do what you don't want to.

I: Defying my father feels...wrong. I've seen how he's struggled over the years. I: His burden has always been far greater than any I've had to bear myself. I: While he fed me extravagant meals, he subsisted on meager portions and watered-down soups... I: He never once complained—even though he must have been starving. I: Knowing his sacrifices, I've never been able to tell him of my dream of becoming a knight. I: Although ultimately, I find myself betraying his wishes. I: Now that I have parted ways with my father, there is nothing to stop me from pursuing my dream. I: Now that this war has begun, my father has allowed me to fight for my homeland. I: But even if I do become a knight, I feel an unease deep within me. I: I fear I will never escape this guilt I carry. I: That I have shunned my duty as a noble.

>Sometimes there's no avoiding such complications.

I: Yes. I know. All I can do is accept this inner turmoil.

>Could you not find a way to do both?

I: To follow both my dream and my duty? I...I had never considered that as an option. Perhaps there is a way.

>It's no use worrying about things that are in the past.

I: Of course not. We cannot change what has already come to pass.

I: Even with the academy days long behind us, you're still a professor, through and through. I: Always listening to others' troubles and offering up your wisdom. I: I really am grateful for all that you do for us, Professor. I: I hope you'll always be here as a guide to everyone. I know I myself would appreciate that deeply…

——————————————————————————————

s

I: Is something the matter? You seem lost in thought.

>Just taking a little break.

I: I know you've been very busy lately.

I: It's wise to take breaks and rest. Especially with all that is going on in the world...

>I was waiting for you.

I: Oh? I didn't know... Though that is a bit of a coincidence.

I: I came here in hopes of finding you. I had a feeling you might be here.

I: Actually, I...um... I wanted to speak with you about something. I: I-I promised myself I would wait until the war was over...

>What is it?

I: Well. I: Professor, I have feelings for you. I: Of course, I respect you as a person, and I'll understand if you can't love me back, but...still, I had to tell you. I: Though my focus has ever been on my duty and training, I cannot deny the feelings that have arisen. I: My dream is to attain knighthood, but now I have a new dream to hold tight to... I: That is to be with you, always.

>...

I: Um... I...

>I have something for you.

>There's something I want as well.

I: Oh! Is this... I: I must say I'm a little...inelegant with such matters. Battle is all I know. Are you quite certain? I: You truly desire to share your life with me... I: I am so happy! I...I worried that my feelings would go unrequited. I: Now that all of that is out in the open, I feel as light as a feather! I: My love... I... I: I swear to stay by your side, always. I swear on the goddess above...and on you, here at my side. I: You and I, together, entering this new age. I: No matter what the future brings, I will stand by you, as your sword, your shield, and your dearest companion. I: There is nothing that brings me more joy. It truly is all I need in this world. I: I love you...so very much. I: Ah, I'm sorry! I'm overcome. This may take some getting used to.

——————————————————————————————

paired endings

Byleth announced his marriage to Ingrid shortly after becoming leader of the United Kingdom of Fódlan. Together they made great strides toward restoring Fódlan to its former glory and beyond. Though Ingrid contributed to the court in her position as queen, she also famously guarded her king in a physical capacity. Most well-known is how the "Warrior Queen" drew her own weapon to repel an assassin's blade meant for her husband, a tale which lived on in chivalric storybooks for generations.

Byleth announced his marriage to Ingrid shortly after succeeding Rhea as the new archbishop. Together they made great strides in helping to restore the Kingdom of Fódlan to its former glory and beyond. Though Ingrid provided counsel to the archbishop as his wife, she also earned renown as a Holy Knight of Seiros. Most famously, she parried an insurgent's blade with her own weapon just before it struck the archbishop's neck. Tales of the archbishop who ended the long war, and his valiant wife Ingrid, lived on in storybooks for generations.

When the war at last came to an end, Byleth and his wife, Ingrid, relocated to her hometown. Galatea territory had been seized by the Empire, but the emperor granted Ingrid's request to retain governance of it. She and her husband were initially received with skepticism, but together they worked hard to reform the territory and address its food shortages. Through hard work, pure grit, and a truly knightly dedication to the people, they were able to transform the barren landscape into what would, decades later, become known as the most fertile grounds in all of Fódlan.

——————————————————————————————

night of the ball

I: Whew, I can't manage one more bite. So full... So full! I: Oh! Professor! What do you think you're doing here?! I: I came here to stuff my fa—I mean to have some ME time.

>I sort of followed you...

I: You mean you saw that just now? All the food? Everything?!

I: Ugh, so embarrassing... Maybe there's a nearby rock I can crawl under.

>No reason, really.

I: Oh, so we're just running into one another by chance, then. Phew.

I: If you had followed me here, I'd be a little...bothered. And probably embarrassed.

>Were you waiting for someone?

I: Who, me? No, no, of course not. I was just about to walk off all that food I just ate. I: Really, I came here to have some privacy. I: But you're here now, so I suppose that makes it a bit less private.

>Are you worried people may get the wrong idea?

I: I suppose there's that possibility, now that you mention it.

>Just the two of us...

I: Uh...well, yes. I suppose it's just us here...

I: Does that concern you too, Professor? I'm happy to return to the reception hall.

>It's not terribly concerning, really.

I: Of course. Nothing to see here!

I: I'm happy to keep walking off this food, in that case. Ah, the stars certainly are beautiful tonight, hm?

I: It's peaceful, looking up at them together, don't you think? Maybe we can do it again sometime.

>I'd love to come along.

I: If we return from here together, I worry that people would start unsavory rumors about us.

I: I don't concern myself with gossip, but I'd hate for it to mar your reputation in any way. Are you certain?

I: Fair enough. Let's head back, then.

#fire emblem three houses spoilers #fe16 spoilers #fe3h spoilers #byleth x ingrid #ingrid x byleth

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 11

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Well, there’s pining. And hopefully some wise words about pining. And then there’s pain and not just a little bit. I’m talking “get your tissues, chocolate and wine”-sort of pain. Sorry (actually, I am...just a smidgen), I didn’t even write the adult action I had planned, only hinted at it.

11. Words unspoken

There is little time once the decision has been made for you to talk with Loki. Envoys from Vanaheim are introduced to you by Odin, and together with the royal family they begin to shape your future by inventing an entire life for you to assume as your own until one day, hopefully, your quest in Sjöblik is complete. By the gods…what’ve I gotten myself into? Yet each time doubt stirs, you only have to think of the squalid life of so many Midgardians, recall the lies being told to those who fight and those left behind; then your determination returns.

Days are spent in a haze of lessons (pretending to be an Alfheimer requires a minimum of understanding for the language although no one in the Midgardian court should speak it), hours standing still for tailors, and long nights studying the history of both of the nations concerned. All while at the same time maintaining you physical prowess. Sleep comes sparingly, but deep although an occasional dream has you waking up sweaty and with a throbbing need you cannot sate.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

The last night come to soon. Although Loki has done all he can to ensure the safety of [Y/N], he still feels frustratingly powerless. Soon she will be beyond his reach, his aid, on a mission that might separate them forever, and although he wishes to then he knows that he has no right to stop her from going.

All I can do is pray that she returns. Staring into the dusk, he’s only vaguely aware of someone approaching.

“My son,” Frigga’s melodic voice works like a calming balm, “why do you seek solitude rather than join us for dinner?”

There is no doubt in his heart that the queen already knows. In many ways is she the wise one in the royal couple, choosing to observe quietly before jumping to conclusions. It is a method both Loki and Thor have been exposed to while growing up, more often than not finding themselves exposed in the middle of some trick by their mother before anyone else had realized that they were up to anything. Not that it would not have been fair to assume at any given time as the two princes always were causing some ruckus.

Still he tries to pretend all is fine. “Needed some fresh air, mother.” When she does not leave, but comes to stand beside him, looking over the colourful lands, there is little he can think of to put her mind at ease. “It is wonderful to be home again. Smell the sweet air of Asgard. I do love it here.”

From the corner of the eye he can see the gentle smile that curls Frigga’s lips. “You always have had a preference to the sweet and gentle things in life.”

It is peaceful, in a way, to stand there as the sky darkens above them. I suppose she is right, the Jotun king from Asgard muses. The fragility of a flower or a butterfly’s wing captures his attention much more than the wild snowstorms and dark winters that his kin favours. He can find comfort in the cold, of course, but his heart only fills again at the sight of the first green leaf.

“Love is a peculiar thing and too often do we fall short of capturing its essence in our symbolism.” Frigga is not looking at him, just talking to the night and the stars above that are beginning to appear. “We use precious stones to symbolize undying love, but diamonds are hard. Cold and jagged. No, the real symbol for love, if you must use a dead object to represent it, is a pearl. They are rounded, almost soft as you hold them against the skin. And you need to nourish it, work to keep it warm or it will begin to lose its luster, my child, love requires work and dedication every day or it too will fade.” Finally turning to face him, Frigga takes his hand. “But do not forgo the work. When you have found your pearl, do not dismiss it.”

Loki has no words, they are not needed anyways, he simply allows himself to be folded into his mother’s arms as if he were a little boy once more.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Even amongst all these friendly people who have taken to you as much as the mission, the room feels empty when your former captor is not there, and so you only breathe easily as he rejoins the boisterous dinner. Dinner. To the Asgardian this appears to be nothing special. Apparently, they dine like this every night, and according to the few servants you manage to question it is hardly more lavish than the meals of the common folk. Sure, there is a greater variety on these tables, but that anyone should starve while the court feasts? The very notions seems absurd to them. It’s possible. If they can do it, then so can we!

But still, despite knowing that no Asgardian is hungry tonight, you find it hard to enjoy the food. Excusing yourself early, you cling to the hope that there is peace to be found in sleep…though the explanation given is the need for rising early in the morning due to the long road ahead.

Naturally, Loki offers to walk you to the guest chambers, and you are partially thankful for it as you still find the golden palace difficult to navigate. On the other hand, the silence in the endless hallways decorated with marble, gold, and crystals becomes oppressing as neither of you dare to speak, and so you make it all the way to the door before you open your mouth.

“I want to –“ you begin, but Loki has chosen that exact moment to talk as well. A few confused seconds pass before you nod, smiling shyly at the awkwardness. “Please, you first, Loki.”

For a second, he looks lost before seemingly reaching a decision. “Perhaps I should apologize, little mortal, for taking you prisoner.” A sly twinkle is brought back to his eyes.

“Hardly! I came looking for you.” It is hard to keep a serious façade at this odd conversation. “Besides, you haven’t exactly treated me badly. So don’t worry, you can sleep without fear of blame.”

Wanting to end the night on this lighter note, you turn to leave.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Catching her hand, Loki stops [Y/N] on her way into the chambers she’s been given for the stay. ”Perhaps so, but I would hate to see you captured again. Stay out of trouble.”

The crooked smile manages to brighten her eyes. ”I always behave, my king.”

You are the embodiment of trouble, little pet. The teasing smile, the way she tilts her hips to enhance the sender waist under the thin fabric…all of her stirs the predatory side of the Jotun and calls forth a rumble in his chest, eliciting a breathy gasp in response. There is no fear in her pretty face, though, only playfulness as she retreats through the door.

”Are you claiming innocence, my pet?” His feet carry him after the slender figure.

”Maaaybe…why don’t you find out?”

The door falls shut behind Loki with a flicker of magic just as he pounces for her. But the little Midgardian is quick, avoiding his grasp and leaving only a giggle behind for him. The little minx wants to play? We can play.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Feeling Loki’s cool limbs around you and listening to the quiet humming, there is no place you would rather be. Well, that is not entirely true, of course, because right now it would be nice to be back in Utgard…but still. You know you could be content anywhere as long as you were near him. That is why you feel safe in spite of everything. It is why your heart is breaking from the thought that you will have to be apart. Not right now. You force the thoughts away, wanting to cherish the afterglow without any sadness, and eventually Loki’s humming brings you to rest. Your limbs are wonderfully heavy, the heat that had coursed through you diminished by the strong and slender figure pressed against you, and you can feel how you are balancing on the precipice of sleep. A soft kiss is planted on your shoulder (one of many), before your king nestles his face in your hair.

”I love you.”

It takes a moment before the words truly makes sense in your drowsy mind. Once they do, however, they elicit a million emotions with each their own response, and in the confusion you do not manage to say anything. All you can do is cling on to Loki because what he has said is the very thing you feel aching in your bones, running through your vein. It is the air in your lungs and now that is has been spent on the words it is as if you are suffocating. He makes room for you as you turn to you back and supports himself on the elbow to hover above you, face so near his raven strands are brushing against your cheeks mixed with the flint and pine-scent. There is fear in the god’s eyes.

“Oh Loki,” you manage to whisper, your heart breaking, knowing a world of pain is waiting, “I love you too.” The joy your answer sparks is bright, flaring like the sun on winter snow. “Please forgive me.”

Already, he is showering you in tiny kisses, but he stops at the taste of salt water on your cheeks. “Forgive you? What for?!”

As if in a trance, you see your own fingers stroke his cheek before burying in his hair. “I’m yours. For as long as I live…but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? I don’t want to cause you grief, but unless you can push these feelings aside…” Angrily, you wipe away some of the tears from you face. “You should find someone…s’m’one like you.”

“But it is you I want, my dear.”

Loki has trapped you in a cage made of his body. Knees by hips and hands by head, his frame is both a shield and an obstacle to overcome in the hopes of staving off the worst blow.

Sniffling, the determination you had hoped for is slowly conjured. “I’ve considered it. I know that you’ll outlive me, so spare yourself the pain.”

“What if there was a way?”

The deep sigh wafts through your king’s hair. “This isn’t like…like learning to read or –“

“Yes or no! If there was a way, would you let me love you?” A fire is blazing in his eyes that you never have seen before. “Would you stay with me?”

“I’d be yours as long as you would have me.”

“Then come back to me and I swear I will have found a way for us to live full lives together.”

#all is fair in love and war #loki x reader #loki x you #Loki #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki medieval/fairytale au #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Laufeyson x reader #loki odinson #Loki odinson x reader #odin #thor #Thor Odinson #frigga #queen frigga #jotun loki #loki series #loki semi au #loki pining #loki angst #loki love #asgard #midgard #jotunheim #utgard #vanaheim #loki fanfic #mcu #mcu fanfiction

[thebeethathums]

Company of Friends

Sam and Dean x Reader (platonic)- One Shot Songfic- Company of Friends-Danny Schmidt

Warnings: Reader is dead and there are feels. No gore but I supposed could be triggering

When I die, let them judge me by my company of friends Let them know me as the footprints that I left upon the sand Let them laugh for all the laughter Let them cry for laughter’s end But when I die, let them judge me by my company of friends The Impala rushed down the road, eager to be far away from the terrible reality. A silence settled over the car like it rarely did- no music blaring from its speakers as Dean put all his focus on the road with a death grip on the wheel and Sam looked out the passenger window with a clenched jaw. In the air that rushed by, Dean swore he heard your laugh the one filled with squealed joy and ground his teeth as he fought back the tears pressing at his eyes. Never again. That laugh was gone and had taken with it the soft melodic giggles and the teasingly purred chuckles. All of it was gone.

Sam suddenly let out a soft, sad chuckle, the noise laced with nostalgia, and Dean responded with a low warning growl, “What?” “Nothing,” he shook his head, “Just remembering.” “Remembering what?” Dean pressed, a hint of hopeful curiosity under the overwhelming grief-fueled anger. “The day we met her.” A soft bittersweet chuckle bubbled up from Dean’s chest as he recalled you standing over a decapitated vampire with an almost giddy grin on your face, calling out a cheerful, “Hiya,” to him and Sam, He’d never told Sam but when you came to free them from their bonds you’d leaned in and purred in his ear, “Shame. I like the look of you all tied up.” His heart had nearly stopped then and there. You’d just patted his cheek with a sly grin and laughed that happy unrestricted laugh. He let out a more solid chuckle and then immediately frowned when he remembered he’d never hear that laugh again. When I die, let them toast to all the things that I believe Let them raise a glass to consciousness And not spill a drop for grief Let the bubbles rise at midnight Let their tongues get light as thieves And when I die, let them toast to all the things that I believe When they couldn’t bear the quiet anymore, Dean pulled off the never-ending trail of asphalt and parked in front of a bar. Neither brother said a word, sliding out of the car and slamming their doors in sync. There was no scolding from Dean for treating his baby roughly, no disappointed look from Sam over Dean’s inevitable drinking, only tense silence as they strode into the bar and claimed a shadowed booth away from the crowd. No beers for the Winchesters tonight. No. It was a hard liquor night. A night to drink until the pain faded and they could remember and then drink some more so they could forget. Dean just stared into the thick golden liquid as if trying to find some hidden message in the bottom of his glass and Sam cleared his throat, “She wouldn’t want us to act like this, Dean.” The older brother nodded, you’d always hated it when they got broody and dark, and then raised his glass with a forced smile that came across as more of grimace, “A toast then- to her life and the times we shared.” “To her,” Sam echoed, raising his glass before both of them drained their glasses with a toss of the head and a flick of a wrist. Quiet again. Sam wondered if the quiet had always been this agonizing or was it just the absence of your cheerful chatter that made it seem that way. In the end, it didn’t matter, he realized, fingering his empty glass as Dean waved for another round, either way, it seemed wrong. A tiny smile curled at the edges of his lips as a memory sprang up in his mind- He and Dean were researching and you’d burst into their room belting Warrant’s Cherry Pie at the top of your lungs. You’d leaped on to one of the beds and pointed at him as you sang, “I scream, you scream- we all scream for her. Don’t even try ‘cause you can’t ignore her.” Dean was quick to join you, jumping up on the bed to dip you down as you kicked a leg towards the ceiling. Sam had been unable to stop a laugh from escaping his lips and later, when you were laying on your stomach next to him, humming the same song, he’d asked you, “Why?” Your answer was simple, delivered with a grin, “I hate silence. It’s boring.” Returning to the present he looked up at his brother, hesitantly venturing in a low voice, “She’d want us to remember the good times…” Dean nodded, ruffling a hand through his hair and then running a thumb over his lips before meeting his brother’s eyes, “Then let’s remember. For her.” I believe in restless hunger I believe in red balloons I believe in private thunder In the end, I do believe Sam started, downing another throat burning swig before clasping his fingers around the empty glass and humming, “Do you remember that time she woke us up early and made us take her to the zoo three states over? ‘I can’t sleep. Too restless,’ she said, yanking you off the bed and throwing your clothes at you. Even hit you in the face with a shoe.” Dean chuckled, a distant look in his eyes, “She never could sit still. Even after I agreed to get ready, she was bouncing all around the room like a sugar-high hummingbird. Then you both made me listen to that British crap the whole car ride there.” “The Beatles aren't crap, Dean. Besides, you loved it.” “She was so happy- singing her heart out and leaning over the back of the front seat. It was hard to be upset,” he defended, cocking his head to the side before giving it a little shake. “We got there and she was out of the car like a bolt of lightning. I had to run to keep up with her and when we finally did, she slapped a red balloon on each of our wrists as she scolded us for being slow. Then she looked up with that grin, tugging on the strings to make sure they were secure…” “ ‘So I’ll never lose you guys,’ “ they quoted in sync. In the end, it had been them that needed to be worried about losing you. Isn’t that always the way. I believe in inspiration I believe in lightning bugs I believe in slow creation In the end, I do believe There was a pause as another round of drinks was procured and Dean shook his head, “She could kick some demon ass in total seriousness one second and then giggle over something so small and seemingly innocent the next. Remember that time in Kansas? We stumbled out of that run down building covered in blood, dead vamps everywhere, and what did she do? She bounced off to chase a damn lightning bug.” Sam let out a soft laugh, “Caught it too. Right in the middle of that field next door.” “The look on her face when she looked up and saw that there were near a hundred more…” “Priceless,” Sam breathed. Dean finished another drink, chuckling, “Her eyes went so wide I thought they were going to pop out of her head...Did she ever tell you what she whispered to that lightning bug before she let it go?” “Nope. You?” “Nah. Every time I asked she just said it had another bigger purpose- another moment in life waiting to be created.” Dean’s gaze focused on the table, the image of you, caked in blood, cradling the small creature in your hands so carefully as your lips trusted it with a secret neither of you would ever share flashing through his mind. You’d seemed so innocent, lifting your arms up to the night sky a moment later to let the little ball of light resume its short life with a soft secretive giggle. A quiet settled over the table as both brother’s eyes glazed over but it was different from the one that had weighed down on them before, their minds taking them on a journey through all the memories that there would never be enough time to share aloud- even if they talked until they were grey and old. I believe in ink on paper I believe in lips on ears I believe what's shared is savored In the end, I do believe Dean’s inner mind played the images like a flickering home movie projected on a tattered sheet, the memories of moments of content and joy amid a life of hardship seeming well loved and worn. He watched you writing a letter, the ink smudging across your fingertips and your tongue peeking out of your mouth as you struggled to keep your handwriting more legible than your normal rapid scrawl. You always loved writing letters when you could and Bobby and Ellen must have hundreds of them- little snippets of history waiting to be made, you claimed. Even he and Sam each had a small stack of letters tucked away in the Impala’s trunk. You wrote one for each of them at least twice a year with the stern instruction not to open them until the date written on the corner of the envelope. You’d made them pinky promise. The image changed and he could almost feel you, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you pointed out how you could prank Sam one slow winter morning. You were a ball of energy most of the time but you could always fall into a secretive quiet when you wanted to. Whether it was to plan some greater fun, to seductively purr teasing phrases, or just to preserve the silence for a moment on a hunt, you would drop your voice and bring your lips to his ear, letting the words caress the curve of it like a sweet summer breeze carrying the notes of some harmony from off in the distance. It never failed to send a shiver down his spine. With a soft flicker, his mind brought up you stealing a bite of his pie and then running off before he could retaliate. He’d been so angry at first- no one messed with his pie- but that grin on your face eventually broke him down... that and the fork you threatened to jab into his arm. You always stole just one bite of his pie every time and when he’d finally asked you why you’d responded, “It tastes that much sweeter when you have someone to share it with.” I believe in work on Sundays I believe in raising barns I believe in wasting Mondays In the end, I do believe Sam’s mind fell into a similar state, calling up his own memories of you on his own personal silver screen- his life with you in moments important enough to him that only this medium could do them justice. You pouncing on his bed like a child at Christmas, trying to get him up and moving on, what was supposed to be, a lazy Sunday, took its place on the screen. You stole his blankets, tickled his feet, hit him with a pillow, and finally dragged him limb by limb off the mattress, standing over him once you’d dragged him to the floor. You’d put a hand on your hip and exclaimed, “Come on, you giant moose. Demons don’t laze about on Sunday’s and neither should you.” The next day the situation had been reversed, he and Dean had had to try and talk you into getting out of bed with such little success that it was actually embarrassing. Dean had given in first, having moved to take your blanket and instead found himself pulled on to the bed with you. He was easily persuaded to stay when you snuggled into his side with a sleepy yawn- his own tiredness making it hard to say no. Sam had sighed, “God, Dean, when did you become such a pushover?… Come on, (F/n). What happened to demons don’t laze about and we shouldn’t either?” You’d simply yanked him into the bed with you and Dean, mumbling, “That was Sunday’s. Demons definitely laze about on Monday’s.” I believe in intuition I believe in being wrong I believe in contradiction In the end, I do believe Dean startled when his little brother suddenly wondered, “Do you think she’s watching over us? Where ever she is?” The older Winchester had never been one to believe in an afterlife or heaven- with all the things they saw it just didn’t make sense in his mind- but at this moment, he hoped he was wrong. Something in him felt like just this once he could admit that there was something more, even if it went against everything he believed in. “Yeah, Sammy. I think she is.” I believe in living smitten I believe all hearts will mend I believe our book is written By our company of friendsCompany of Friends-Danny Schmidt

#Spn #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam and dean x reader #angst #grief #sadness #dead!reader #reader insert #reader #reader-insert #fanfic #fan fiction #songfic #thebeethathums #platonic #friends #FEELS #all the feels #winchesters x reader #company of friends #danny schmidt #dean x reader #sam x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #sam winchester x you

[youngestgeneral]

OC Week - Someone Else’s OC

Written for Iroh’s beloved younger sister Crown Princess Shiko @firenationprincess-shiko, a fully fledged and vivid character; a delight to read, an even greater joy to write with.

(Avatar OC week was delayed, but at that point this was already mostly written, so we’ll consider this an early submission for when it returns!)

Iroh had seen many crowded harbors, certainly, but even the busiest paled in comparison to this.

Vessels of all sizes and nationalities towered over his schooner, its petite mast flanked by an array of polished woods on one side and metals on the other. Above him, sailors shouted confusedly as their boat was maneuvered into place at port, and guests exchanged loud, informal pleasantries from their respective decks. It was a process Iroh was well acquainted with, and he experienced a familiar tug of nostalgia for his past life when he too would be docking twenty large vessels flying the emblem of the United Forces.

But he no longer commanded such a fleet, and that suited the ex-General just fine. While people of greater rank dealt with the turmoil, Iroh, on the other hand, navigated just his modest schooner, with happy white sails tied securely to the rigging and a powerful little motor. The Crosswind Commander was painted upon the starboard in a decided blue, and Iroh’s fingers traced the same lettering into his thigh, absentmindedly, sea roughened hand snagging on the gentle linen as the other nudged the wheel. He’d been there when the words had been painted. He’d done some of it himself.

Past the widespread docks for commanding vessels were a few strips of shallower stations for boats of his size. Iroh navigated into his designated spot at the front- it had not been reserved by nameplate, or prior notice, but it was the nearest one to the slender figure in red. And although his pulse beat rather rapidly to see she’d come to greet him herself, the smile he gave her as he quieted the motor wasn’t forced anymore.

Iroh leapt to the wooden dock, slippers padding expertly along the fine planks so that he could tether both ends of the boat before turning towards her.

“Mom.” He leaned to kiss each cheekbone, in the style of the Fire Nation.

Flashing, golden eyes evaluated him from behind sharp spectacles. “Iroh.” Briefly, she touched his jaw, looking him up and down, starting and ending with his eyes. A smile showed on her lips, one to match his own. “You look happy, darling.”

“And you look- relieved,” he jested tentatively, allowing her a nudge while they began their ascent, flanked by two of the palace’s finest, who had the decency to stay far enough away as to not eavesdrop. “Does today signify a weight off your shoulders, then?”

“Quite the contrary, if I’m being completely honest.” Izumi’s fingers lifted to rub at her eyes, easing her glasses away in a practiced gesture. The moment afforded Iroh enough opportunity to evaluate her, the deeper set wrinkles in her face and the increasing gray streaking in her hair, noting- a little guiltily- that she seemed older than other women of her years. Life had taken no prisoners with its treatment of the two of them. “I don’t think I’ve slept for a week, at least not soundly. And when I do, I have these horrid dreams.”

Iroh grimaced, empathetically. “And Shiko?”

“Even she seems a little less- demonstrative- than usual.” Worry tinged Izumi’s words, and Iroh stopped their walk- almost immediately, the guards halted too- to take her hand. Bony, he noted, wrinkled and cool, with thick callouses from the pen; her own laborious work. He fingered one of them, absentmindedly.

“She knows the weight of what she’s taking on. She respects it.”

“Mm,” Izumi breathed, dismissing the subject with the singular sound alone. Instead, she glanced back over her shoulder towards the Crosswind, just barely visible amongst the forest of masts surrounding it, perhaps reminded by a pungent gust of the smell of ocean carried towards them on the breeze. “And what of your husband, Iroh? I assume he’ll be attending?”

“He had other business, but should be here shortly. Took off with his glider, and left me behind to supervise the schooner- and my jealousy.”

A corner of her mouth twitched. “That seems characteristic.”

Iroh didn’t argue, and instead opted to continue their way upwards from the docks, and towards the familiar private trolley that would carry them through the switchbacks and to the volcano’s ridge. Around them, attendees passed them by without a second glance. Iroh and Izumi, consciously or not, had opted for a rather inconspicuous aura themselves. Izumi in her austere robes, and Iroh in his Acolyte’s clothes.

So, Iroh continued his mother’s silence, wondering vaguely if she wanted to argue- or if she feared what had happened the last time she’d called Shiko’s worth to become the Fire Lord into question. Iroh had slipped; he’d grown angry. And she’d actually cowered.

He shuddered, cool even beneath the scorching Fire Nation sun, and pushed thick, messy hair from his eyes.

“I didn’t know what to bring,” he told Izumi quietly as they boarded the trolley, seeking a change of subject. “I didn’t know how you wanted me to dress. What you wanted me to- represent. I thought I’d send a hawk, but then I- couldn’t find the right words with which to inquire.”

Izumi eyed the rich draping golds and oranges that was his attire. “Those are ceremonial Acolyte robes?” She inquired, in the tone that said she already knew she was correct.

“They are.”

“Then you’ll wear those, darling.” Again, her fingers reached for him, threading the thick locks back into place like she had when he was a boy, to soothe, to reassure. Iroh’s throat tightened. How he missed the gesture sometimes, missed it even when he was determined not to, when he was determined to hate her and everything she’d forced upon him because for so long he’d been the only one who could do it. “You’ll wear those,” Izumi told him again. “And you’ll represent your new nation.”

“I’m still-“ a resentful spark, which he quelled quickly. “I’m still Fire Nation, too, Mom. The Acolytes do not demand rescission as much as they want cooperation.” Iroh held out his hands, palms upward, to emphasize. “It’s how Aang wanted it; how he structured it. He wove those ideals into the foundation of the culture he resurrected.”

Her response was curt. “I know about Aang. And I know you are still both, Iroh. But will the press interpret it that way?”

“I don’t much care what the press thinks, if I’m being completely honest. I’ve catered to them enough since my retirement.” Iroh leaned back onto the padded caravan seat, gripping the linen that covered his knees, and wished for his husband’s companionship, if nothing else to shield from his mother’s judgment and insinuation. Certainly, Iroh could wear his Prince’s robes again, if he didn’t afford it too much thought. He would even wear his crown for Shiko’s sake. He’d do just about anything for her. Today was her day, after all- a right she’d wrestled from his grip one behemoth of an argument twelve years prior.

The Acolyte chanced a look back at his mother, only to find that Izumi’s face had tightened as she peered out the narrow window.

“What are you thinking about, Mom?” He inquired gently.

She gave a weary sigh, that spoke of years of worry- at least twelve, though Iroh suspected more. “She’s still so unruly, Iroh. She’s temperamental; she’s tempestuous. I just hope this isn’t a grand mistake.”

“It’s not,” Iroh told his mother, a little more severely than he had intended, and leaned away, peering out his own window, to offset it. “Shiko is good. She’s better than all of us. She’ll be a change of pace for the Fire Nation, certainly- but she’ll be a superb leader.”

“You’ve never lost faith in her, have you?”

“No. I never doubted her."

This time, it was Izumi who reached for his hand. “She’s glad you’re coming, you know. Wouldn’t give the subject rest for a month.”

“I’m glad to be here, too.” He gave his mother a bit of a remorseful smile. “Considering that it was supposed to be me out there, it’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, Iroh,” Izumi sighed, and he let the conversation rest there without further provocation. Perhaps he wasn’t imagining the apology in the way she’d said his name just then, or her regret that so many of the horrid things had happened between them. Perhaps she even regretted not giving him the option to rescind the throne sooner, regretted her letters to him as barren as his had been back to her after he’d enlisted, or maybe she just regretted birthing a child so troubled in the first place. Regardless, he’d take it.

-

The palace was warm and bustling with activity, guests entering through a couple of the larger entrances like ants parading to a bag of spilled fireflakes. Iroh and Izumi opted for the back entrance, walking arm in arm, if for nothing else, tradition’s sake. Izumi dipped her head in time to the bows from attendants. Iroh merely cast his eyes aside.

It was as they approached Shiko’s dressing chamber that Izumi’s arm began to slip.

“You won’t be coming in?”

“I think she’d like to see you alone,” Izumi commented, wisely. Iroh gave her a grateful nod.

He entered the room to be barraged by a flurry of stimulation; the reds of her upholstery, and a loud shriek- for all of which, Iroh had been preparing himself.

But he hadn’t prepared to see her in the robes yet, the marriage of ceremonial plate and heavy velveteen cloth that was only worn on such occasions, the shapes he’d seen on both his mother and grandfather many times, but never on her. His feet stilled while he took her in.

“Iroh!” Shiko squealed his name again, from her spot upon a dressing dais maneuvered to the center of the room, where attendants were arranging the fabrics. Her fingers balled into excited fists, and she made to take a step, before glancing hesitantly towards them. “I- may I-”

One of them nodded, albeit begrudgingly in Iroh’s opinion.

Shiko leapt from the platform in a flash of reds and flung herself towards him. Iroh caught her, staggering beneath the weight- he’d forgotten how heavy the ceremonial pieces were. He could remember, vaguely, testing them for himself. He’d done it only once, when he’d been much younger. They’d been so heavy, he’d commented in awe. Too heavy for any one man.

“Careful,” he said of the plate that ascended to a graceful point upon her shoulder, holding her close nonetheless. “You’ll put somebody’s eye out.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Shiko whispered against his chest, in that way she had that made it sound as though she weren’t really sorry at all, and Iroh laughed soft mirth against her.

“I’ve missed you, angel.”

She just tightened her grip.

Iroh looked over her head, towards the attendants. “We can handle it from here,” he told them, assessing the only piece that remained, an intricate Obi he could more than likely figure out from experience alone. The attendants didn’t hesitate at the inflection in his voice.

Iroh disentangled his sister slowly, taking her pointed chin between his fingers and nudging her gaze up to meet his, scrutinizing her, worried. Beyond the heavy ceremonial makeup and her high knotted hair- beyond every way she resembled a Fire Lord, he wondered if she were a little afraid.

“Iroh.” Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet, delicate fingers twisting in his linens. “There are so many people out there-“

“There are.” Iroh kissed her forehead. “Can you believe so many guests came just to see me?”

“Oh- quiet, you!” Shiko shrieked again, and hit him across the arm, serious demeanor forgotten. “You would, I don’t even know why I’m surprised- Mom told me there would be a huge crowd, but I didn’t ask her to quantify it, but then Grandfather said it’s more than attended even her own, and I’m so nervous-”

Iroh rubbed the spot on his arm fondly while she talked, relieved to see her chattering once again. Frankly, he’d worried what he’d find behind the door- for years now, if he were honest. There had been nightmares, dense and troubling ones where he’d pulled himself from sticky sheets to call her, just to hear her voice, just to hear her say she was certain, Iroh, for Agni’s sake she swore she was, about taking the throne after all. Even his waking mind conjured fiascos, one after another, as the months withered away to the coronation. It had been all Iroh could do to stay sane.

“Izumi told me she hasn’t slept,” he contributed quickly as Shiko stopped for air.

She merely gave a practiced roll of her eyes. “Yeah, but Mom never sleeps. I actually asked for her routine once, and honestly it’s amazing Grandfather lets her lead at all with her own bad habits. Personally, I told her it was ridiculous, that when I’m Fire Lord I’m going to need sleep, and anybody who wants me between the hours of eleven and seven can just wait in my chambers- what?” She inquired finally of the way Iroh’s lip had twitched.

“I’m just so proud of you, angel.”

She tried her own condescending scoff, though her cheeks had reddened enough to be visible even beneath the thick coat of makeup, and Iroh touched one, gently. Adoringly. Unlike their mother, she’d barely aged a day since that night twelve years back, the night of his rescission, where she’d saved him from this fate. He still loved the way he could cause her to blush like this, much as he adored each manic bit of his sister as a whole, really.

“Where’s Bumi, anyway?” Shiko asked, peering around Iroh’s broad shoulder as though his husband might be hiding just out of view. “Don’t tell me he’s doing that awful noble thing where he’s letting us talk alone, because I swear if he is my first decree as Fire Lord-“

“No, no, he’s not,” Iroh interrupted, before she could follow up on the threat. “You know I wouldn’t have stood for that. He flew off this morning to help Katara’s boat into port. I maneuvered in the Crosswind solo.”

“But he’ll be here?” Her doe’s eyes looked up at him, beseechingly, and he had to laugh.

“Yes, Shiko. He’ll be here.”

“And the two of you will stay after, too?”

“For a while.” For as long as he could manage. “We’ll sleep in the schooner.”

“Oh, I’ve missed nights in the Crosswind!” Her face lit up. “Could I join you?”

The Acolyte hiked a skeptical brow, though he could never deny her something so innocent. “The Fire Lord’s first night, spent in a little schooner in the bay?” He resisted ruffling her sleek, knotted hair- it looked as though it had taken the attendants some time to get it in place. “Izumi would be furious- but of course you may.”

“Yeah, well.” Shiko swatted away his objection with a practiced wave of petite fingers. “She won’t be the Fire Lord anymore. What can she say?”

“Still a lot, I’m afraid. Besides, if we keep chatting all day, the two of us will miss the ceremony altogether, and then you won’t have anything to hold over her head.”

“Good point.” Her eyes widened, comedically, and she leapt back onto the dais, turning towards the three elegant mirrors that had been set up in front of her. To survey the transformation from each direction.

Iroh plucked up the Obi from the hanger where it had been set in preparation, slipping it around her front and knotting it. He clutched especially roughly on the delicate material to keep his fingers from shaking, from giving him away.

But maybe she knew, or maybe she just suspected as much; Shiko too must have been feeling the weight, for she remained uncharacteristically quiet as Iroh carefully wrapped the ultimate garment around her. And when he finally gained the courage to look up, past her shoulder and into the mirror, she was watching her own reflection in bewilderment.

Slowly, she turned. “Well, how do I look?”

Iroh merely swallowed, fingers stuffed none too neatly in the accommodating pockets of his linen robes. He hadn’t wanted to finish her outfit. He’d have liked to have put the robes back in the closet instead, and dress her in something far more modest, like one of the cheery goldenrod dresses she’d used to wear when the two of them had been children. He’d have liked to take her to the gardens and send her off to play with the turtle ducks, or to the markets beyond for a cone of ice cream that would dribble over her fingers on the walk back and turn her all sticky. Had he wanted to put the finishing touches on her Fire Lord’s robes? Quite the opposite.

Shiko’s fingers found his hair, so similar to the way his mother had touched him on their ride up, although hers were smooth, and lacking the callouses of her trade. Not for much longer, though. “Iroh?” She asked delicately. “Have I finally rendered you speechless?”

A heat bloomed in his cheeks. “You just look- Shiko, I can’t believe, after all of this-”

“I know. I know, Iroh, it’s so amazing!”

His befuddled look at her was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, and this time it was Izumi who saw fit to enter.

“It’s time, you two,” she told them, and Iroh’s pulse began an unsteady thud.

He turned to Shiko to see another confused whirl of red; she’d flipped up a sleeve in her hurry to embrace him. It was warm, and tight, and he returned it with vigor, unable to breathe, or think, and certainly unable to keep his fingers from trembling.

“Why does it feel like I’m giving you away at your wedding?” Iroh breathed into her hair.

She laughed against him. “You’ll have to fight Dad for it- I say, one thing at a time.”

“Fair,” he told her, although it wasn’t, it had never really been for either of them.

Finally, they pulled apart. Her face was set, determined- not emotional, not sad, not joyous either. It was the face of a Fire Lord, he realized, feeling rather cold without her proximity.

“Good luck, angel.” Iroh met her golden eyes, eyes he knew to be twins of his own, and held her gaze steadily. “I’m infinitely proud of you.”

“I know.” She appeared as though she wanted to say something else, but stopped with a gentle grin instead, walking towards the door, and then halting- a legend in the making, balancing upon the precipice. “See you out there?”

“Right behind you, I promise. I’ll be there the whole time.”

The rustling of her robes gave way to Shiko’s departure, leaving him alone in her changing room, and Iroh dropped his face to his hands while the emotion overtook him. Grief, pride- it didn’t matter, the tears slicking his fingers were all in the same. It was as though he were sinking, slipping into a thick pool of icy guilt. He gasped for a breath, and then one more when the first did not see fit to take, and pressed his fingers against his eyelids until he saw flashing spots of goldenrod yellow.

But this room would offer him no peace, nor would waiting. Before, Iroh had thought it would be better not to watch her walk out onto that dais in front of the hundreds of guests. But the walls were suffocating here. This wing held nothing but bad memories, anyway.

Iroh spared the room no backwards glance as he stepped after her.

The chattering of voices amplified on his route towards the ceremonial courtyard where the coronation would be held, as did the sheen of sweat upon his brow. Iroh caught up with his sister just in time to watch the last moments of her embrace with another man. This one too wore the vivid ochres of ceremonial Acolyte robes, and Iroh poorly resisted a grin; even years later, his husband had not become accustomed to the longer wrappings of an Airbender. That suited him just fine.

He stepped up behind them in time to catch Bumi’s hand. Calloused and rough, he noted. Just like his own.

“Our girl’s grown up,” Bumi commented, voice thick with emotion, while Shiko spared him another roll of her eyes. His face was weather beaten, the just-trimmed beard and hair windswept and mussed. The way Iroh liked it. He squeezed Bumi’s fingers.

“I’m not sure how it happened,” Iroh returned, quietly. Shiko had turned to Izumi now, and was nodding, uncharacteristically serious eyes directed upon the Fire Lord’s face. Her last lesson as Princess. “Perhaps when I closed my eyes. Or as I slept. Somehow, she became this- Fire Lord.”

“You sound proud,” Bumi pointed out.

“I am.”

The Airbender laughed a deep, rich sound that spoke of his years and multitudinous joys, hair moving gently in his own manufactured, indoor wind. He smelled of a musky cologne and smoked Water Tribe jerky and home.

“Did you get enough time to talk with her?” Iroh asked, eyeing the twin, slender frames of the women to their right.

Bumi waved away the question with his free fingers. “Just for a quick kiss. A word or two of good luck.”

“Just that?”

“Oh, Iroh.” Bumi turned dazzling blue eyes upon him, moistened by his own emotion. “It’s not as though she’s going anywhere! We’ll see her after the ceremony. We’ll see her on the Crosswind. We’ll see her when she comes to visit the Temples, when we visit the Palace in return. This isn’t goodbye, you silly man.” They all took a step forward, and Bumi rose his voice over the cheers of the crowd as, somewhere in front of them, Iroh’s grandfather stepped out first onto the stage. “Not at all, in fact- It’s just the beginning of another adventure.”

Iroh couldn’t help his own smile. “I like the sound of that.”

#inazumashiko #; ch

[moonlitgleek]

Anonymous asked:

What was going on in the Tower of Joy. I am so confused by it. Why did Rhaegar leave THREE King's Guard with his baby mama and one teenager with his wife and lawful heir? 

Because it seems that Rhaegar did not take into account the possibility of defeat. 

Rhaegar had put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but . . . well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

In his mind, he’d have ridden to the Trident to crush the rebellion then returned to call a Great Council and overthrow Aerys. So Elia and the children, inside the Red Keep and surrounded by guards if not Kingsguard, weren’t in danger as far as he was concerned. That, of course, leaves Aerys but Rhaegar was fighting for Aerys and so was Dorne so Aerys had no reason to harm Elia or the children. Their stay in the Red Keep might not be pleasant (or by choice) but Rhaegar probably did not see a pressing danger in it as long as his father saw that Rhaegar was fighting for him. By the time their presence within Aerys’ reach could turn dangerous (when Rhaegar put whatever plans he had into motion), Rhaegar supposedly would have been back and in place to remove Aerys without posing a danger to his family. Of course Rhaegar failed to take into account his father’s unpredictability and the extent of his paranoia into account, and what that could lead him to do. Indeed, Aerys randomly decided that the loss at the Trident was because the Dornish had betrayed them and refused to send Elia and the children to the relative safety of Dragonstone which ultimately left them at the mercy of the Lannister forces, but oh well.

Note that Rhaegar’s belief in the prophecy has to be taken into account here as well because it’s probably what underlay his conviction of victory. He firmly believed that his children were the three heads of the dragon and meant to save the world, so it’s entirely possible that he believed the same magic that foretold the birth of the three heads of the dragon and that would bring the dragons back would ensure the safety and survival of his children, prophesied saviors that they were. That might have played into his firm conviction of his victory, and could explain how his plans to “protect” Lyanna were equally suspect, or why he committed so many glaring blunders without a thought to the consequences. If you have prophecy and magic on your side, what could possibly go wrong? 

For a guy so fond of Summerhall, you’d think he would learn something.

Why, after most of the Royal family was killed because of poor guarding, did they not go to the new King, and pregnant dowager Queen who were actively being percussed? 

Some argue that this is the biggest piece of evidence of Jon’s legitimacy and that the Kingsguard were there to protect their infant king. I disagree, because a surprise legitimacy reveal would be a deus ex machina that loses Jon’s story a lot of its narrative weight. And because even if Rhaegar took Lyanna for a second wife (probable), that does not mean their marriage was legal or would be recognized by anyone. More importantly, Jon did not have to be trueborn for the Kingsguard to be assigned to protect him.

Some kings thought it right and proper to dispatch Kingsguard to serve and defend their wives and children, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins of greater and lesser degree, and occasionally even their lovers, mistresses, and bastards.

Of course we then run into one main obstacle: Rhaegar was not king. He never was. But Rhaegar was also not king when he instructed the Kingsguard to stay in Dorne to “guard” Lyanna instead of fulfilling their duty to the king they were sworn to obey

The first duty of the Kingsguard was to defend the king from harm or threat. The white knights were sworn to obey the king's commands as well, to keep his secrets, counsel him when counsel was requested and keep silent when it was not, serve his pleasure and defend his name and honor. Strictly speaking, it was purely the king's choice whether or not to extend Kingsguard protection to others, even those of royal blood.

Aerys was facing an active rebellion that the Kingsguard vows compelled them to defend him against but the three Kingsguard eschewed their duty to the king and followed Rhaegar’s orders instead. So, in practice, Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower had all but treated Rhaegar as de facto king. They sat out the rebellion because Rhaegar told them to remain at the Tower of Joy, so remain they did. That says much about the allegiance of the three of them to Rhaegar’s person, which falls in line with what Yandel tells us about the state of Aerys’ court in recent years and the factionalism that permeated it between those loyal to Aerys and those loyal to Rhaegar. Arthur Dayne was an open supporter of Rhaegar whereas Oswell Whent is speculated to have been involved in whatever scheme was supposed to take place at Harrenhal. Our knowledge of Gerold Hightower is more limited but it says a lot that the Lord Commander didn’t return to fight for the king but stayed behind where Rhaegar instructed him to stay.

So the Kinsguard stayed with Lyanna instead of going to Viserys because  Rhaegar ordered them to, and dead or not, their loyalty to him remained.

(And to be fair, Aerys was murdered by his own guard, while Gregor Clegane scaled Maegor’s Holdfast to get to Elia and Aegon at a time when the city was crawling with an overwhelming number of Lannister soldiers. Those are not good odds for any Targaryen guard.)

Why, when Ned, Howland, et al, finally came for Lyanna, did they fight. It was her brother and a bunch of Northmen. I assume they had a Stark banner. Yeah, if it had been Robert, I’d have been worried, but it was Ned and his buddies. It wasn’t like an army, it was 9 guys, they could have talked for five minutes. Ned wasn't going to hurt Lyanna or her baby.

Yeah, that’s one of the reasons many of us question Lyanna’s assent to remain in that tower and just how “willing” her stay was. According to GRRM: 

The King's Guards don't get to make up their own orders. They serve the king, they protect the king and the royal family, but they're also bound to obey their orders, and if Prince Rhaegar gave them a certain order, they would do that. They can't say, "No we don't like that order, we'll do something else."  

Which by no means absolve them from the responsibility of choosing to follow Rhaegar’s orders even in defiance of their knightly vows, btw. It’s not like their vows render them physically incapable of defying the king. That was still a choice on their part.

But the fact that Ned had to cut his way to Lyanna’s side does not give the best impression of Rhaegar’s orders to the Kingsguard or speak of Lyanna’s wishes being respected or taken into account. It is quite possible that the Kingsguard were not sure of Ned’s intentions: after all, Ned was one of the leaders of the rebellion and the three knights had received the news about what happened with Elia and her children, and who knows how accurate or comprehensive the account was. They might not have known that Ned spoke against the crime or quarreled with Robert over Clegane, Lorch and Tywin escaping punishment - indeed, he left King’s Landing to lift the siege of Storm’s End and accept the surrender of Lords Tyrell and Redwyne so in their eyes he was working for “the Usurper".

However, my issue with this is that they chose to meet Ned sword-to-sword (using their vows to justify it) without even attempting to suss out his intentions, or you know, listening to the sister who knew that her brother would never hurt her or her baby. Lyanna clearly trusted Ned and had faith that he’d help her protect her child so it’s not like the Kingsguard had no grasp on who Ned Stark was or what he was capable of. Even if they did not fully trust Lyanna’s account due to her age, illness or general familial bias, surely escorting Ned to her under guard wouldn’t have cost them anything. Or a conversation that wasn’t centered on how the Kingsguard do not flee and that’s why they were fighting the guy who only wanted to get to his sister and who was literally pushed into war, on the assumption that he might just turn out to be a kinslayer after all. I’d have hoped that three of the finest knights in the land would have enough moral judgement to recognize the position Ned was in, his family murdered and his sister missing for over a year and a half. He was only trying to reach Lyanna (who may have been yelling for him, if that part of his fever dream is correct.) Ned did not want to fight. He was sad about having to fight the Kingsguard but they were giving him no choice to get to Lyanna but to cut his way through. The fact that they were keeping him from his sister and that they were complicit in carrying her off means that the onus was on them to prevent bloodshed. 

That is all to say that the Kingsguard gave more weight to Rhaegar’s orders - which seem to have been “no one gets past. Period” - over the needs and wants of the dying woman inside the tower who, if nothing else, deserved to have her brother by her side when she died and deserved to have the comfort of knowing that her baby was safe with her beloved brother, instead of taking her last breath as another of her brothers was cut down outside her door.

And what was the plan for them? They didn't know Lyanna was going to die (unless that was the plan), so what where they planning on doing with her and the baby? WTF King’s Guard guys? (you write the best meta so I thought I’d ask if you could help me understand.)

It would have been clear by the time Ned made it there that Lyanna was dying but I really have no idea what their plans were after that, if they had any. My best guess is that they would have taken Jon and crossed the Narrow Sea to Essos, though their reaction to Ned telling them that Willem Darry did exactly that with Viserys and Daenerys could be a counter-indicative to that. But I don’t know what else they could have done.

(Sometimes I entertain the possibility that Davos’ words about Cortnay Penrose “trying to yield with honor.... [e]ven if it means his own life" apply to these Kingsguard, hence their words about how the Kingsguard do not flee. Not that that would have been any better because killing Ned’s companions to accomplish that does not make them honorable, it only makes them awful. Idk, just a thought I had.)

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #elia martell #rhaegar targaryen #lyanna stark #ned stark #the kingsguard #rhaegar's folly #rhaegar and lyanna #the tower of joy #aerys targaryen #arthur dayne #oswell whent #gerold hightower #robert's rebellion #consent issues

[chiliadicorum]

Two Dead Husks and a Random Mithrandir

A/N: This is my gift for @datcilly for the @tolkiensecretsanta2017! A fic between two friends is what I came up with. Gandalf and Elrond were requested, with some fluff and fun. This kind of turned out with a little less fluff and fun than originally planned, so I hope you don’t mind that too much! But I loved writing this and hope it’ll make you happy if just a little bit! Merry Christmas! :D

(If reading on my blog is difficult, let me know and I’ll give you a link to a better page)

He had been sitting on that stretch of hilltop for at least an hour. Prone as he was to losing himself in his musings, he was not so lacking as others as to lose sense of the passage of time. And even if so, his grey palfrey happily obliged to remind him of the nearing midnight hour, growing more annoying with each persistent nudge to his shoulder with her muzzle. She did it again and Elrond leaned away, glaring up at her.

“I know! I know we must go. Stop reminding me.” He eased his voice to gentleness, too fond of the horse to be too flustered, though he still refused to pet her. Maybe she just wanted an apple. Maybe it was a sign that the living beings in Valinor were softer than those in Middle-earth, because he could swear that their horses and other such endearing creatures were more demanding of treats than in life before. Or maybe he was just being bitter.

“Elrond, Elrond, where has your warmth gone?” The familiar voice came from behind, warm itself and carrying great fondness.

Elrond frowned as he twisted around. “Mithrandir?” he said with a little surprise and in no little confusion. He had not seen him since their disembarking on the bays of Tol Eressëa all those years ago, when the joys of reunion for himself and all those who sailed with him had grown rapturous and the Maia had gone his own way. Elrond stared at the whitened hair and full beard, at his stooping frame and the wise, olden features of his face. His frown deepened. “Why do you yet clad yourself in that form? Say not you cannot leave it.”

He added the last more in jest and Mithrandir chuckled, shifting his robes before lowering himself to hunker down next to him in the ankle-deep snow. “Hardly. But in my true form, even as I appear to you mirroanwi, you would not be speaking with one whom you know, would you?”

Elrond gave a small smile. “Think you I am so shallow?”

Mithrandir’s own smile deepened, reaching up to his bright eyes. “Ah, I have missed you, my friend. And no. But I know from my Ages of dwelling with you Elves before my coming to Middle-earth that it takes some time to adjust, even though it has been years. For all your life, my People were but names recorded in your lore and seeing us in person is quite different, even one whom you saw in likeness of a Man.”

“It has been years.” Elrond glanced suspiciously behind him at his mount, who was now leaving him be and just swishing her tail. “Years since last we spoke, long enough I no longer count the years.”

“Years you deserved to rest in with your Celebrían,” he said warmly. “But come, you did not answer. What do you here all alone? Are you not supposed to be in Lórien?”

“Yes.” Tension he had not even been aware had left at the Maia’s arrival returned swiftly and it was an effort to not let it rise to the surface.

Mithrandir regarded him calmly, his eyes shining in that all too perceptive way Elrond was never sure if he liked or not. “Hm. Yet you are not.”

Elrond glanced at him and resisted a sigh, looking back out to the sight of legend before him. “I had a disagreement with Lord Irmo’s Master Healers.” He could not resist the sarcastic lilt in his voice. Yes, petty, but he was alone, unhappy, sitting in wet snow in the dead of night, so he did not care.

“Oh? Care to share? You know I will listen.”

Elrond lifted an eyebrow at the tone, the small smile reappearing. “You sound as if you already know.”

“Perhaps I do, but I can see it festering in you. You know talking relieves much restlessness, if you want to.”

“No.”

Mithrandir let out that subtle, rumbling chuckle deep in his chest, one so familiar that it sent Elrond off kilter for a moment. “Oh Elrond, so long has it been since I heard you so aggravated.” He looked both amused and endeared at the same time. “I will speak of it no more tonight, save only to lecture you to be of greater cheer. The Merendë Andohrívëo is in three days and your current mood is hardly one of celebration.”

He sighed truly this time, in chagrin and a little tired. “I know. I am returning to Tol Eressëa to spend it with Celebrían. Gil-galad wrote he is planning a few hearty festivities of his own, so I look forward to it.” He squinted off into the distance, contemplative. “I am surprised Lord Irmo allowed me to leave. I was hardly polite and I do not believe he approved of my departure, at least in the way I did it. I know not if I am angrier with him or his healers.”

Mithrandir squeezed his shoulder. “I would say his healers for I know Lord Irmo better than you, but let it go for now, my friend. Take joy in the festival and try to spend it in peace.”

Elrond nodded. “Hence my return to Tol Eressëa.”

“And quite the detour you are taking to see yourself there, if I may say, riding this far northward.” Mithrandir turned to him fully, his expression turning serious, maybe even a little concerned. “Why did you come here? This is hardly a place of celebration, or a place to inspire such.”

Elrond looked back out to Ezellohar, at the two dead husks of gigantic proportions standing coupled together on their mound mantled in white. Even from this distance Elrond could easily discern which one was Telperion, for its shade of color was a little subtler, a little more grey even in death than that of Laurelin’s. No one was here, the vast expanse of snow undisturbed save where he had guided his horse. The snow was falling slow and steady and he knew there was a solid layer of it on his hair by now. His exterior was as cold as the snow he sat unmoving in, his clothing soaked through and his rear growing numb, though whether from the position or the chill he could not tell. The Two Trees alive and dead were visions he could only ever conjure in his imagination. While that was still true for the former, the rottenness and gnarled scarring in their lifeless husks went beyond anything he had envisioned and were hardly a sight to induce any good feeling. Mithrandir was right. This was no pleasant place, even in the peaceful snowfall of winter.

“Elrond?”

He gave a small shake of his head and his voice was soft. “Think not it is something profound, Mithrandir. This is not my first visit to Ezellohar, though it is in winter. I was merely curious, trying to guess at the sight of the Two Trees in all their glory during this particular season. How their Light might shine in the snow, in the snowfall….It is a wondrous sight to imagine.”

Mithrandir regarded him for a long moment, pursing his lips. “Winter did not exist in their lifetime, Elrond,” he pointed out. “You are a master of lore as few others. I should not have to tell you this.”

Elrond smiled fully at his laconic tone, his heart lightening. “I know that,” he drawled. “Elladan and Elrohir asked it when they were only three.”

“Did they?”

“Yes.” The smile remained, turning into one of soft affection. “When they learned that Glorfindel had lived in the Light of the Two Trees, they pestered him for details, as far demanding what it looked like during the winter months. In which Glorfindel then explained that there was no winter, which my boys could not understand, which then led Glorfindel into having to explain just why there was no winter.” He harrumphed. “Fathom clarifying that to two children of only three years. He did his best. I cringed. Erestor laughed. It was a good day.” Warmth spread through him at the memory. “I just recalled it all of the sudden today.”   

Mithrandir’s voice was tender. “You miss your sons.”

Elrond looked away, hands briefly clenching where they were wrapped around his knees. “Of course I do.” He was quiet for several moments and the lance of pain was sharp in his chest. “It feels so long now that I cannot speak. Nor does Celebrían, but I know her heart, the turning of her thoughts. There are times I am furious I did not remain, regardless of how worn I was. Furious with myself I did not drag my children onto that ship with me. All of them.” His chest tightened and it was all he could do to keep it all at bay, just all shoved down and away. “Arwen decided to stay. My boys know nothing but Middle-earth and their love for those lands is great. A love I know, for I would have stayed a while longer if I had not been so weary.” He closed his eyes tight, the swelling in his chest moving up to his throat and he forced in a deep, shaking breath. “It has been so many years.”

“Many ships have yet to come. I am sure Glorfindel will convince them to board one if they are uncertain. Do not despair yet, my friend. Though you picked a fine place to dwell in despair if such was your goal. You always were good at that.”

Elrond found himself grinning in spite of himself and he looked at the other in mild appreciation. He shook his head, trying his best to shake off the melancholy. “You Maiar do not help. I have seen it enough, one of you approaching an Elf or another to tell them of family who is sailing. Whenever I see one I find myself expecting, hoping the message is for my wife and me, only to discover that it is not.” He paused, turning a curious glance on Mithrandir. “Is it always like that? You coming to us Elves?”

He nodded, beard bristling. “When someone is sailing, the Valar will send one of us to bring the good tidings to the Elf’s friends or family, simply to ensure that they may be greeted by someone known to them when they come ashore. To be escorted, if you will, into this new land and people.”

Elrond was nodding, turning his gaze back out to the Two Trees. “A courtesy any host would bestow upon newcomers.”

“Precisely. That it causes such joyous reunions is but a coincidence, you understand.”

He snorted in good humor. “Coincidence, sure.” Mithrandir’s soft laughter warmed him and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Is it also a coincidence you bring such tidings to them on days of festivity more often than not, such as the one in three days and others throughout the year?”

“No. Can you name better days for such announcements?” He grinned cheekily, which quickly relaxed into one more sincere. “It gladdens us when we may deliver true means of celebration. We brought word to your sweet lady of your own voyage across the sea during the Merendë Yavanniëo and she mayhap remembers it every year after on the day.”

Elrond looked over in mild surprise, eyes softening as he thought. “She did not say.”

“No matter.” Mithrandir suddenly stood, evidently not bothering to shake off the snow from his attire, instead holding an aged hand out to him. “Rise, Elrond, and return you home. Sitting here alone with only morose thoughts for company and after what happened in Lórien does you no good. The Merendë Andohrívëo is in three days. Go and make merry with those friends and family you do have with you at the moment. If you continue your journey now, you will just make it.”

Elrond grasped the hand and rose, brushing himself down from the clinging snow, though there was none to sweep off his rear seeing as all of it had melted into his leggings. He raised his eyebrows at Mithrandir, a glimmer of amusement brightening his eyes. “Is that why you are here, to shoo me off?” The palfrey clopped forward at a gesture and he made quick work of clearing the dusting of snow from her back. He mounted, adjusting the saddlebags back into balance.

“Well, you were not listening to your friend.” He gestured towards the palfrey and she jerked her head up with a snort, as if in agreement. “I could only encourage her so much before she began to grow annoyed with me.”

Elrond made a face, though he patted at her neck fondly. “She is annoyed easily.”

Mithrandir reached out to fondle her snout as he looked up, his grey gaze solemn. “If you find it within you to hear me, put your quarrel in Lórien behind you for the nonce. Let it not soil what joy you may find this week, dear one.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Elrond grinned. “Celebrían would not let me remain so sour as it is.” He bowed his head. “Farewell, Mithrandir. I hope to see you again. Soon and more frequently, mind you,” he added pointedly.

He chuckled. “And happily so, Child.” He jerked his head eastward past the Trees. “Off you go.”

And he did. With a fond smile and a wave, Elrond clicked his tongue and the horse responded, going slowly at first to descend the slope of the hill.

Mithrandir stood there, snow dancing around him as he watched him go, riding on and on until he was barely visible in the haze of white. He nodded to himself, humming under his breath. And then his form shifted, growing brighter, taller, both younger and older, beautiful of cosmic proportions and eyes of such radiance they eclipsed that of the stars.

He hummed again in consideration. “And perhaps a fellow Maia with news will be visiting you in three days,” he said quietly. A smile creased his ethereal face even as he faded from sight, the scent of apples and mint lingering on the air.

Merendë Andohrívëo: Winter Solstice celebration, lit. “Festival of the Gates of Winter”

Merendë Yavanniëo: “Festival of Yavanna”, taking place in Autumn or in our September

Mirroanwi: incarnates, those “put into flesh” [Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth MR.350]

#gandalf #elrond #lord of the rings #tolkien #tolkiensecretsanta2017 #datcilly #fanfiction #gwedhiel #merry christmas!

[aureliavalmont]

THE WORLD — aurelia valmont, 3rd in line to the throne, in summary.

FULL NAME — 

Aurelia Josephine Liviana Valmont.

Names are chosen for all sorts of reasons, on any normal day, for any normal babe. The problem, of course, is that this is not a normal babe. This is the only daughter of Septimus Valmont, and as the priests gather to bless the name of the princess, King Septimus is tired. Still, her face is as beautiful as her mother’s, even in infancy, and it inspires her father to emerge from boredom into a modicum of enthusiasm. He names her for her beauty, Aurelia, for he’s always wished his own name had some grand meaning, rather than being the equivalent of numbering your children so you won’t forget which came first. Why bow to such wretched tradition? After all, Septimus could have been named Primus for all the good it did the first heir of his generation. On a whim, he named her something gilded or maybe gold, and hoped for her to turn out as pretty and vapid as he’d been, before the burdens of the world were placed upon his shoulders. Any daughter of his should be gilded, no? Even if the gold may only be a film to cover rot and decay, she would always have her filigree, and would always be permitted to harness it.

After that, he meandered. Josephine, for his favorite aunt as a child, for she’d died young and the former king had not spared the resources to bring her back to life. He spared no thought for his bride, who had carried the babe to term but was given no option to name her themself. They were as powerless as the daughter they’d provided him, and he cared not for their wishes, not enough to notice them, at any rate. He might have stopped there, but as he looked down into her now-peaceful face, at last stopping crying after being separated from her mother, he smiled a little melancholy smile. He remembered all too well what it was to grow up in the lap of luxury and know the crown would never fall onto his head, despite what he became. He remembered with fondness and chagrin how his second-born sibling had trailed after the heir, always wanting to inherit, never understanding what a burden it would be. The second-born’s life is defined by the heir’s, he murmured gravely, bending down to pretend she could understand him as his thumb brushed her ruddy cheek, if I recall correctly. He cooed at her a moment, and her lashes fluttered as though she was dreaming, maybe even of him. Ah, yes, I know exactly what to expect from you. And so he named her Liviana, because it was for the envious, and he expected her to know its taste on her tongue before she knew how to say the word. He could not know, of course, that she would grow to know nothing of the kind, never coveting anyone’s life but her own, for she knew instinctively that one did not need to be heir apparent to know their own worth.

King Septimus could have continued, as each priest and noble in the room waited on him to do so, but he grew tired of the game. Even life and death had become such to him these days. Her life was nothing more than an opportunity for him to reflect, in the end, on his siblings and their demise. Absently, he pressed a whiskery kiss to her forehead and declared her a Valmont, and it was recorded with the rest for the purpose of their royal history.

THE READING —

— Future (Upright)

You are the relief that comes at the end of a long and winding project, the comfort taken from the knowledge that it’s done well, and the sense of completeness that brings. You are a circle that has no beginning, a closed circuit of a girl with her hopes settled and dreams nothing more than a memory, for what you want is now in hand. You are someone defined by your goals, yet comforted by reaching them, on a larger scale or even day to day. The journey has been hard, but you have been rewarded with the celebration of your achievements, and you understand that your responsibilities exist, but do not inhibit your joy. You carry with you a sense that every step of the journey has made you smarter, stronger, or wiser, and even when your path was lonely, there has always been a light at the end of your tunnel. The light is you, and all that you encompass. Self-reflection is key to who you are, and your awareness of your faults and strengths is what keeps you going. In the completion you seek, you will find new beginnings, too, for yourself and those around you. Whether you enjoy change or not, you must tug it ashore and present it to the world, neatly wrapped and tied off with a bow.

— Present (Reversed)

You are the sensation of standing at a crossroads, turned in the opposite direction of the path you know you must follow. You fear that first step more than anything, but finding closure is essential to your happiness. It is only your tether to the past that inhibits you, and you worry endlessly over the journey, though your feet will make it there whether you want them to or not. In order to find balance, you need to embrace where you are now and let go of what came before, for the conflict within you is only an illusion. Your journey will be personal and quiet, filled with turmoil and self-recrimination, but you will emerge from this, for there are no other options left to you. You have a necessary task to complete, but it strains you nearly to breaking, and it will cost you more than it already has before it’s completed. No trial or turn in your path can be overlooked in order to complete the cycle started with your birth. You define the sensation of never being finished, of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel stretch further away with every step you take. You are still a project with an essential piece missing, and until you find it, you will always feel hollow.

AGE — 

Twenty and one years, born in the Fifth Month, on the 17th day. 

Stable, resilient, and capable, she will always have her feet planted firmly on the ground. She knows well her own likes and dislikes, and gravitates toward material pleasures and wealth in spite of herself. Aurelia is most comforted by stability, and dislikes fast-paced change, which makes her the perfect person to so easily wave away the concerns of the prophecy to the watching eyes and ears of the nobility. Who, after all, would suspect that a girl too afraid to cut her hair would be the one to change the foundations of the world? She has no issue, however, with change at a slow and steady pace, heralded and planned out by herself and her own sharp mind. She is most interested in being her own master. Responsible and capable, she has a strong work ethic, but that does not mean she forgoes luxury altogether. Aurelia is a perfectionist, which she sees as both a flaw and a decent trait to have, considering her goals in life. She is extremely set in her ways and focused on the big picture, which means that while she empathizes with the small slights inflicted on others, she may allow them to occur while working to fundamentally alter society for the greater good. Aurelia won’t stop until she has what she came for, and she won’t compromise her values (love, empathy, fairness) to obtain it, either.

DETAILS — 

What drew me to Aurelia was all of her, really. I know this is where we highlight the things that we liked most, but I can’t pick her apart without explaining why I like the whole, irrefutable package. She’s soft for others to a large degree, but that doesn’t entirely define her; it runs parallel to her other traits, yet it doesn’t work against them. She’s strong, even with her soft heart, strong enough to see that what she’s been told her whole life is right is very, very wrong. She has a will of her own, and you can’t get that by being weak and easily influenced. I love that she refuses to fight outright, preferring to maneuver in such a way that no one has to get hurt, and I love that she has the ability and the confidence to see it through. She knows that she would be a good ruler because she cares, and she cares fiercely enough to protect her family, even when they mostly don’t deserve it. She knows she’ll win because she absolutely cannot lose, all her cards are on the table but they’re also face cards, maybe even an ace. Her power comes from the desire to protect, and her pragmatism is married to her sense of love and duty in an indelible way. She cannot have empathy without having responsibility, and she refuses to lead a violent revolution against those who have cared for her all her life. She’s not one dimensional, not naive, not hopeless. I love her for all those things combined, and to pick them apart wouldn’t yield the same results.

BACKGROUND —

— Growing up in a fortress can feel isolated at times, but Aurelia found ways to play with those around her, even as a rambunctious child. She was the girl who would sneak cookies for the stable-boy’s dogs and giggle playing peek-a-boo with a guard when he was supposed to be on duty. Curious about others and rarely allowed around other children, she devoured the attention of adults, and from an early age cultivated a strangely adult manner of speaking. The other nobles thought it was charming, that a princess would know to speak so regally throughout her years, and Aurelia never disabused them of the notion, preferring instead to delight them with fun new vocabulary. This got her into trouble, of course, when she learned about swearing, but she was too sweet-faced to be stern with long, and too sweet-natured to take advantage the way a brat or a bully might. For this, she was doted upon by her nannies and tutors, as well as those in the barracks. It was easy, later on, to begin cultivating those people as a network, sneaking her information with worried glances and trust in their eyes. What a sweet girl, they would murmur, pressing their lips to her knuckles, to worry so about such simple complaints. 

— When she was six years old, they began placing books atop her head and forcing her to walk without them falling. She always thought it was to improve her posture, with the way her nanny was constantly straightening her spine, but she knew it was more than that when she first put her crown on. By Undeath, that thing was heavy, and it took all she had to walk with her head held straight, to eat five courses of a meal, to talk and dance and not throw her head back and let the thing slide right off it. No one would listen if she did complain, and she never told anyone, save for THE LOVERS, who she eventually grew to trust so much that she could let them in on the secret. When she takes the crown for herself, her first non-essential decree will be to melt them all down and make them smaller, sleeker, and more easily wearable.

— Aurelia is fond of pestering THE SUN, though she wouldn’t call it annoying them so much as caring for them. Necromancers have always seemed so lonely to her (other than THE HIGH PRIESTESS, who unnerves her), and that’s especially true for the old ones. How terrible it would be, to grow older and older and lose all those you’d once loved. Would you ever try to love again? She’s not sure, but she wants them to know that she’s okay with it if they never love her back. They’re a strange, morbid part of her family, but they’ve been family since the day she was born. What else can she call someone who might one day be asked to kill for her, or on her behalf? She would inherit them as well, after all, and Aurelia is cognizant of the responsibility that would be. They have one of the hardest jobs, she thinks to herself sometimes, and therefore must be treated with the most care. Do they ask for it? Perhaps not, but they’ll have it regardless.

— It would be easy for her to hate her family, but she doesn’t, she can’t. She’s loved them as long as she can remember and she will love them after she is dead. She knows the touch of her father’s kiss at her temple as well as she knows the cruelty with which he sends men to the noose. She knows her cousin’s laugh as she knows the whistle of their blade through the air, the way she remembers how to breathe, the way she counts the steps down to the barracks every time she goes. Her brother, best of all, she knows to be as useless as they are lovely, cruel as they are decadent, and all these things don’t make it any easier to choose between them and her people. She will not. She cannot be asked to. As much as she understands that her first priority must be the citizenry, because someone on earth should care more for them than themselves, she also won’t part with her loyalty. Not to them, and not to her family, either. She will find a humane way to settle this, by Undeath, and if she can’t, then it will be on their heads, not hers. Still, she feels confident in her own victory, bolstered by her knowledge of the people who love her, and who she loves in return. She will not be vicious to them just because that’s what people clamor for, or because it’s asked of her with wolfish smiles. Aurelia wants justice, not bloodshed, and she will have it.

—  It always surprised her tutors, how much she longed to attend lessons with her brother. She was hungry for knowledge from a young age, eagerly snatching up everything and anything she could. Aurelia was curious not just about the castle but about the world beyond it; she would ask that her rooms be decorated with maps, until she knew the lay of the land by heart. Any time there was a visitor, she would attempt to ask that they correct her maps, to ensure they were kept in date. Her fascination with geography was not the only thing she took interest in, however. She wanted to know the ins and outs of trade, wanted to learn as many languages as she could and know the difference between an emerald and a diamond with her eyes closed, hands clasped tight around the stones. She wanted to know the seal of every nation or rebellion that had ever tested their borders, and she asked so many questions that they were forced to send for answers, again and again and again. It should’ve annoyed her tutors, but her enthusiasm was so genuine, they wanted to please her. Over time she grew to recognize that fact and treat it as a responsibility; she could wield the care of others as a weapon, but she chose not to, and that was the difference.

— There is not a guileless quality to her, no matter how often she might be called naive by some of the cruel portions of her family. In quiet moments, when it’s only her and her ladies-in-waiting, the age of her thoughts reveals itself in her eyes, in the grim set of her mouth, or even in the delicate curve of her shoulders. She doesn’t pretend not to know about the farce of her existence, because that would never inspire confidence in her as a leader, and it would only hurt those who have come to depend on her. Instead, she makes her rebellion known in small ways, refusing participation in games she doesn’t approve of, humiliating nobles she finds foolish and cruel, or small-minded and weak. The one thing she doesn’t shy away from is executions: Aurelia attends each one, refusing to let anyone die for her father’s whim without someone who respects them bearing witness. They can’t know how she feels, but she makes a promise to each as they die before her eyes: I will never let this be for nothing. Sometimes she comes across as over-aware, too sensitive, too passionate to understand the cool logic of the world, but she understands it all too well. She does not believe that you can exist as a good person without marrying logic and emotion, as disparate as they are, and she will never abandon that part of her that cries for each life lost, each hurt inflicted, each blade in the hands of someone far too young for it. She cultivates it like her own personal garden, honeysuckle growing wild in her rib cage.

— The first time she truly understood what she could do, she was only fifteen. TEMPERANCE had said something particularly upsetting, though they never truly understood why she stormed away. With tears in her eyes, she’d run, not knowing where she was going until she almost slammed into the body of a castle guard. They weren’t assigned to her rotation nor her quarters, but they knew her from when she would drop in at their meal times and ask after their days, or peel oranges to slide under their helmets as they stood outside in the hot summer sun, armor burning, skin sweltering. He caught her by the shoulders and held her steady as her guards and attendants rushed to catch up with her, and wiped away an errant tear with one gauntlet-covered thumb. What’s happened, Princess? They asked and she answered, for she was a teenage girl whose heart had been wounded, and as they listened, as all of them did, their faces fell in sympathy, too. When she looked up at them, this guard who barely knew her, it was the first time she understood what it looked like, to watch someone decide they would kill for you. Their offer was couched in softer words, but it was no less lethal, and when she shook her head she could’ve sworn she saw disappointment in more than one face. It was the last time she ever took her relationships, or her feelings, for granted. 

— She cried for months as a child, wailing unhappily no matter how often her wet nurses tried to shush her. They ended up going through six of them before one realized the problem; the child did not want a wet nurse, she wanted her mother, and she knew the difference quite clearly. Perhaps it is this sense of abandonment, fostered in her early youth, that makes her reach out to others so often. She wants more than anything to hold them close, but the one person who was meant to never has. Oh, she’s heard of the prophecy, but it doesn’t excuse her mother’s cowardice. In truth, Aurelia loves her father and even her brother more, because they at least have shown her who they are. They have shared with her something THE EMPRESS always denies. By eight years old she was calling them by their proper name, much to the shock and confusion of the court, but even that would not prompt them to explain things to her. They looked almost through her, as though she were an alien being, a parasite in their womb who had now been made into flesh, and Aurelia regards it with more bitterness than anything else in her life. Is it not enough, one of her ladies asked her once, to be loved by every person but one? Of course it wasn’t. She didn’t covet adoration from everyone, she simply wanted acknowledgement from the only person who would never give it, and it has curdled her sweetness into poison. They, more than anyone in the world, inspire pettiness and anger with no compassion in it. Aurelia has no empathy for the person who seeks to throw her away, and even if they can make peace, she knows they would never be on her side, anyway. Not when they’ve picked anyone over her at every opportunity, over and over until it left a scar on the inside of her heart.

— She was a coward, the first time her father declared her ready to attend an execution. The man’s crime was a bawdy poem about THE HIGH PRIESTESS, but it was entirely her father’s decision to make it punishable by death. He said it was defaming the crown, by extension, and he had no advisor powerful enough to say no, or with the will to do so. No, you can’t! she cried, and bored, he’d said quite simply that he could. Again, he asked if she would attend, and tasting bile on her tongue, Aurelia declined. She dreams, still, about what she might have seen, and about whether he died with everyone jeering around him. Did a single person look him in the eye and remind him of his humanity? She’ll never know, because she was too weak to bear it. No one can say she doesn’t learn from her mistakes, though. The next time she was right in the front row, lip trembling, tears running down her cheeks. Her ladies hate it, always trying to persuade her not to go, but without enough power to save their lives, this is all she can do. She can’t shy away from the ugly bits. Each time, it reminds her of what she needs to fight for, and of what she could be capable of, if she does not continuously tend to the flowers blooming in her chest. She still flinches when the blow comes, or when the boards drop beneath their feet. It still feels like weakness. 

— She keeps a list, in a pocket-sized journal in the false bottom of her vanity drawer, of all those she must make reparations to. Sometimes it’s just a family name, people whose child was taken from them too soon, or who died in a battle against those who wanted better for the world than her father. Other times, it’s nobles wronged merely for standing up to him, or peasantry she sees abused by the guards who seem to think along the same lines as him. Aurelia is running out of room, even in her smallest hand, and she’s terrified to start a new journal, because that would be crossing some invisible line. If she fills it, how broken does that make her family? How unforgivable? 

— Every child looks up to their elder siblings, and there were periods of time in Aurelia’s life where she tried to imitate both THE EMPEROR and THE CHARIOT. She tried to be tough, like her cousin has always been, but her skin bruised too easily and her feelings even easier. She tried her hand at the casual cruelty her brother always displayed, but the first time she said a mean thing to a servant, she burst into tears and threw herself into her arms, where the woman patted her back consolingly, likely terrified and confused by her mercurial behavior. The cruelty she inhabits is accidental, and if she’s made aware of it, she rectifies it as best she can. Simple things, like a lack of understanding for what a simple existence might be, or a careless comment from someone dripping in privilege and stained with gold. She can’t understand them, as hard as she tries, and sometimes she forgets them without thinking, though she always feels genuinely chastised later on. She is as close to good as anyone in power can be, but she can never be wholly so, for she has never known true despair or suffering.

— Aurelia plays the piano forte, but it’s singing where she really shines. Considering all the useless lessons royal non-heirs are put through, it surprised her to discover she enjoyed music, but she often plays near the window, now, and feels a little like she’s singing a duet with the birds on the ramparts. She likes best when the guards are training outside, because sometimes they hear her, and some of them sing along. She likes that music connects otherwise disparate people, that it can bring passion into lifeless eyes and coax a smile out of misery. More than that, though, she likes to create. So much of the Valmont legacy is destruction, now, and she may never cleanse their name, but she can make things. New, bright things, untainted by the poison of her blood, coming straight from her spirit. Every tune she carries, every new combination of keys, she’s bringing something beautiful to life, not razing anything to the ground. She is endlessly fond of THE STAR for this reason, who looks like magic to her, even if he uses not a lick of it.

— While she loves the look and feel of plants, and she tends to the garden within her soul rather well, Aurelia is what you would call the opposite of a green thumb. A red thumb, maybe, for she consistently pricks herself on any bush she can, and plants wither under her care within moments. It’s lucky she has so many servants, who can attend to her desire to have plants hanging in her quarters without a second thought, or she would forever rue her bad luck. Nonetheless, while she doesn’t touch her plant babies and lets others care for them, she does chat with them about things in her day, usually making up fantastic stories about the events just so that she feels like she’s caring for them. She knows they can’t hear, knows it doesn’t do anything, but she hates the idea of having something so lovely around and not at least trying to offer it what she can, however meager fruit that is.

— The oncoming conflict with Koldam was the first time Aurelia ever directly asked THE EMPEROR for anything. Mercy, brother, she whispered, I entreat you to try a little mercy. She knew that it’s never been in their nature, but what was she if not someone who tried, even when she failed? She had already petitioned their father to simply reprimand or offer a treaty to Koldam, but that was a failure. This was her first time trying her brother’s version, and look how that turned out? She hasn’t been able to look them in the eye since, in spite of generally seeing the best in them, even when they’re cruel to her. Being cruel at home is one thing; senseless violence is another. She can’t condone it when Father sends people pointlessly to execution, and she can’t condone it for THE EMPEROR either, because he was given enough authority to act. Koldam has taught her one thing: the only royal she can rely on is herself, and perhaps THE CHARIOT, though she hasn’t approached them directly.

— Unlike her father, Aurelia has always been fascinated by and unafraid of magic. The wonder and horror of it enthrall her, and at the same time, the pain they are forced to endure to use it wounds her heart. She would not employ magicians unless it was dire and necessary, but for opposite reasons to King Septimus: she will not condemn anyone to torture lightly. That said, she visits the practitioners within the castle often enough, always wanting to be sure that someone in her family treats them with the respect they deserve. At night, lying awake and counting stars out her window rather than sleeping, she sometimes imagines what it would be like to have magic. The power to heal, the power to kill, the power to bring others back to life… all of them would make her a stronger and more capable presence in court, even if they would inspire fear and awe in her father’s eyes and perhaps change her position. Still, she must make due with what the Undeath has chosen for her, and must cultivate the only power that remains to her: that sharp mind and that brave heart.

— Her inner circle is how she refers to her ladies-in-waiting, while her guards retain the name of Coterie. This is because while they must be distinguished, she doesn’t think of them as only guards or only ladies-in-waiting. They are friends, confidantes, and trusted sources of information, without which the bare bones of her slowly growing claim to the throne would not be possible. They aren’t disposable tools, and they certainly aren’t only soldiers. This distinguishes them and allows them to stand a little taller, and walk with a little more pride. Naming groups both allows a feeling of exclusivity and reminds them of the privilege they have to be within those circles, and to be cast out hurts all the more for it.

PLOT IDEAS — 

��� TO LOVE ANYTHING GOOD, AT ANY COST, IS A BURDEN | Considering THE LOVERS is such an important connection to who she is at her core, I think it’s important to explore that relationship and grow or burn it down. Either works for me. Sometimes, a good ruler must give her heart first to her people, and it leaves no room for anyone else. Sometimes, a good ruler must have a good partner at her side, to share her dreams and prospects for the future, to advise her when she is down, to take care of that heavy, heavy head. The problem is that Aurelia must take care of all of Tyrholm, and that will never leave room to focus on any one individual. So what can they do? They love each other, and what is lovable about Aurelia might also be what undoes them for good. She has already decided to pick family over vengeance, but can she choose love over duty? So far, the answer is unclear, but it crawls from the fog of indecision, closer by the day.

— GIVE ME THE BLADE. SOME THINGS ARE WORTH SPILLING BLOOD FOR | There cannot be a bloodless coup, not when the King himself is so bloodthirsty a man, and his heir is worse. She believes she can end this peacefully, but it’s a foolish dream, born from love rather than from logic. Usually, the two pair well in her, but in this she has become blind to the path forward. It will take a lot to open her eyes, but when they begin to see what she must do, I want her to balk. I need her to cower, because it’s what makes her human. She will rage against it, she will fear it, and most essentially, she will be forced to confront it. There will come a time where Aurelia can’t move forward without bloodshed, without ousting someone from her path permanently, and I want her to face that with all the courage she can muster. By the time the knife is in her hand, I want her to have come to the point where she can use it, even if it hurts, even if it twists a blade in her own gut.

— WE MUST RESIST. WE MUST REFUSE TO DISAPPEAR | Connecting members of the revolt will be essential to its doing, and I want her to be one of the lynch pins that holds them together. She is the most likely to get along with the most people, to see the way THE FOOL suffers or THE HIGH PRIESTESS grows tired of these games. She can coax revolters together to some degree, with the help of a couple others spread across the city, and if she can win a majority of them to her side, she’ll have won the game. The trick, of course, is uniting their common goals, and in convincing them to pick her over THE CHARIOT, who is the person she most needs to win. Still, consolidating power will become necessary as the revolt kicks up steam, and she will not be left out or left waiting on someone else’s whim. She will pluck the best of the best from those she can coax into aiding her, and together, they will make her dreams a reality.

— IT INFURIATED ME THAT THEY KNEW ME BY HEART | With how often she’s been thrown together with TEMPERANCE, she should know that there’s more for her here than animosity, but she doesn’t. I want her to recognize that she cares for them, because in turn, it will help her recognize that they call to the petty jealousy in her, to the frustration she bottles up day in and day out. They call to the spirit of a fight in the pit of her stomach, and there’s no one else who sees that part of her, the not-so-pretty parts. That they care for her anyway, that they float marriage no matter how many years go by, fills her with warmth when it shouldn’t, and for that, she despises them. Love should be soft, she thinks as she looks at THE LOVERS. It should care for her heart and cradle it in careful fingers. Yet they don’t quite challenge her the way TEMPERANCE does, and that fills her with dread so profound she can’t examine it yet. I want her to look into it and make a choice, once and for all, about what she wants, because it will define not only her life moving forward, but potentially the one sharing her throne at the end of it all.

— AND EVERYTHING’S HOLY— EVERYTHING, EVEN ME | She acts the pious one because she must, but truth be told, she is afraid of death in a way that she has to confront in order to gain the Undying’s blessing. She wants it, because it’s of her people and she loves her people, but she doesn’t really have a firm grasp of death, not in the way necessary to commune with Undeath themself. She’s too young and too sheltered, and while her heart hurts for those who die too soon, it’s in the abstract, without real context to define her grief. She has not had to accept death before, to look it in the face and make peace with it, and that will be her gauntlet when she moves for the throne. Religion in name only isn’t going to cut it, and she knows that, but she puts it off, afraid of what she’ll face in the Sanctum or, even more dangerous, within the Temple of the Undying God itself. It’s the cross she will grow to bear, and developing her relationship with religion is key, not only for her own development but to grow her connections within the worshippers themselves. Their support would be essential to her coup, after all, as their declaration of the Undeath’s favor and her confirmation of it would bolster her support.

— I DON’T NEED TO BE LOVED EXCEPT WHEN I DO | Ultimately, Aurelia will need to confront THE EMPRESS, and I would like to take her development in that direction. For good or for ill, this is her mother, and there can be no moving forward without hashing out their lives. Ultimately she would come to a point where she might even ask her mother to join her, desperate to prove that she can be creation, rather than the destruction they’ve always seen her as. Her need to be cared for by them is constant and frustrates her, but she can’t rid herself of it, either, damned for something she’s not even done yet. Can she understand, Aurelia wonders, that this coldness has led her closer to revolution than love ever would have? That if they had held her closer, perhaps they could have stayed her hand? Without that foundation, she will never listen to them, but she might attempt to take advantage of their political acumen for her own gain. 

— YOU COULD NOT SPEAK / SOMETHING WAS DYING IN YOUR CHEST | The Necromancers have been used as mindless tools for too long, but Aurelia grew up with them around her, and she knows that they aren’t hollow vessels for magic, they’re people. Sure, maybe the magic takes some of it away, but it can’t take everything, and Aurelia doesn’t want to let it. They deserve more than what they’re given, and so do the Inferni; the Vitalus aren’t the only practitioners worthy of magic, but they’ve been treated like it for their noble birth and their easy to swallow techniques. Aurelia wants to change that. If the Necromancers interact more with the world, perhaps they will consider the lives they take more preciously; if the commoners are forced to interact with them, perhaps they will recognize those sparks of humanity within and foster them. The Inferni can learn that life is precious, that their power can raze the earth and leave it clean for rebirth if they’ll allow it. There’s no one way to handle magic, no perfect system, but then, there’s no perfect system at all with people involved in it. All she knows is that Aurelia would treat them all with respect, if not always kindness; a ruler cannot always be kind, but they must endeavor to always be just.

—  I DOUBT EVERYTHING, EVEN MY DOUBT | There will come a time where she will be asked to betray her family and she will say no. I would love for that to break someone’s trust in her, as a ruler and as a leader of the revolution. I would love for it to shake her faith in herself. Can she be a good person when she loves them, these awful people she has decided belong to her? It would be a stumbling block, and I want her to need to prove that she’s in this, preferably by deliberately and methodically betraying her family at a later date, after her resolve solidifies. It won’t kill them, she tells herself as she wakes up crying for the fifth time that week. It will only hurt.

— LOVE HAS TEETH WHICH BITE, AND THE WOUNDS NEVER CLOSE | This will involve a layer of integration, but someone close to her dying would really galvanize her. If that happens, it would invigorate those parts she’s always bottled up: things like rage and decisiveness would become paramount to her. She would be a little more ruthless, a little more sensible about the reality of the world, if she had to lose something precious. Any loss of something she loves is a loss of a bit of herself, she gives her loyalty so fiercely and without any sort of restraint. She hadn’t known loss, hasn’t known a bit of it, and thus doesn’t know when to hold back and when to pour herself into another person. Her disillusionment would grow, and her view of leadership and its duties would change, which I would love to explore if the plot of the overarching group allowed it.

— WHICH SHOULD I REGRET: WHAT I BECAME, OR WHAT I DIDN’T? | It would be essential to her to find the person who originally gave the prophecy about her birth. If they’re no longer alive, then she would find their closest relative or any witnesses to it. She wants to know the exact words, and more than that, she needs to gauge whether this person is bullshit or not. Her hunt would culminate in finding out more about who she’s supposed to be and what she’s supposed to do, with a healthy dose of angst to go alongside it. After all, it’s one thing to hear rumors about a prophecy; it’s another entirely to realize it’s real this entire time. It would depend on what happened, how she reacts, but I know it would change how she views herself and her mother both, at the bare minimum, let alone its effect on her responsibilities to the revolt.

— I NEED A VOICE TO ECHO / I NEED A LIGHT TO TAKE ME HOME | This is probably the most fun plot idea I have, but it’s subject to a lot of other people helping, so bear with me. I would love for Aurelia to start masquerading in Lowtown and other places far from the castle as a bard. Not a well-practiced one, but a revolutionary one that always wears a mask. She would have to spend hours practicing, and would involve all her ladies-in-waiting, among others, to help her sneak in and out and ensure her safety. Still, poems and songs are often used to foment the seeds of revolution in all cultures, and royals are so often educated in music, it just seems like a natural fit. It would also tie with her fondness for THE STAR, not wanting to ask his help in fear of endangering him or herself, but will he find her out anyway? He just might, or someone else who frequents these areas of Tyrholm might. In any case, I would like to build a slow-burning revolutionary plot where the princess masquerades as one of the people, both to learn more about them and to show them it’s okay to raise their voices. Maybe it leads to the tavern she performed at once getting razed by the guard, and she realizes she gravely misjudged her father. Maybe she gets unmasked and punished, or even killed. It just offers so many opportunities, and seems like the sort of thing a romantic revolutionary might cook up. 

— THE FAULT LINES, SEEDING, LYING IN WAIT | Despite knowing herself as the best person for the throne, Aurelia is not, in fact, opposed to THE CHARIOT taking it for themself. With a little more spine, she sees the making of a great ruler in them just as easily as she sees it in herself, and she has a goal to foster that. I would love as an alternative plot, as her first option, to see if she can maneuver herself into aiding their bid for the throne, and then either deciding that she must take it or helping them to grow would be my next objective. Aurelia wants the best ruler for Tyrholm, full stop, and THE CHARIOT is in front of her. They are therefore far easier to get into a sitting position upon it, and together, the two of them might have enough power to do it without killing anyone, especially if they enlist THE EMPRESS. This plot is too dependent on others’ vision to expand on, but I wanted to include it, because I don’t want Aurelia’s only option to be herself. That’s not in character for her, not really. 

— FOR LOVE, I WILL HANDLE YOUR SINS | This is up to whichever player is down to do this plot with me, but essentially, Aurelia will have started cultivating a friendship with a specific Necromancer. This is so that she can use one of her back-up plans, and it’s definitely a last resort, but if one of her family dies in this revolution, she would want them brought back very badly indeed. In fact, she would give some of her own life to power that regeneration, if necessary. In the event that the King dies or even THE EMPEROR falls, she would want a way to bring them back and set them to sail across the sea and live out the remainder of their days as a commoner. It’s fitting punishment, in her mind, and it’s better than them being dead, isn’t it? For she cannot and will not kill them, but exile will satisfy her needs, and their public death will satisfy the people’s needs as well. 

SCENE ONE —

Aurelia relishes in the feeling of grass beneath her palms, her head cradled safely in Petra’s lap as she cards through her hair. Her voice fills the small space between them, reading to her from the latest novel she’s plucked from her father’s library, and Aurelia lets her eyes flutter shut. She’d prefer if THE LOVERS were with her, but they’ve fallen ill, and she would never coax them from a restful slumber if it will make their healing faster. Petra is her second favorite of her ladies, anyway, her voice the lowest of them all and most suited toward reading. She never minds, either, whether it’s complicated, confusing poetry, or a simple romance novel from twenty years ago. She’ll even read intercepted missives to her, though Aurelia generally lets those lie until her eyes alone can read them. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her ladies, for they are her closest confidantes and her very best friends, but she doesn’t want to endanger them. They can’t know more than they should, for their own safety.

Now, the tale is coming to a close, and the Crying Tree whispers in the slight breeze as Petra’s voice trails off into silence. Aurelia sighs; it was a good story, if not a great one, and she’s sad to part with it. ❝ Thank you, Petra, ❞ she says almost to the wind, lashes still brushing her delicate cheeks. Book set aside, her lady-in-waiting now uses both hands to comb gently through the princess’s hair, much to her lazy delight. ❝ I thought it was… good, in the end. What is your verdict? ❞

A hum comes from on high, making Aurelia smile slightly. Petra is a thinker, always considering each angle before she responds. She’s the best strategist in Aurelia’s arsenal, certainly. ❝ Passable, my lady, nothing more. ❞ Aurelia has managed to break most of her ladies of their formal habits when they’re alone, but Petra clings stubbornly to some sort of title, downgrading it from highness to lady only after much pleading on Aurelia’s part. Now, she sits up, letting Petra’s fingers trail from her scalp and fall into her lap as the wind plays with the strands of hair around her face. She turns a beatific smile in Petra’s direction, whose responding expression is indulgent and fond.

❝ You comment thusly on all the novels, ❞ Aurelia points out. ❝ We must endeavor to find one that measures to your exacting standard, or I will never be satisfied. ❞

She turns at the sound of Luneria’s voice, looking over her shoulder to where another of her ladies is popping a fat grape into her mouth and giggling. It takes her a moment to swallow, and she offers a grape to Aurelia as she speaks, who takes it with aplomb. ❝ Have you tried her on any historical novels, Aura? ❞ She thinks around the fruit in her mouth; Luneria is the newest of her ladies, and thus would have little awareness of what she has or has not attempted to have Petra read her.

❝ I attempted once, though it was a romance, which we quickly discovered was not to her taste, ❞ she admits after thinking it over. Petra steals an orange from the basket in the middle of their blanket and begins to peel it with practiced precision, neatly curling round and round the fruit until the rind can be neatly coiled in the palm of her hand. As she works at the small project, she smirks a little bit; ah, this is Aurelia’s favorite side of Petra. ❝ The frippery of the language and the content suits me ill. Nothing in them is ever practical, and if you’re not careful, they’ll fill your head with flights of fancy, my lady. ❞

❝ Give it here, please, ❞ Aurelia asks after the skin of the orange, distracted from their conversation by her overwhelming love for the scent of oranges. She takes the rind and cups it in two hands, leaning down and inhaling the sharp scent of citrus. Luneria giggles again, and Kolva raps her on the knuckles with the spoon they’ve been using to sample the saucer of mousse. Embarrassed, her cheeks flush red, and she turns wide eyes in Aurelia’s direction. ❝ I’m sorry, Aura. I’ve never seen someone so excited by an orange peel, that’s all. ❞ Another member of her family might have punished her insolence, but Aurelia only wrinkles her nose before laughing too.

❝ If I could fill my bath with orange and lemon every day, I would, ❞ she admits, pressing the rind to the skin at the nape of her neck so she’ll carry a fragment of the scent with her during the rest of the day. She can be entirely unselfconscious with her ladies-in-waiting; that’s why she vets them so thoroughly, getting to know them without pretense before admitting them into her inner circle. Luneria is new, but she’s not cruel, and she would do anything for Aurelia. She can be nothing less, else Aurelia would’ve declined to invite her altogether.

Now, she holds out her hand for the rind, which Aurelia hands over with mocking reluctance, smile delicate but sure. Luneria lifts it to her nose a moment before smiling. ❝ It smells like you, ❞ she realizes, mouth opening in surprise. ❝ More fool am I not to have recognized it before. Do you keep these beneath your pillow? ❞

❝ Tucked into the pillowcase, ❞ Kolva explains before Aurelia can. The princess merely shrugs, opening her mouth when Petra offers her a slice of orange so that she can taste the sweet fruit without getting her hands sticky. Luneria claps her hands together, delighted to learn something new about Aurelia’s routine. They’re so easy to please. Sometimes it scares her, honestly, that they’re this easy, but their love is the kind that’s without reserve. She’ll never take it for granted, not with how blessed she feels to have it, but she won’t curtail it, either. She wants them with her always.  

Turning bright eyes Kolva’s way, she eyes the mousse with suspicion. Kolva avoids her gaze a moment, but her mouth twitches, barely containing her giggles. For the most taciturn of her ladies, she has a streak of wildness and delight to her that Aurelia coaxes out as often as she can. Now, she leans forward in an attempt to inspect the saucer, but gets caught in the sheer amount of fabric in her dress. ❝ Kol-va, ❞ she sing-songs, flopping onto her back with the effort exerted. ❝ You better leave some for me, or I shall have to inform the entire castle of my most fearsome lady-in-waiting’s sweet tooth. They say it may be the sweetest tooth this side of Koldam. ❞ This memory exists in the space of time before Koldam was destroyed, when they were nothing more than a smaller city-state she’d read about in history books and seen as a dot on the map. It’s also where Kolva is from originally, before her family moved to Tyrholm for better prospects and Aurelia spotted the delightful shade of her hair from across the market. The rest, as they say, is history, aside from Kolva’s light accent.

She hears rustling around her, and when she opens one eye, she sees Kolva sitting above her, red kissing the blonde in her hair even more than usual in the halo of midday sunlight. Eager, she sits up almost too fast, breath knocked from her by the corset around her ribs. ❝ Ouch, ❞ she whispers, and all three of her ladies are immediately crowded around her. They strike like soft lightning, like the edge of a healing blade, sharp in movement but soft in expression. ❝ Are you hurt, my lady? ❞ Petra asks, running a hand down her side in an absent, soothing gesture.

Aurelia shakes her head, tenderness in her smile as she looks at each of them in turn. ❝ Merely winded a moment, and perhaps touched by your ready response, ❞ she admits, for sharing affection always makes her happy. Petra presses a kiss to her temple, while Luneria takes her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. Kolva dips her spoon into the saucer, holding it gently to Aurelia’s lips. ❝ Your tooth rivals mine, ❞ she says stubbornly, even as she slides the silver spoon between the princess’ lips. The texture is airy and rich, a perfect compliment to their picnic, and Aurelia’s sigh is one of contentment.

❝ And you never let me forget it, ❞ she answers, reaching out to cup Kolva’s cheek in one soft palm. ❝ What would I do without you, hmm? ❞ She looks at each of them in turn, Luneria practically in her lap and Petra behind her, one hand still on her shoulder. ❝ I would be lost without even one of you. ❞ Yes, even Luneria, as green as she is. Her infectious enthusiasm and joy is something Aurelia had been afraid she was starting to lose, but with Luneria at her side, how can she? Each of them brings something to the table, something to her heart.

Her ladies. Her circle. They are the thing that keeps her balanced, her corner of sanity in a world that makes less sense each day.

SCENE TWO —

Her receiving parlor is not a throne room, but Aurelia sits in her ostentatious bergère as though the crown is already atop her head. THE LOVERS stands at the back of her chair, to her right side, but they know to keep quiet. The best help anyone can be in matters of censure, with Aurelia being so young and seen as so gentle, is to be silent. Her expression is cold and imperious, a far cry from her usual gentility, and though their heads are bowed, she is almost positive the three guards kneeling before her can feel the sharpness in her gaze. 

❝ I have been informed of quite an ugly circumstance, ❞ she says quietly. Her voice is not cold, not nearly so frigid as her eyes remain, but it is far worse: each word drips with disappointment, with the feeling that you have let down someone who loves you dearly. They’ve laid their helmets in front of them, and she can see quite clearly when one uncovered head dips, right at the center. They do not like this treatment, and they should not.

She doesn’t have to be cruel to them to punish them. This is something her father and brother have never once understood. When you are the warmth of the sun, you must only force someone to remain in the dark, and they will learn well what it is to appreciate the heat when it returns.

The silence is its own form of punishment, forcing them to wait on her to continue. They know what they’ve done, of course. They knew when they began that she would not approve. They just didn’t seem to care. Now, she looks at each of them in turn, wondering which will be the first to break down and apologize directly. ❝ As my midday meal came to an end, I was approached by a servant with news from the dining hall. She claimed that three guards, my personal guards, were disrupting the peace. Would any of you care to confess as to why you would interrupt the rest and rejuvenation of those around you to be needlessly cruel? ❞

She waits. Aurelia is not impatient, and she has nowhere else to be today. This is, after all, the privilege of being second-born. She is never expected, not really, not if she doesn’t want to be. In a lack of duty, a sense of honor was born to her that ensures she has her own responsibilities to attend to, this being one of them.

Her fingers tap against her lap for a moment, the rhythm precise and methodical. ❝ No? ❞ she inquires one last time, into the deathly silence of the room. ❝ Then I can only assume none of you will plead ignorance to what you have done in my name. ❞ Her voice now hardens as she confirms what she knew from the start. At in my name, the guard to her left flinches, and her heart hurts. Still, this is what must be done. She cannot avoid punishing them simply because she cares for them.

❝ I have only three rules you must obey to stay a part of my Coterie, ❞ she reminds them, authority ringing even in her own ears. Coterie, she calls them, for they are not only a Guard, they are her friends. They wear her heraldry, her own personal identification on their armor, and every single act they take has her name on it. That is why their betrayal hits her so strongly, perhaps, and it is a betrayal. To go against her beliefs is as going against Aurelia herself. ❝ The one you have broken is the one I value above all else. Will one of you recite it for me? I know you capable and aware of which it is you have forsworn me by. ❞ 

Etienne is the first to speak, thus refusing Octavia and Isobel their chances. ❝ No one with the privilege of wearing your heraldry shall wield it for the purpose of cruelty or out of spite, ❞ they say, corn-silk hair falling out of their braid and into their eyes as they look up to speak. Whatever they see in Aurelia’s expression burns them, for they gaze upon the floor again soon enough, trembling head to toe. 

❝ Thank you, Etienne, ❞ she says out of politeness, for nothing in her countenance suggests gratitude. 

❝ We’re so sorry, your Highness, please — ❞ Isobel starts, her voice revealing her to be on the verge of tears. As they are all looking down for the moment, Aurelia reaches over her shoulder for THE LOVERS hand a moment, to steady her. She has never enjoyed making her people upset, even if it’s for a righteous purpose.

The warmth of their touch gives her courage. ❝ Not sorry enough, or you would never have done it. ❞ She sighs. ❝ Besides, I am not the one who merits an apology from you. When we are done here, I expect you to apologize to Guard du Jardin, and I hope that you will mean it. ❞

❝ Of course, ❞ Isobel whispers, ❝ As soon as we are able. ❞

Aurelia is sure they will. She’s sure they mean their apology sincerely, and she’s positive that they will not act in such a manner again. That’s not the issue. The issue is a deeper one that underlies every part of her section of the court, from her Coterie to her inner circle. It’s not particularly their fault that they’ve highlighted it to her, but if it goes unpunished, it will galvanize the others.

❝ I understand that a position within my Coterie is highly coveted, and that my restrictions make it hard to obtain one. ❞ The ban on cruelty and spite is fairly simple for people to swear to, but the five recommendations and the trial period before her inner circle decides whether they stay on in a permanent position are not. ❝ What I do not understand is why you would use that envy against someone else, when you yourselves have felt it so keenly. Your solution is to laugh at someone for thinking to try? To hold your position over their heads and talk down to them? ❞ She shakes her head, expression miserable. She will not be used as a cudgel to put others down. She will not be lorded over anyone.

Aurelia turns to Octavia, who has done an admirable job of keeping quiet. ❝ Do you have anything to add, Octavia? ❞ She does not call her the oh-so-affectionate V normally reserved for her, does not indicate any inch of familiarity between them, but Octavia doesn’t flinch. Instead, she meets Aurelia’s eyes evenly, without malice or defiance.

❝ I do not, your Highness. You have said it best yourself. It was a petty thing for me to do, and I regretted it immediately. Any censure you have for us will be deserved. ❞ At this, tears well in Aurelia’s eyes, though she does not allow them to fall. Octavia is the only one in a position to see them, anyway, and at the sight, her own eyes well with salt water as well. They must both be strong, for the sake of not only each other, but Aurelia’s right to respect from her court. They love her, yes, but they must also obey her, and Octavia understands this most of all, coming from a noble house herself. Aurelia nods.

❝ Yes, I find it will be. ❞ At last getting up from her seat, Aurelia leans down to Etienne and Isobel in turn, tilting their chins upward with careful fingers, so that they can see her. She hates this part, the punishment part, but it’s a necessary step. She refuses to do it without at least looking them in the eyes.

Once done, she returns to her position, regal as always. ❝ For misusing the power I have given you, I see I can no longer trust you with it. Each of you are no longer a member of my Coterie. ❞ Isobel gasps, a wounded sound that Aurelia associates with hospice or injury. ❝ If you wish to return into my service, you will be required to receive no less than seven individual recommendations, none of which may be issued by those who previously floated you for your positions. In addition, ❞ she says, hardening her heart to the look of horror on Etienne’s face, ❝ I require that one of those recommendations come from Guard du Jardin personally. ❞ They’re lucky that she has enough members in her Coterie now that they will not be missed. Were that not the case, were they infringing on her safety, their punishment would be far greater.

❝ Stand, please, ❞ she says, and the three of them rush to their feet. Octavia holds her head high, but Isobel is crying, and Etienne’s lower lip trembles. Rather than asking THE LOVERS to do this part, because it’s hard, Aurelia approaches them herself to unpin her insignia from their armor. They bear it with as much grace as they can; she knows if this were her brother or father, they would do it where the entire court was watching. Then again, they would never dismiss a personal guard for cruelty in the first place.

Once collected, she hands these items to THE LOVERS for safekeeping and turns back to them, now looking somehow naked with no heraldry to mark them as her own. ❝ As I hope you understand by now, your punishment is that which you so disdained your fellow Guard for mere hours ago. I hope, should I see each of you in my service again, you will comport yourselves in a way that does not debase me. I will treat you with exactly as much honor as you show me yourselves. ❞

Head held high, she returns to her bergère and sits, exhausted. ❝ You are dismissed. ❞

The moment they have left the room, Octavia shutting the door behind her, Aurelia allows her tears to fall. It is hardest to punish those you love, she thinks as she covers her face in her hands, allowing THE LOVERS to hold her at last.

ADDITIONAL — 

— In my first writing sample I wanted to say there was a Weeping Willow, but I renamed it Crying Tree because it just seemed to fit the mythos more to me. I would think it would be interesting if perhaps they’re favored by The Undying God, considering their mournful legend in our own history.

— The only weapon Aurelia will ever carry herself is a knife, because it’s easy to conceal amid all her layers, and it will only be used as a last resort. She trains with it, so she can defend herself if she’s caught alone, but she isn’t a physical fighter and she never will be. She hopes she’ll never have to use it on a living person, not ever.

— Pinterest.

#{ ✿ } ——— HISTORY | but the heart in her breast began to grieve.

[scironex]

Failure and Succession : Sea

I bet you didn’t think you’d see the sequel.

“It makes perfect sense, in that case! If the Sheikah expected the pilots to be in serious danger from Ganon, then it of course the Divine Beasts would have an inbuilt Resurrection Shrine.” As it had turned out, Vah Medoh’s wide, lightweight structure lends it to floating on water as much as floating in air. It now rests upon Lake Totori. “Still, having facilities to recuperate from such savage wounds… It’s… Well, what it is is irrelevant. We need to visit the other Divine Beasts.” She begins to glow blue as the Sheikah Slate transports her to the Akh Va’quot shrine. “I’ll meet you at the Rito Stable.”

Link arrives to see Zelda engaged in conversation with none other than Revali.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I just wanted to see you off. I know I’m in no condition to be escorting royalty.” The Rito is earning some side glances from the other patrons; He’s still not wearing anything. Meeting eyes with the Hylian Champion, he says, “Finally made it up here, did you?” He breaks eye contact with an expression that could almost be mistaken for contrition.

After a moment, he speaks up in a soft tone. “...Take care of her. The world’s more dangerous than ever.” A quiet second passes. “Well, looks like Link will be picking up my slack again. Good luck, you two.” He turns and walks back to Rito Village. To himself, he murmurs, “But you won’t need it.”

The pair doesn’t even make it properly into Zora’s Domain before they’re hailed by Prince Sidon.

“Greetings! I don’t mean to be rude, but it was my impression that you weren’t to return until you’d finished work aboard Vah Medoh?”

Zelda smiles at the Zora’s boisterousness. “There were complications. Good complications, but… Well, we need to board Vah Ruta. You should come as well.”

“Aye! Link, let us go to the Reservoir lake. We will meet you there, Princess!”

Please authenticate Sheikah Slate to confirm release.

Link and Sidon stride into the core of Vah Ruta, meeting Zelda just in front of the Main Control Unit. Link draws the Master Sword. A firm discipline keeps it more than ready, but the Zora prince notices the absence of tension in his face.

As the Princess brings the Slate up to the terminal, Sidon asks, “May I ask what is being released exactly? You carry yourselves with a great gravitas.”

Sheikah Slate authenticated. Release of resurrected subject confirmed.

His heart jumps in his chest and he gasps as his breath leaves his lungs. He isn’t sure why at first. But then, time stops as the unit unfolds. A small red figure descends into Zelda’s arms. Mipha.

Zelda’s voice intrudes on his reverie. “Can you take her back to Zora’s Domain, Your Highness?”

Sidon doesn’t move. Link, with blade sheathed once more, glances over at him. A Hylian hand is set upon the Zora’s shoulder. Sidon slowly reaches up to grasp it in his own.

He speaks up after what seems like an eternity, voice so gentle it doesn’t even echo, but with perfect princely clarity. “Mipha…?”

Zelda bites her lip. She hadn’t thought of how to break the news to Sidon. What could she have said? “Hey, thanks to random chance, your sister, who died because we chose her as the pilot of a millennia-old superweapon happened to be brought back to life by that same

superweapon!” Actually, without the sarcasm, that was probably exactly what she should have said.

“Yes. She was brought back by the very same technology that returned Link to life.” Mipha is light, but Zelda isn’t particularly strong. The weight leaving her arms as Sidon lifts his sister is a relief.

Later, Link finds himself ascending the stairs to the Throne room. After an evening meal, King Dorephan had asked that he join him in his chambers. On his back, he carries the shimmering form of the Lightscale Trident. He intends to restore it to its rightful owner. Zelda, meanwhile, has retreated to one of the royal historians she knew back in the day. She’s eager to hear his stories again.

“Ah, Link. As soon as she woke, Mipha was asking after you.”

The small Zora blinks and nods her head. She lays on a small basin… bed? Filled with water that seems to sparkle a bit more than the present lighting would permit. Her body is adorned with the jewelry typical of her appearance. The only thing missing is the sash that marked her as Champion. Otherwise, it could be a hundred years ago, before the world fell to pieces.

Link removes the Zora princess’ favored weapon and offers it, taking to one knee. “Thank you, Link.” Her voice is flat and tired. An attendant gingerly grabs the weapon and leans it against a nearby pillar.

Link nods, and returns to his feet.

“It’s funny,” Mipha says, voice level, but lacking her usual regal charm. “I would never have thought we’d be able to see each other a hundred years on. Your kind doesn’t usually last that long.” Her choice of words is unusually blunt.

“Are you alright?” Link asks.

“You never spoke much before. I always enjoyed hearing it when you did.” The Hylian bites his lip.

Mipha, abandoning her attempt to find a way to word what she meant, lets out a pleading tone. “Did you move on, after the Great Calamity? I didn’t.”

“In more ways than one.” Link realizes how violently inappropriate that remark was, but he can’t take it back. He expects her to frown, or maybe cry, or possibly take it in stride as she so often did.

He does not expect her to laugh. “I suppose so. There was still work for me to do, with Ganon’s threat on the horizon. Now, though, there’s nothing left. It’s been slain, we are at peace, and all that remains is to move forward.

“Perhaps that’s why I can’t stop thinking about it. I have always put the greater good before myself, but right now, that greater good to pursue. There are no issues for which my people need guidance. There are no threats to be fought and won against. All that’s left is the scars to see in the water’s reflection.

“I accepted what the world had to become knowing that I would be leaving it behind. Now I’m here, the Zora Princess, and there’s nothing I can do. I can pilot Vah Ruta, but there’s only so much an endless supply of water can do. I can lead my people, but they’re busy repairing our home. I was trapped within that beast for a hundred years, unable to help anyone. That was because I failed; Fine, I knew the consequences. But now I’m back. The war has been won, and in spite of my mistakes, I’ve been a second chance at life.

“But for what? My people, the Zora, cheer for my return. They fill their hearts with joy, surround me with kindness and love, but all I can see is the gaps between them. What of the soldiers who were slain trying to defend this land? What of the architects who were thrown into ruin along with their creations? What of the simple fishers, killed in the blink of an eye?

“Why should I be allowed to live?! Why am I to survive my fate when thousands of others have to keep theirs? And those who survived them have to bear the weight of their loss? Why am I pardoned and forgiven for the gravitas of my weakness when so many others were taken for no fault of theirs?”

Her breathing is pained and unsteady as she closes her eyes.. The attendant - who is not nearly old enough to have been alive before Mipha’s death - stands to attention immediately.

Dorephan preempts him. “I’m sorry, child, but you need to rest. Link, thank you for returning the Trident. For now, though, you should make your leave.”

Zelda sits underneath the Zora’s radiant city. She skips stones across the water, brow furrowed at the story Link had just shared. “I understand how she feels. It often crossed my mind in those hundred years… that I did not deserve to keep my life, when all of my friends and subjects could not. I told myself it was unfair, that I was unfit for such a redemption. It must be harder for her, though, being surrounded by people who remember. People who had to suffer the loss of loved ones directly.”

Link looks out across the rippling waters. Unlike Zelda, he stands upright. Zora’s Domain is probably one of the safest locations in Hyrule, and even aside that, the land is safer than it’s been in a hundred years. It’s not something he’s willing to risk, though, especially not with the Yiga Clan still lurking in the shadows.

This vigilance is probably why he picks up on the quiet footsteps approaching them first. Zelda, catching his sudden alertness, stands up to follow his gaze.

“Prince Sidon. Greetings.”

“Salutations, Your Highness Zelda. I’m pleased I’m not the only one who finds this to be a very good hiding spot.”

The princess laughs. “I mean no offense; We simply had things to discuss that weren’t appropriate for the public air.”

“None taken! I trust that you’ve been enjoying your excursion to our beautiful home?” “Of course. It’s always a pleasure.” She brings her hands together. “If I may… How is Mipha faring?”

Sidon’s eyes fall slightly. “As it stands, she will return to full health shortly.” Slowly, as if chewing his words, he says, “By my memory, and my father’s, never once has she been, well, upset.” After a pause, he perks up, and changes tack. “Ah, but I had forgotten why I sought you out in the first place. My father, King Dorephan, has prepared lodging for the both of you.”

Zelda makes to speak, but instead purses her lips. The non-answer is frustrating; She’s concerned for her health as well. But she trusted that Sidon meant well, and wouldn’t hold back if he had the option. She nods and follows him to the mentioned room.

If you look into the night sky and stare for long enough, it’s possible to forget that there’s ground beneath you in Zora’s Domain. The air is crisp and humid. Stars smatter the black velvet sky. Distant waterfalls drown out any quiet noises. It makes the inability to sleep that night much more bearable for Link. He stands just outside the room prepared for him, trying to form a thought. The task is harder than it sounds.

“I take it you are not able to sleep either?” Link’s posture tightens as he experiences a sudden crash to earth. Blinking, he turns to face the voice of the young Zora Champion. “I’m fine, trust me. I suppose you don’t need me to apologize for the outburst earlier, but I feel contrite regardless. Thank you, again, for returning my trident.” Formalities taken care of, Mipha drops her hands to her side. Link speaks up. “Welcome back.”

She laughs slightly at that. “In spite of everything, I believe I’m glad to be back.”

His response comes faster than she anticipates. “Your return made quite the splash.”

She’s stunned.

“Everyone seems happy to have you back. I guess it would be kind of shellfish if they didn’t, but I can’t imagine the clam-or is enjoyable.” “Link… You’re making jokes. You never made jokes.”

He smiles. The gesture is sincere, but Mipha could see something else behind it.

“I can tell you’re happy, but is something the matter?”

The Hylian’s eyes fall just a bit, then he responds. “You asked if I moved on. I thought you meant… over you.”

“Ah. I hadn’t considered… That. Still, I never did present the Zora Armor to you. If I really meant it… If I had been certain, I would have done so.”

His teeth dig into his lip. “It was- A hundred years ago, we were all preparing to fight Ganon. We would win, then there would be time to decide how I felt. I still don’t know.”

“Link, that’s fine. I know this isn’t an easy choice - Zelda has eyes for you, too, and I can’t imagine you have none for her. Goddess willing, you will have years and decades to figure it out. And that’s how it should be.” There’s a stability in her eyes that could settle the most wavering heart. “I would like to know the answer to the question I did ask, however.”

A curled lip is the first reply to her question. A downcast gaze is the second. “It’s easier without everyone expecting the world of me.”

“I know, thousands of Zora used to have their gaze on me when I was Champion.”

Link shakes his head. “There were millions of Hylians.”

It’s difficult to believe, but he is not lying.

“I always wanted to be a knight. I never expected to be chosen by the sword.” His lips twist, as if trying to pull the words from the air in front of him.

“And there were suddenly so many more things you had to live up to.” He nods.

“I suppose I had always been groomed to be a leader. Such an honor is… Well, beyond the comprehension of a normal mind. I can’t grasp the idea of a thousand frogs, much less the idea of a thousand lives, all of which I am responsible for. The role of Champion isn’t that much higher on a scale of impossibilities.”

Link shakes his head. “The Champions were forgotten. I was forgotten.” His words aren’t said with sorrow, but relief. “I don’t have to be a hero.”

“You mean… You prefer it… this way?” Mipha asks, gently closing her hands.

Link doesn’t answer.

#The Legend of Zelda #Breath of the Wild #Mipha #Link #Zelda #Writing #Failure and Succession